It was a year and a half ago. When Yongama, the golden boy, was in Matric, and Liyabona in Grade 10. Yongama’s name was constantly called out in assembly – for winning a maths competition, for being in the finals of a debating competition, for winning a soccer award at a local club. And he wasn’t even arrogant. He was one of those people who were kind to everybody, who talked to the school cleaner with the same gentle respect he used when he spoke to the Principal.

But not everyone loved him. Because when he saw wrongdoing, he spoke out – and he spoke loudly. There had been a gang of boys terrorising the Grade 8s, stealing their lunch money, pushing them around. Yongama had noticed and stood up to them. He had organised a bunch of Grade 12s to follow the thugs around, to check on them, to take photos on their phones whenever the boys did something wrong. He worked with the Principal, the boys’ parents were called in, and eventually one boy left the school and the others started behaving.

One day the boy who left threatened Yongama with a knife, just outside the school. And Yongama had suddenly punched him so quickly the guy didn’t have a chance. Then Yongama had politely helped the guy off the ground, given him a tissue for his bleeding nose, and sent him on his way again – without the knife.

Next he took on Dumile. He was in Yongama’s class, when he did bother to arrive at school. Everyone feared him because of his gangster friends, except Yongama. That was the kind of guy Yongama was. Fearless. You couldn’t help respecting him.

Liyabona never dreamt Yongama would notice her. So one day, after an assembly where she had been called to read out a poem she had written in class, she nearly fell over when he came to her in the corridor afterwards.

“You’re a good writer,” he said. “You’ve got a talent. Look after it.”

She stuttered, she stammered. What could she say to this guy she had looked on from afar? And all the lovely words Liyabona played with in her poems left her high and dry. “Um … oh, uh thanks,” was all she managed.

But he had carried on talking. “Who’s your favourite poet?” he asked. “Have you ever read Wally Serote?

Her brain slowly started getting back into gear. “No,” she said shyly. “But I love Maya Angelou.”

He looked impressed. “Yes, she’s done some lovely stuff. And then of course there’s Walt Whitman; you’ll do some of his poems in class.”

Then someone called him and he was off again, swallowed up by his friends, and all the prettiest girls in Matric.

But Liyabona’s friends had seen. “Oooh, was he asking you on a date?” Akhona teased.

“Look at her, it’s like she’s walking on air,” Nozi laughed.

And it was true, that little meeting had given Liyabona such a lift, such a good feeling. Up til now life had been tough. Her mother was working long hours, and was too tired in the evening to do anything but eat and sleep. She was long gone before Liyabona and Kwezi got up, so Liyabona had to look after Kwezi.

And Kwezi was having a hard time at school. He was smaller than the other boys, and skinny, and kids used to tease him. Instead of laughing it off he would cry, and then they would mock him even more. It broke Liyabona’s heart to see her little brother so sad. She wished he could stand up to them, like his friend who was fat. No-one teased the fat boy anymore because he just ignored them. Kids could be so cruel. For some of them, once they saw tears it was like a lion seeing blood. And so every day Liyabona would have to persuade Kwezi to go to school, promise him it would be different. And then many afternoons she would have to deal with his tears and rage. “Why am I so small?” he would cry. “Why?”

But now, nearly every day she would see Yongama, and they would talk. She would write down the names of the poets he mentioned, and go to look them up in the local library. He seemed to like talking to her, even sought her out at break sometimes. Her friends would drift away, letting them chat. And then they would swallow her up again: “What did he say? Did he invite you anywhere? What’s going on?”

Liyabona loved the attention, the fun of it. And she thought that maybe, just maybe, he liked her a little bit more than as just a friend. In fact he even sent her a poem on his cellphone, a poem by somebody else, but it was definitely a love poem.

Until that terrible, terrible day…

She had a maths test just after break. She hated maths, and was frightened of Mr Khumalo, the teacher, who wasn’t averse to whacking people on the hand with a ruler when he was angry.

She had tried to hold on, not to go to the toilet. But whenever she was nervous, she had to go. “Hurry up, Liya,” Akhona called. “Mr Khumalo told us it is a long test, remember, and we mustn’t be late.”

Liyabona stumbled across the broken ground and rubble on the way to the toilet block. She could smell the toilets from outside; as always they were stinking. Once in the girls’ side she saw the bin of sanitary pads was overflowing, and the only toilet available was the one at the end that was completely blocked, and full of poo. The toilets were often bad, but this was worse than usual. And there were even girls waiting in front of her.

Akhona sometimes used the boys’ toilets. The boys didn’t take so long, she had said. “There are no queues. Just look carefully before you go in.”

Liyabona hopped from one foot to the other, waiting. Then the bell rang. She couldn’t wait anymore. She remembered that most of the younger boys were at a soccer tournament, so the toilets would be even emptier than usual. She rushed to the other side of the corridor, peeped in to the boys’ toilets. There was no-one at the urinal. So she ran into one of the cubicles and slammed the door behind her. But there was no lock. She tried to push her foot against the door as she relieved herself, but it fell open.

She heard someone come in, come closer, a long shadow appearing on the wall next to her. Hurry up, she thought desperately to herself. I just want to get out of here.

She saw an arm push her door open wider. And then she saw who it was. Dumile. The Matric boy who they were all afraid of. Rumours had gone around that he had raped his ex-girlfriend. He was in fights at the weekend, had scars to prove it.

He saw her behind the half-open door. “Hey, look what I’ve found. A girl in the boys’ toilet!”

He pushed himself in with her, leant back on the door, closing it. “You’re so keen you had to come in here to find a boy!”

“Please leave me–,” she started saying, pulling up her pants, trying to push past him. But he grabbed her, pulled her towards him.

“You can’t just run away now, before we’ve had a bit of fun,” he said. “What else did you come for?” His gold tooth glinted as he leered at her, mock smiling, pretending she was wanting to be there, rather than pulling her face away from his.

Then he grabbed her hand, started pushing it down his pants. “I’m hard for you, baby,” he said.

Liyabona tried to pull her hand away, close her fist. She wanted to kick him, hurt him, anything to get him off her. She felt so powerless. This couldn’t be happening. How could she get away?

***

Tell us what you think: Did Liyabona deserve this by going into the boys’ toilets?