“Lubela, wait,” Theo says, as I turn away to get on with my work. He has gone very serious, with those little dents back between his eyebrows. “You were saying about your village, just outside Thandaza? I know you stay in the Thandaza staff quarters, but you must get to go home?”

“My weekends off.” I can’t imagine why he’s asking.

“I’ve heard about rhino poachers moving into local communities. Sometimes it’s the locals telling them where the rhinos are, or else leading them to the rhinos. I was wondering if you’ve seen any strangers around? Or if anyone at your home has said anything?”

“Why? Because we’re a poor rural village?” Rage again. “And of course we’ll do anything for money, especially the sort of money they say the poaching syndicates pay?!”

“No!” He’s shocked at my furious reaction. “I didn’t mean … it’s just what I’ve heard about how it works …”

“And I’ve heard that sometimes the poachers get in with people working in the parks or reserves.” I’m nearly shouting, although my voice has only got louder, not harsh the way I want it, and I see Jaha is staring at us. “So how do we know you’re Mr Clean? Rich people always want to be even richer, so don’t come accusing poor people just because they are poor!”

I spin away from him and stomp off. My walk is fast but jerky. That’s how angry I am, no control over my movements. I pass the bar and Jaha whistles and shakes his head. He’ll probably say something about ‘women’ to Theo when I’ve gone, and then they’ll both laugh.

“Tables finished?” Xiviti asks me when I find her in the small kitchen that supplies the deck.

“No, I’ll go back and do it when that Theo boy has gone.” I’m still in a rage.

“What happened?”

“His attitude, is all.”

“He’s not so bad. He always greets me nicely.”

“And before Theo it was Mphakati. It’s a man’s world, Xiviti. According to him.”

She huffs. “The tracking thing. A clever girl like you, also speaking English and Afrikaans, you can get better work. In town, or the cities. A shop, maybe an office.”

If there were jobs.

“Right,” I say, all sullen. “I go to town and everything about me screams ‘rural’.”

“When did you try?”

“Times.”

But maybe I didn’t try with my whole heart. Maybe I let myself be discouraged too quickly when there weren’t any jobs. Don’t I still have this stupid dream that Mphakati will change his mind about the tracking?

Two truths also keep me here. The selfish one is that I don’t want to leave the bush. It’s home. It’s where I’m me. The other could also be selfish, I’m not sure. I need to stay close to the village so I can go home and check on things. On Mama and Fikitlikili.

“But what’s the point?” I say when Xiviti just looks at me. “Too many people in the towns already, all looking for jobs. With their Matrics and FET certificates. You know I didn’t write Matric.”

I sound like a loser, making excuses. I don’t want to tell her my real reasons for staying here.

She’s from the village. She might know anyway. She might know why I left school when I did, but she’ll never say it out loud. I know it is more open in other places now, but in our village they still don’t call my mother’s sickness by its name.

In the afternoon, my worries about home come rushing to the front of my mind again when I find Fiki waiting outside my quarters. I’m breathless, because I’ve stayed too long in the bush, watching two klipspringers on their rocky koppie. I need to get out of my vest and cut-offs and back into my uniform.

He’s not supposed to come through the bush because of the way Thandaza is fenced, electrically, but sometimes there’s a way. I never ask about that. Mostly he comes round by road, walking all the way or sometimes hitching a ride, same as I do on my weekends off.

We’re not meant to have casual visitors, but Bram and Mphakati tolerate him, probably because they see him as a child still, the same as they tolerate Xiviti’s grandchild. It’s adult visitors who trouble them, especially since Thandaza started losing rhinos.

We both have things to ask, to tell, but now he’s here it’s like we want to delay the asking and telling. Beads of sweat glisten silver on his skin.

“You smell bad,” I say.

“No money for deodorant.”

“All that stuff, soap and toothpaste and deodorant, that we use to stop ourselves smelling? As if! I’m sure they alert animals faster than our natural smells, sweat and our last meal.”

“Best to have no smell at all,” he says.

“How?”

He shrugs. “Dunno.”

Then he sighs, and I see how troubled he is. “Mama?” I ask him.

“You know how she needs to eat properly for the medication, but if there’s no money…?”

“I’ll give you money to take back. Not a lot this late in the month, but something I was keeping to get new Tomys.”

“I need to find work,” Fiki says, and I hear his frustration.

“No, you must stay at school.” I want him to go further than I did at school. “I have to change. Drink some water. Are you hungry?”

When I’m back in my uniform we walk to the deck kitchen to get my share of the meat us workers are allowed to take, if there’s any left from the previous night’s braai option. I think there’ll be enough for me to give him some to take home.

An oriole is calling from the big, shady trees around the kitchen. It’s a liquid sound that I love. A harsh contrast is Dean Shelford’s mocking voice.

“That’s pathetic,” he’s saying to Theo Ngcongo, taunting him. “Soft. Have I told you, you’re soft?”

They’re both carrying plastic water bottles that they’ve obviously taken from the smaller fridge in the kitchen, the one for staff use. Dean goes off one way. Theo comes our way. The dents are there between his eyebrows. I’d expect him to be upset, maybe angry or humiliated, but he just looks worried.

Then he sees us and looks even more worried. Awkward too, after what happened this morning.

“Lubela.”

“My brother, Fikitlikili,” I introduce, because I can see he’s curious. “Visiting from the village.”

They shake hands, but I can tell Fiki doesn’t really want to. Theo doesn’t hang around to talk. That suits me just fine.

“Another big-shot ranger,” Fiki says when he has gone. “Coming here from wherever. Coming here where we should get the jobs: you and me. This is land we’ve known our whole lives. No-one can know it our way.”

He never used to be so sour and angry. I know it’s because of worry about Mama that he’s changing this way.

We go into the kitchen and I give him my share of last night’s wors. He eats a piece and I seal the rest into my leftovers container for him to take home.

“And this.” I slide my hand into my uniform pocket and give him the last bit of money I’ve kept back. It won’t stretch far, but it’s something. Goodbye nice, cheap, new Tomys. The pair I’ve got won’t wash clean any more, stained by the bush. Around camp, in uniform, I wear a different brand of takkies that Thandaza supplies to all the domestic staff.

When Fiki leaves he doesn’t say if he’s going home by road or through the bush. I don’t ask, but when he’s gone I start worrying that I should have. What if the fence has been opened again by the poachers? I mean, how did they get in?

I wish I didn’t have so many things to worry about.

***

Tell us: How difficult – or easy – is it to give up that last little bit of money you were saving to spend on yourself, when family members are in need?