by Haden, Ros;
“Peter, are you ready for breakfast?” His father peered into his bedroom.
“Coming, Papa.”
His mother was in the kitchen, drinking tea. “You need to eat something.”
“Not really hungry, Mama.”
She did not press him.
As they drove closer to his school, passing his classmates, seeing a few of his friends, Peter felt the anxiety building in his stomach. He walked through the main gate and greeted the security guard. He was sure the man shook his head.
The news of the accident walked in front of Peter, wanting to trip him up, but he walked upright. There was nothing he could do about it now. Like a tattoo, the stain of the accident was etched on him.
He filed into the assembly hall with the rest of the students. He was taking his usual place when he remembered that he had not written up the results of Friday’s soccer match. He had forgotten to collect the results of all the games that were played over the weekend.
“Our teams emerged victorious this weekend. The A team scored five goals …” The sports master was announcing the results for him. Peter looked at him, grateful for having been rescued.
Throughout the day, people gathered around him. It seemed like some of them thought he was some kind of a hero. Others were celebrating the fall of the good boy. A few sat with him, saying nothing. He was grateful when the bell finally rang for home time.
But as he was walking out of his class the school secretary came to call him. “The principal wants to see you, Peter.”
Peter felt his heart suddenly beating faster and louder. He wondered if he was going to be suspended, or even expelled.
The principal sat behind his huge desk, across from Peter. He took off his spectacles and looked straight at Peter. “I am not going to labour this point,” he said gruffly. “I know you’re probably feeling miserable and ashamed right now. Let this be a lesson to you. That is all. Our prayers are with all of you and for the young man who is in hospital.”
Peter wondered how the principal had heard about the accident. It was true, he thought, bad news travels fast.
~•~
Peter went to visit David every day. Days stretched into a week, and then another and another. After three months, David was finally discharged from hospital.
Peter was there waiting for him as he was wheeled out in a wheelchair. The doctors said it would be a year before he walked properly again but David said otherwise.
“I’ll be up and chasing you round the pitch in a few months, you just wait and see,” he said, upbeat.
Tshepo was still Peter’s friend. They studied together and when their Matric results came out, they shared ten distinctions between them.
Busie had gone back to school. Although Peter wished that they could have been more than just friends, he understood that she needed time. He still thought of her, dreamt of her sometimes.
For many days after the accident, Peter woke up feeling like the 18 years that he had lived, all the years that he had been so good, had been forgotten by everyone. He had made one mistake that he would carry with him for the rest of his life, and all because of one night.
But on the night of the Matric prize-giving ceremony, Peter felt something change inside him. When he walked up to the stage to speak on behalf of the matriculants, he walked like someone who knew where he was going.
“One night can change the course that you have set yourself. One night changed my life forever. For a long time, I wished that I could erase that night, but I can’t. Yes, I will always remember that one night, but I know now that it was one night. I have many more nights to look forward to.”
Discussion questions
•Peter was usually a responsible boy. What made him break his parents’ trust?
•Do you think ‘One night’ is a good name for this story? Why/why not?
About the author
Wame Molefhe is a Motswana writer who lives in Gaborone, Botswana. She has two short-story collections, one called Just Once, and another Go Tell the Sun.
She started writing seriously in 2008 and since then she has not only written short stories but also for TV and radio. She also writes non-fiction for magazines.
She writes because of the pleasure it gives her. Most of her stories are about everyday life and are set in Botswana, her home. What she loves about writing is that she does not need anything more than her imagination and a quiet place to write.
Advice for young writers
The best advice she can give to people who say they want to write is to read widely. A new writer will often think they have a wonderful story to tell, only to find it has been told before. It really is about finding ways of saying things in a way that works for you. If you try to sound like someone else, you will sound like a copycat.
6
NONE OF OUR BUSINESS
Lauri Kubuitsile
“So, what did you think of that lesson? Mma Mogomotsi is my favourite teacher,” Monica said as they walked to the shade tree where they liked eating their lunch.
Tebogo walked with her. She’d been quiet all morning and Monica wondered what was bothering her friend. Monica walked slightly ahead, sat down on the bench and opened her lunch box. When she looked up she saw Tebogo standing, holding the tree, her eyes closed. She seemed to be swaying.
Monica put her lunch box down and jumped to her feet. “Are you okay? Tebby? Is something wrong?”
“I’m … I’m fine … I … just felt a bit dizzy for a minute,” Tebogo said.
Monica took her by the shoulders and guided her to the bench. “Sit down. Maybe it’s the heat. Let me go get you some water.”
Monica picked up her cup and ran to the tap and back. She gave Tebogo a drink. Then she thought it would be good to splash some water on Tebogo’s neck to help her cool down. It really was very hot and Tebogo had her school blouse buttoned all the way to the top button.
Monica pulled the collar away from Tebogo’s neck at the back and then she saw it. She gasped. Tebogo pulled the collar away from Monica and adjusted it back around her neck. “I’m okay now,” she said, pretending nothing had just happened. “The water helped, thanks. I’ll be fine.”
But Monica couldn’t ignore what she saw. “What was that? It looks like a bruise. What happened?”
“Nothing. It’s just stupid. I burnt myself … I … um … I ironed my shirt and put it on before it cooled off. It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Tebogo opened her lunch box carefully as she always did, so Monica couldn’t see inside. But Monica knew what was there, the same as always: two slices of plain bread. “Let’s eat. The bell will soon ring,” said Tebogo.
Monica knew she was lying about the burn. That was not a burn. It looked like a bruise – like someone had grabbed her hard or tried to strangle her. Monica always felt bad for Tebogo, but now she was really worried. What was going on? She watched Tebogo eat tiny bits of the bread. She ate like that as if to make the bread last as long as Monica’s lunch, which today was leftover chicken and rice from the night before.
Monica tried to share her food with Tebogo but Tebogo would always make excuses and give reasons why she couldn’t take it. Sometimes Monica won, sometimes she didn’t. Today she decided she would win.
“Eish! Chicken and rice again!” she said, looking down at her lunch box, disgusted. “When it’s my father’s night to cook that’s all he ever makes, and this entire week my mother’s on second shift. Chicken and rice, chicken and rice until it is coming out of my ears!” Monica pushed the container toward Tebogo. “Please, can we swap? I’ll be eating chicken and rice again tonight, I just know it.”
Tebogo handed Monica her bread and Monica tucked in. “What a relief!” she said, folding a slice of bread in half and taking a big bite.
Tebogo smiled and began eating the chicken and rice in her slow, methodical way.
~•~
Tebogo took out her English homework. She loved English. Tonight she needed to read a short story and answer the questions Mma Mogomotsi had given them. The story was about an old woman who lived in the desert, a woman who could see the future. Tebogo wished she knew a woman like that. She’d like to know her future. She was sure it was going to be good. She was sure it was going to be better than her life so far.
She dug in her school bag for her lunch box. Inside was the rest of Monica’s chicken and rice. She’d saved some so she could eat it for supper too. Monica’s father was a good cook, no matter what Monica complained about.
Tebogo read as she ate, and didn’t hear the key in the lock of the door until it was too late.
“You’ve got every light on. This house is a Christmas tree!” Tebogo’s mother said when she walked in. She switched off the outside light Tebogo had left on so that her mother could see her way up the walkway, with its uneven concrete.
“Dumela, Mme,” Tebogo tried, though she could see already that her mother was in a bad mood. It was probably better she kept as quiet and small as she could.
“What’s that smell?” Her mother had her nose in the air. “What is that? Have you been at the food again? Have you?”
Her mother was tall and big, and she grew even bigger when she was angry. She came up to the table where Tebogo was working and yanked her to her feet by her arm. “Didn’t I tell you that food is measured out for the month? You get your share, don’t you?”
She dragged Tebogo to the pantry at the back of the tiny house. Her mother switched on the light and they both looked down at the padlock on the food cupboard. It was still firmly locked. Her mother took a key from around her neck and unlocked the door. She moved around inside as Tebogo waited nervously outside. She knew she’d taken nothing but that didn’t mean she’d avoid punishment.
Her mother came out of the pantry with a packet of biscuits and the things she needed for tea. She pushed past Tebogo and went to the stove. Seeing that she was free for now, Tebogo silently went back to the table.
She struggled to concentrate on her work when her mother was around. The older woman turned on the radio to listen to the obituaries. Her mother loved hearing about who had died. She was happiest when there was a funeral she might attend for someone nearby. The programme finished and she packed all of the tea things and the remainder of the biscuits in the pantry and locked it up, putting the key back around her neck.
“I’m off to bed,” she said. She switched all of the lights off, even though Tebogo was not yet finished with her homework. “Can’t be wasting electricity. You always think you’re so special, wasting money like I don’t have to go down on my hands and knees scrubbing floors at the hospital every day. You’ll learn once you’re grown.”
She went into the only bedroom in the house and locked the door behind her. Tebogo slept on a mat in the sitting room. She waited until she heard her mother lightly snoring and then opened the front door carefully and carried her book bag across the street, and along past two streetlights to the one that was still working. She sat down in the dust, opening her school books and the last of the chicken and rice. Now she forgot about everything – except for the woman in the desert who saw everyone’s futures.
~•~
The whole night Monica could not think about anything except the bruising on Tebogo’s neck. They’d been friends since they were in Grade 3. That was before Tebogo’s father died in a mine accident. After her father died, about three years ago, Tebogo stopped inviting Monica to her house. She never spoke about her house or her mother or about anything that happened at home. She only spoke about school and about how one day she’d go to university and she’d make something special of her life.
Still Monica felt she needed to tell someone about what she saw. She thought of telling her parents but she knew they’d blow everything out of proportion. They always did. She just wanted someone to check and make sure Tebogo was okay, that no one was hurting her. By morning, she decided the best thing to do was to go to Mma Mogomotsi. She trusted her. She knew she’d do the right thing.
She got to school early and was glad to find Mma Mogomotsi already in her classroom.
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Ma’am?”
“Sure, come in, Monica. What can I do for you?”
“I think Tebogo has a problem.” Monica explained about the mark on Tebogo’s neck and how she never seemed to get enough food. About how she, Monica, was scared something was going horribly wrong.
Mma Mogomotsi listened and then said, “I’ll speak to her today. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets the help she needs.”
Monica left feeling better. She was sure Mma Mogomotsi would take care of everything.
That day when the English lesson was over, Mma Mogomotsi said, “Tebogo, can you remain a minute after class please?”
Monica turned to Tebogo. “I’ll see you later.” She left smiling.
Mma Mogomotsi waited until all of the other students had left and then closed the door and asked Tebogo to sit down at her desk. Mma Mogomotsi sat down at a desk next to her. “Tebogo, I’ve been noticing you seem a bit down. Is something wrong?”
Tebogo was afraid she’d not finished her homework properly. She had struggled to read under the yellow light of the streetlight. Maybe she’d missed something? “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” Mma Mogomotsi brought her hand forward to stroke Tebogo’s arm to assure her, but Tebogo pulled away. “Is there something wrong at home? Something I can help you with?”
“No, everything’s fine at home. My mother works at the hospital now, as a cleaner. So everything’s fine.” Tebogo stood up. “Can I go? I’ll be late for Science and Mr Mohammed gets very angry if we’re late.”
Mma Mogomotsi nodded her head. She watched Tebogo leave. She couldn’t just leave it at that, but she didn’t have the authority to do an investigation. Only the headmaster had the authority. She headed for his office.
Mr Sebina sat behind his desk, frowning at some papers. She knocked and he said, “Tsena!” without looking up.
“Mr Sebina, do you have a minute?”
He looked at her as if he was going to say no, but then said, “Okay … but only a minute. I have this form from the Ministry and they want it by the end of the day.”
Mma Mogomotsi quickly explained all she knew about Tebogo. “She’s so quiet and scared all of the time. I think something’s going on.”
“Did you see the bruising on the girl’s neck?”
“No, Monica Olebeng reported it.”
Mr Sebina smiled. “Oh yes, Monica – quite a dramatic girl if I recall.”
“Yes … maybe, but if you’re trying to say she’s making it up, I don’t think so.”
“I know you care a great deal about your students and this is a good thing. I know Tebogo – she’s just a quiet girl who likes to keep her business to herself. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s none of our business. If there’s a problem I’m sure the social workers who are trained in such things will uncover it.”
Mma Mogomotsi left the office. She felt like she’d let Tebogo down when she needed her most.
~•~
Monica waited to hear something. Tebogo said nothing about talking to Mma Mogomotsi. Mma Mogomotsi said nothing too. It seemed like Mma Mogomotsi was trying to avoid her. Monica was getting worried. What if nobody was going to help Tebogo?
It was Friday and Monica didn’t like the idea of Tebogo being all alone for two days. Friday was a big night at Monica’s house. Her father called it ‘Family Night’. Her mother made fish and chips and a nice dessert for supper. And after supper they all played games together, like Monopoly or mmele or chess. Her father liked repeating his nerdy saying: “The family that plays together, stays together.” It was against the rules to invite people over on Frida
ys, but this time Monica felt she had no option. “Tebogo, can you come home with me for dinner? My mother asked me to invite a friend over for games night and I forgot all about it until now.”
Tebogo thought about it. Friday night she knew her mother often stayed out late, often not coming home at all. She’d never know Tebogo wasn’t there. “Okay, sure.”
They walked to Monica’s house, which was not far from the school. “What kind of games do you play?” Tebogo asked.
“Any. What do you want to play?”
“I like Scrabble. Do you have it?” Tebogo asked, her eyes brighter than normal.
“Sure we can play Scrabble.” Monica was happy she had decided to invite Tebogo over. She hadn’t been over to her house for months. Whenever she had tried to invite her, Tebogo always had an excuse for why she couldn’t come. Monica only ever got her there by tricking her in some way.
Monica’s family lived in a modest house. It had a patch of green grass at the front, with a border of flowers and a big vegetable garden at the back. Monica opened the front door, calling, “I’m home!”
Her mother came from the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. At first she looked at Monica, confused, but then she realised the girl with her daughter was Tebogo. “Why – Tebogo! I never would have recognised you! You’ve grown so tall and thin. Too thin. How about I give you a big slice of cake and some milk? The cake is just out of the oven and I need a taster.”
Tebogo and Monica sat down at the dining-room table with their cake and milk just as Monica’s little sister, Maipelo, came in. She sat down and looked at Tebogo for a minute before talking. “How come you’re here?”
“Don’t be rude, Maipelo,” Monica said. “Mama told me to invite her.”
Maipelo went to the kitchen complaining that “if Monica gets a friend I want one too”. Monica knew that Tebogo could hear everything in the kitchen. “Ignore her. She’s just a brat,” Monica said.
Monica’s father came home and they sat down to dinner. Tebogo ate in her slow way but Monica’s mother didn’t mind. She kept putting more food on Tebogo’s plate. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, if you don’t finish it all I’ll just pack it up and you can take it home with you.”