One night, Siya handed me a bottle, still half full of beer. ‘You want to be a man one day? Then you must learn to drink early…’

My mom did not say anything. I took the bottle and drank it down with one gulp. The beer came from the shebeen and was still lekker cold. I was about fourteen by then.

***

From that evening, I started drinking myself. Mostly, when my mom and this man were already asleep, I would finish off any beer that remained in the bottles. I discovered that beer was also good against hunger.

Unfortunately, there was not only a lot of drinking going on in our yard. Some of the guys, and also some of the women, became quite ugly when they were drunk. They started arguing and fighting about everything – money, food, drinks and, sometimes, about the ‘ladies’.

One evening, Siya accused another man in our yard of touching my mom while Siya was on shift. The man responded aggressively: ‘Your wife is a whore… she shows her fat breasts to everybody. You must teach her a lesson, not me…’

My mom started crying and Siya took a bottle and hit it against the neighbour’s head without any warning. It was a full bottle, heavy with beer and it knocked the man out immediately. Strangely, nobody seemed to care about the bleeding man lying on the ground. ‘His head is made of stone,’ laughed Siya, and most of the others joined in his laughter.

That evening was the first that I went walking. I checked briefly on Anam and when I saw her sleeping despite all the commotion, I left the yard and walked down the main road. To begin with I had no aim; I just walked and walked until the road ended, vanishing into the wetland area where there are still many shacks but no more street lights. I turned around and walked back the way I’d come, then started to walk in circles, walking and walking; I just did not want to return to that place of shouting and drinking.

It was only when somebody called my name that I realised which road I was in. ‘Mbu?’ It was Yamkela calling my name. He stood in front of the little brick house in which he lived with his mother. I was ashamed that he should see me like that; it was obvious to everyone that I had also drunk beer, just from the smell.

‘Ngena – come in, Mbu!’ Yamkela said, and closed the door behind me. Without another word he opened the fridge and gave me some leftovers from their supper – a piece of real chicken, and potato salad. What a taste! I licked each of my fingers.

‘Enkos’ – thank you, Yamkela!’ I said. I looked around for his mother. ‘Is she sleeping?’

‘No,’ he told me. ‘She’s working night shift at the old age home in Fish Hoek… three or four nights a week.’ I felt that I should not abuse any more of his kindness. I stood up and thanked him again.

When I was at the door already, he asked: ‘Why don’t you sleep here tonight?’

What a generous offer. ‘But your mom, Yamkela?’

‘She knows you are my friend,’ he said, and locked the door twice from the inside.

Tell us what you think of Mbu’s story: Can you relate to it?