Mojaba was sitting on the hard mahogany bench, alongside other offenders, awaiting his turn to appear in front of the court. The man on his left, who was next, was fidgeting, brushing his uncombed brownish hair back and tapping his foot on the tiled floor. He was sweating, too. It was probably his first time being arrested, or it wasn’t, just that he was nervous that his bail was going to be denied because they had strong evidence against him. Mojaba wasn’t sure which, but he knew fidgeting like this wouldn’t help him. The next man on Mojaba’s right was sitting still, his arms folded and looking up at the boring ceiling. Each offender’s right foot was chained to the next offender’s left foot like slaves. There was a court officer opposite of them, who was scribbling furiously on a thick notebook, humming with a voice that carried to the entire crowded room.

‘Next,’ the court officer said, stopping his tune and coming up to squat down and unchain the offender on Mojaba’s left. The offender farted when he stood up and was led to the corner, disappearing. Mojaba shifted to the left along the bench, and the man on the right did the same, and so did the fifteen or so other men down the queue.

Mojaba started being nervous. His left foot tapped the tiled floor just like the last man’s. He understood now how the last man must have felt being next.

It was four days after Mojaba’s arrest. He was thrown inside a dirty and foul-smelling holding cell at the local police station, where they processed his arrest. His father had come back from work after his wife called him and got him a lawyer who would represent him. His name was French Shady, a dark man with drooping eyes that were covered by small spectacles. He had sat on the other side of a steel table, with Mojaba’s parents on either side of him, while Mojaba faced them, shame, fear, and confusion written all over his face.

‘Mojaba, how are you doing?’ Sophie had asked as soon as they entered the room.

‘Ma!’ Mojaba had cried. ‘Please get me out of here. I’m scared.’

‘I know, my baby. That’s why we are here,’ Sophie had said, reaching for his hand across the desk, but Mojaba couldn’t extend his left one because it was handcuffed to the middle of the table, so Sophie just his right hand. ‘This is Mr French Shady. He will represent you.’

Mojaba just looked at him without saying anything but crying.

‘Is it true? It is true, Mojaba, that you did it? That you . . . you did that thing?’

Mojaba realised that his mother was even ashamed to call out his allegations, so he said, ‘No, Ma, I did not! It was Moses!’

‘Moses? Who is that?’ Mr French Shady said, his first time speaking.

‘My best friend—well, not anymore. But he did. I’m certain of it. I had lent him my phone in class to shoot the notes on the chalkboard, and he must have sent the video to himself and leaked it.’

‘Hmm, interesting. And you are certain of this how?’ Mr French Shady said, writing on his file.

‘He is the only one who has ever had my phone before the video was leaked. After that, no one has ever touched it,’ Mojaba said, pleadingly.

‘That’s good news, is it, Mr Shady?’ Sophie said, turning to the lawyer beside her.

‘Hmm, yes, but not one hundred per cent. The police are currently doing an investigation, they have confiscated your phone, Mojaba, and they will go through it and see if the video was ever sent to anyone. If Moses’s phone appears anywhere in the transfer records, then that’s good news because it implicates him heavily. Hmm.’

‘What do we do now?’ Sophie asked the lawyer.

‘Now? Hmm. We just focus on the bail hearing that is set four days from now, then the rest will follow.’

Sophie looked to Mojaba, smiling in a grimace, as if trying to look strong for him but failing.

‘Mojaba!’ John said with a raised voice after being quiet ever since he’d walked into the room.

‘Pa?’ Mojaba turned to look at his stern father.

‘Do you know that girl killed herself? Huh?’ John said.

Mojaba was not sure whether that was a rhetorical question from his father, or he expected an answer. At the same time, he wasn’t sure whether his father was talking about Pontso when he said that girl, but what girl could he possibly be talking about in these circumstances except Pontso? And didn’t Pontso’s father say something along those lines back at the house when he was led outside by the police?

‘P-Pontso?’ Mojaba said dryly.

‘Yes!’ John shouted. ‘Now, the parents are blaming you for that. How many times have I warned you not to bring girls into my house, Mojaba? Huh? How many times?’

He hung his head in shame.

‘Next!’ the court officer said, bringing Mojaba out of his thoughts. The officer did the same routine he did with the last offender and carried Mojaba down the corner, resuming his humming.