Thola reached the end of the corridor and turned and ran. All she could hear as she ran were Desray’s words, innocent and happy: Always happy to help a student, especially those ones who are prepared to put in the extra effort.

All she could feel were Mr Nyoka’s hands, hot and hungry on her body. Come on, Thola, you’ve got to try a little harder, girl. Give me a little more. Do it for Bandile, Thola. Do it for your brother.

She walked slowly back to her room, fighting to squash down the anger that was rising inside her.

It was Miss Kunene’s laugh that had done it, more than anything else. It was all a game to her, and to Miss Petrov too, by the sound of it. Just like it had been with Mr Nyoka. A power game that left people like Thola defenceless and at risk, and they didn’t care. As long as they won, got what they wanted. Thola clenched her fists. If Max were here right now she’d smack that slimy grin off his smug face. If Mr Nyoka were here, she’d pull him close and then whisper in his ear: I saw your wife last night, Mr Nyoka, and she looked so happy. I was going to say hello to her, tell her all about our afternoons in a deserted classroom…

She was wiser now, she’d never again let a man like him take advantage of her youth and fear.

The last memory of that terrible time slid into focus.

*****

Late afternoon, the sun is slanting across the back row of desks. And lying across one of them is a young girl, her uniform crumpled, her school shirt gaping wide. A man is standing above her. Laughing, mocking, saying, “Next week, Thola. Same time same place. Don’t be late.”

And then, a voice from the door of the classroom, and the principal, Mr Gcaba, is saying. “Late for what, Nyoka? What is going on here?”

Mr Nyoka’s face loses its satisfied sneer. He crumples and begs, and Mr Gcaba walks closer. He takes Thola by the arm, saying, “It’s all right now, Tholakele, it’s all right. Why don’t you straighten yourself up?” He turns away, to give her some privacy. The girl pulls at her skirt and buttons her shirt.

Mr Nyoka laughs, trying to make a joke, saying, “Oh come on, Gcaba, you know what these girls are like. Little sluts, putting out for who–”

Only he cannot finish his sentence because Mr Gcaba pulls back his hand and hits Mr Nyoka in the mouth. Mr Nyoka doesn’t laugh any more.

“How dare you?” says Mr Gcaba. “How dare you, you coward. You keep those words inside your mouth. And start thinking about what job you’re going to get now, because I’m going to make sure that you never teach at this school, at any school, ever again.”

The girl’s parents are called in to the Headmaster. They all talk for a long time and Mr Gcaba asks the girl what she wants to do. If she testifies, tells what Mr Nyoka has done, how he has forced her and threatened her brother, then Mr Nyoka will lose his job. If she doesn’t, then it will be very difficult to fire him.

“But remember,” Mr Gcaba says to her, “if you speak up, everyone will know what this man has done to you, Thola. And that could be very difficult indeed. For you.” And the girl, her head down, watches as tears plop straight from her eyes and onto the floor. Two little puddles of her tears at her feet.

The girl’s mother whimpers and her father rises from his chair, his fists clenched.

“Let me speak to him. I’ll make sure he never touches a young girl again.”

Mr Gcaba puts his hand firmly on the father’s arm, saying, “Believe me, I know.” He shows his hand, the knuckles scraped raw. “I’ve already stopped his tongue once. But really, it is not up to us, this question of what to do. It is up to Tholakele. This is her life.”

The girl feels her head lifting. She remembers what her father said to her the night before. “And you did this for your brother? To protect him? To protect us?”

Bandile, her brother, then saying, “But Thols, I never cheated. I would never cheat. He was lying to you, Thola. He’s a liar and a cheat, and he pulled my name through the mud and he tricked you and shamed you.” Bandile wants to find Mr Nyoka and show him what it is like to be humiliated and degraded.

And all the while the girl can’t find the words to say what happened to her and what he said to her and how worthless he made her feel.

But now, standing in Mr Gcaba’s office, she thinks of Mr Nyoka. She thinks of him getting away with it, then pulling the same stunt on another young, naïve girl. Her shoulders straighten and she speaks. At first her voice is rusty, as if it has been closed inside her for a long time. As she speaks, it grows stronger and she says, “This man must never teach in a school again. He must never be allowed to hurt his pupils, or fool his wife into thinking he is a good family man.”

“Thola.” The father’s voice is concerned. “Are you sure? This won’t be easy.”

“None of it has been easy, Dad, don’t you see? But if I run away and hide, then he’s won. I can’t let him do that to me.” The father’s hand is on her shoulder and the mother is standing close to her and Mr Gcaba is smiling.

“We need brave girls like you, Thola. Perhaps your bravery will show other girls that it is OK to come forward and speak out and stop men like this taking advantage of their position.”

“He made me into a victim, Mr Gcaba,” the girl says. “He made me into a frightened child. If I don’t speak up, he’s won. Tell me what to say and who to say it to.”

And then, as she leaves the office, she sees two of the girls in her class looking curiously at her. The girls who always know everything about everyone. Looking at her, giggling behind their hands.

She walks up to them saying, “You know Mr Nyoka?” They nod. “Well, he raped me.” She watches their faces, sees the shock, the shame, the embarrassment. “He raped me and I am going to press charges. That way he won’t be able to do it again, to me, or to anyone else.”

The girls look at her, too stunned to say a word and she leans close to them and says, “It’s the truth. Every word is the truth and what I want you to do is tell everyone you know. Spread the word. Tell the whole school that Mr Nyoka raped Tholakele Sibaya. Tell them he’s a coward who picks on girls who are scared and young.”

She flings her head back, fixing those girls with eyes that bore right into them. “Tell them what he did. I want everyone to know!”

And on those last words, her head, held so bravely high, drops and her shoulders fall and her voice breaks and the tears are back again, streaming down her face and she is crying, huge ragged gasps that came from the bottom of the misery she has been hiding for so long. Her parents are right beside her, patting her back and her father’s face is shiny with tears and he’s muttering under his breath – all the things he would do if he ever saw Nyoka.

“Mister Nyoka,” the girl says then. Loud and clear. “Mister. He’s a grown man with a wife and children. He’s an adult. He should have known better.”

And then Mr Gcaba is running after them with a piece of paper in his hand saying, “Take this number. Phone her. She’s a good counsellor. She’ll give Tholakele the space she needs to work through all of this.”

***

Tell us: What do you think of Thola’s strategy of publicly exposing Mr Nyoka, and therefore the crime against her, in this way?