Lwazi is at Mama Ngwenya’s place when I get back to Umjindi late Sunday afternoon. A good food smell fills the house, because Mama always cooks up a storm when Lwazi is around. The weather has improved, and I can hear him with Nosicelo and Jacqui out the back, where we often sit.

“Sawubona, Mama,” I greet, and give her the avos I bought from a hawker when I changed buses.

“Yoh, you should hide these away,” she says. “Those boys – men they think they are – Zwelakhe and that Bigfoot, or ‘big fool’ more like, they’ll be helping themselves. Greedy like children they are. Lwazi now – there’s a real man, even so young.”

I can see the ‘real man’ through the open back door. He’s sitting on one of the plastic chairs Mama keeps under the big fever tree. He has his head thrown back, laughing at something one of the girls has said. His throat gleams and his high-top fade reveals the beautiful shape of his head.

I don’t exactly go weak at the knees, but a quiver of feeling runs through me.

“The avos are for us all,” I tell Mama. “They’ll be ripe in about three days, the seller said.”

“You’re a kind girl. Generous.”

“Hey, tortoise-girl!” Jacqui has seen me. “Come join us. You missed such a fun weekend.”

I want to/don’t want to. I’ll just say hi, be polite, and then I’ll leave them alone. Just a minute of being near Lwazi, that’s all I’ll take, a small treat to myself. More would turn the treat into something else, something too painful.

I go out. Both girls start talking at once about what they’ve been doing and where, all weekend. I see an empty champagne bottle and glasses lying on the grass. I wouldn’t say they’re exactly puza, but they’re definitely feeling no pain. Lwazi must have brought the bubbles. We students haven’t got money for that sort of thing.

“Tortoise?” Lwazi asks.

I can’t believe it – he’s looking at me. His eyes are so deep and dark between his long eyelashes, with a gleam of amused curiosity in them.

Oh God, don’t let him laugh at me, I think.

“Like, she hides away inside her shell most of the time, and only sticks her head out once in a while,” Jacqui explains.

“Or she says she does,” Nosicelo adds.

“She ‘says’? Then she can speak? So … er, Tortoise?” Lwazi says to me, and those eyes are still looking my way, and it’s the best and worst feeling; terrifying. “What will get you to stick your head out?”

“You can call me Phindi,” I say, wishing I didn’t have such a soft voice. “It’s my name.”

Silence. The laughter has gone from his eyes. I think maybe he heard something in my words, and is remembering what he said on Friday.

“Phindi. Right,” he says, after a few moments. “I’ll remember.”

I’m amazed. He got me.

Then Nosicelo starts talking, all giggly, and making come-on eyes at him. I murmur an excuse and go back into the house.

I suppose I envy those girls, the way they’re so relaxed and self-confident around Lwazi. But they’re nice people, so I don’t hate them or anything heavy like that. Hating isn’t something I do, anyway.

***

Tell us what you think: Has something just changed, and will Lwazi really remember Phindi in future?