Saturday night, twenty minutes after midnight. I SMS him.

R u sleeping?

Silence.

Only now do I realise that next door, jazz has been seeping through the wall so softly and subtly I didn’t realise how comforting it has been. It stops. That’s like my lights out signal. It’s somehow good to know that Lulama has finally made the decision to let go of this day. It helps me to close my eyes and slide away from the south-easter storming in my brain. I am confused. Lonely. Angry. Hurting. Ashamed. Me and my baby. My maybe baby. We all fall asleep.

Sunday morning I force myself to crack into the essay and write down some rough notes. I write six pages without stopping, just a free-flowing brainstorm about why rap music is very often insulting to women. I’ll sort through it later.

I watch Lulama go off to church with his mother and his father, in black pants and a yellow shirt. Why have I not noticed that he is beautiful from behind. He turns his head slightly. I swear he felt my eyes. I duck down below the window. What is wrong with me?

As I straighten up I stare into the eyes of the same owl, this time on the lamp post outside our house. My dead father. As Lulama said, my first thought must be right. It has a clever, caring way about it. He sent it to say, ‘Open your eyes, Bulelwa.’

It’s the owl’s huge eyes that make me get dressed in my tight white jeans and a flowing red top. I look like a model in these clothes, I know. Phaka has told me. I apply my eyeliner carefully. Waterproof mascara just in case I get upset. I am going to open my eyes. And I’m going to look good doing it.

I walk the four kilometres to Phaka’s house. I join the church goers on my journey by foot, my journey to find out the truth. On our anniversary.

I knock on the door of Phaka’s outside room. No answer. I peep through the crack in the curtain. The relief almost whips my legs from under me. He is alone in the bed. Sleeping on his stomach as he always does. Ignoring my knocking.

I knock harder. “Phaka?”

He pulls his duvet over his head.

“Hey, Phaka. Vuka.”

***

Tell us: What might Bulelwa have done if there had been a girl with Phaka?