The leaves above Sipho’s head blurred in and out of Sipho’s vision. The night was still warm but Sipho felt very cold. He wished that someone would cover him with a blanket. He wanted to ask for one but everyone was so very far away, and he did not think that they would care anyway.

“My father told me again this morning that I will never amount to anything,” said Pumela, as she and Sipho leaned against the wall of the balcony at school.

“That is totally unfair,” Sipho replied. “You are the most hardworking girl here.”

“I know, but nothing is ever good enough for him. So last night I told him.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Sipho.

“I told him: watch me. That’s what I told him. Watch me.”

That is the conversation he and Pumela had as they entered Grade 9 together. Sipho smiled and said one or two encouraging words. He himself had, by that time, begun to ‘watch’ other people closely anyway, especially girls. Especially Pumela.

Mihlali, Mpho and Kazadi still came around, but mostly when Sipho’s mother was not at home. They had all started drinking and smoking weed, and she knew it.

“Choose friends who will take you forward Sipho, and not these boys who will only drag you back,” she said to him, again and again.

“They are my best friends Mama,” he replied. “I will never turn my back on them.”

His mother tossed her head and clicked her tongue. “I don’t like them hanging around here. They are up to no good all the time. You mark my words, jail is their only future. What is going to happen if they get no education? How will they earn money for themselves?”

“They have their plans,” Sipho replied. “They have dreams for the future.”

“What dreams? What plans?” His mother raised her voice: “Plans and dreams come with hard work Sipho! Only with hard work! Never forget that, my boy.”

Sipho could certainly see that Pumela agreed with her. She was focusing seriously on her work. Although, that year was the one when she began to argue with just about every teacher in the school. And none of them liked that. Not at all.

“Why do you have to have an opinion about everything Pumela?” Sipho asked her at break. Pumela had been sent out of the class the period before, for arguing with a teacher.

“I went straight to the Headmaster’s office,” Pumela replied, shaking back her braids, “and I told him that Ma’am had been wrong about her interpretation of that poem. It is about sex, and I am right. Most poems are about sex you know Sipho, and even the Headmaster couldn’t argue with me.”

Sex was another thing that Sipho had begun to spend a lot of time thinking about. He didn’t really need a poem to tell him about it. Even at that moment, as Pumela was talking to him, he noticed, not for the first time, how particularly beautiful she looked when she was angry.

In fact, Sipho had begun to notice a lot of things about Pumela. Like how the buttons of her white school shirt had begun to strain a little over her full breasts. Or the way her hips swayed and her smooth brown thighs moved against each other, as she walked up the stairs on the way to class.

Pumela paused and frowned at him, midway through her rant about the English teacher.

“What?” she said, turning her hands palms-up. “What now? You’re not listening!”

And with that, she picked up her school bag and moved off to a group of girls standing in the sun. From there she glowered at him, and then turned and said something to Thandi. Thandi laughed loudly, and they both turned to look at him.

That was Grade 9. That was the year when Pumela often left him alone for days at a time and joined the girls. Yet, all of them, she had told him many times, irritated her to death.

Sipho enjoyed going home on those days. Mihlali, Mpho and Kazadi were usually around the place in the afternoon, and he joined them. They were usually to be found at the local shebeen, sharing cigarettes, and telling stories.

Sipho never had any money because his mother never gave him any, but once or twice he kept his taxi fare, and didn’t go to school. He gave the money over to his friends and they bought a quart of Black Label and drank it together.

It was during one of those afternoons that Sipho smoked weed for the first time. Mihlali prepared a pipe for him, and Mpho and Kazadi laughed at Sipho when he coughed as he tried to inhale.

“You won’t feel much the first time bra,” said Mpho, as he passed the pipe around, “but persevere, my man, persevere. It’s worth it.”

And Sipho did. He persevered, and soon he loved it. After a while, he could not wait to get off the taxi after school, and go and find the boys so that he could smoke with them.

“You must never think that I am stupid,” said his mother right from the beginning. “I see you. I see your red eyes and I hear your silly giggles. I know what is going on, and I am warning you. This thing, this dagga, is no good for you. These friends will be your downfall. Listen to me Sipho.”

Sipho ignored her. He watched her going off to church every Sunday, and he knew she was going to pray for him every minute of every hour that she spent there. A part of him felt sorry, but another part of him felt nothing at all. He was still going to school, and he was still keeping up. Everything was under control.

“You worry too much Mama,” he said, trying to give her a hug, but she pulled away from. “Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You will see.”

Back then he had really believed it would be. And for a while, it had all worked out. It really had.

***

Tell us what you think: Where might this risky behaviour lead Sipho?