Sphiwe is relieved that the teacher is not yet in class. He is out of breath and panting as he enters the classroom and sits down at his desk next to Thabo.

Thabo looks at him with inquisitive eyes. “So, what did Mrs Khoza say?”

“She didn’t say anything that should be of concern to you,” replies Sphiwe.

Thabo laughs out loud. “Ouch! Mr Privacy, huh? You must think Mrs Khoza is your mother, neh?”

“No, I certainly don’t. I wonder who’s going to be our class teacher this year. Maybe Miss Khumalo? What do you think, Thabo?” Sphiwe asks and turns his head to check who else is in their class.

Thabo snorts. “No way, not Miss Khumalo. And I don’t care, actually. I just want to finish school and get out of this prison,” he says.

As Sphiwe looks around, he realises that almost all his classmates from Grade 11 are also here. There’s Minenhle, his rival – they are always competing to see who will get the best grades. Sizwe, the class clown who is always making fun of everyone, is also there. Sphiwe’s eyes stop at Zinhle, his crush since Grade 9. His stare stays fixed on Zinhle’s beautiful eyes and her wide smile that always offsets dimples in her cheeks. His soul melts as he keeps his gaze on Zinhle.

“Talk to her, Sphiwe. Make your move before someone else does. Come on, we’re in Grade 12 now. This is your last shot!” says Thabo.

“What are you talk-”

“Shh, here comes Mr Khuzwayo,” says Thabo.

The learners have been making a lot of noise but instantly go dead quiet when they realize that Mr Khuzwayo is standing at the classroom door. It is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop.

Mr Khuzwayo is feared at Vuka Uzakhe High School. He’s face is always fixed in a grim expression and he is quick to punish anyone who disobeys him.

“Morning!” says Mr Khuzwayo in his deep, hoarse voice.

Chairs and desks scratch the floor as the learners stand up briskly.

“Morning Mr Khuzwayo! How are you sir?” their greeting echoes through the classroom.

“I’m fine. Sit down!” Mr Khuzwayo looks at them, swinging his long red pipe in his right hand as he does so.

“I don’t know whose period this is, but I thought I should take this time to let you know I’ll be teaching you History this year. I expect all of you to do the work I’ll be giving you!” he says, his voice ringing with authority.

The class is intimidated by his scowl and tall stature. His words flow in the silence and fall on the ears of each learner. He prowls down the rows of desks like a predator and walks slowly to the front. He looks around and his stare meets Zinhle’s beautiful, shy eyes. Mr Khuzwayo has picked his prey. There is a malicious twinkle in his eyes as he gawks at Zinhle’s legs.

“You! What’s your name?” he points at Zinhle with the red pipe.

Zinhle timidly touches her chest.

“Yes, you! What is your name?”

“Zinhle, Sir. My name is Zinhle,” she replies with a soft, trembling voice.

“Okay, good. Zinhle, come to my office during break time with the precise number of learners in this class. I need to distribute textbooks,” says Mr Khuzwayo.

“Yes, Sir!” says Zinhle.

As Mr Khuzwayo leaves the room, Sphiwe wonders if he’ll enjoy this man’s History classes. But soon that thought is overtaken again by thoughts of Zinhle’s beautiful smile and dimples. Maybe Thabo is right, he thinks, maybe I should finally tell Zinhle how I feel.

***

Tell us: What do you think about Mr Khuzwayo?