wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sure Kelly and charcoal is a healthy combination.”
“Connie! We should go. It’ll be fun.”
Hmmm. Watching Kelly and company entertain slobbering males in the bush sounds almost as good as listening to Kelly and company entertain slobbering males in a dark cinema. “No, thanks.”
“They won’t mind having you there, you know,” she says in a quiet voice.
My jaw drops and I almost hang up, insulted. As if I want to be accepted by a shallow, albeit very pretty group of girls with the privilege of commanding male attention with a swing of their hips. It’s not as if I can’t get guys to notice me if I try. If I really, really try. OK, so maybe not even then, but I don’t need boys to notice me. Teachers notice me occasionally and they’re much more important.
“Thuli might be coming.”
I almost drop the receiver. “What? Are you sure?”
“I heard Lorraine saying that Kelly invited Mothusi, and you know Mothusi won’t go anywhere without Simon, and Simon won’t go anywhere without Thuli…”
I bite my lip, my heart thudding in my chest. Thuli Baleseng is the man of my dreams. He’s in Form Five, a year ahead of me, and one of the smartest students in his group. I love everything about him, from the way he rolls up the sleeves of his pale green school shirt to the dreadlocks that hang over his sleepy eyes.
Lebz sighs. “I don’t know what you see in that boy.”
“He’s a genius,” I whisper.
“He’s a thug,” she retorts. “He smells of cigarettes, he’s antisocial, rude and – ”
“He’s misunderstood,” I snap, irritated by her unwarranted assault on my soul mate. She and Thuli are sort of family friends. That is to say, his parents are friends with her parents, but she tries very hard not to be friends with him.
“OK, whatever. Are you coming to the braai?”
It occurs to me then that Thuli doesn’t particularly like Kelly, or any other girl at the Syringa Institute of Excellence. Rumour has it that he only dates KIA girls –girls from Kagisanyo International Academy, and he hardly hangs out with anyone other than his pals Simon and Mothusi, except the occasional exchange student.
“Oh, you almost had me,” I tell Lebz. “Thuli isn’t going, and neither am I.”
She sighs. “You should come. Your father is rubbing off on you; you need serious intervention before you lose the last bits of youth and blackness you have left,” she pleads. “Like this Rachel McAdams thing. What’s wrong with Beyoncé?”
“We’ve had this conversation.” I pull the phone cord as far as it will go so I can lie on the sofa. “I’m a mulatto and I’m proud.”
“You see?” she cries in dismay. “Who uses words like ‘mulatto’?”
I consider pointing out that the limited vocabulary of our peers is not a virtue, but I’m not sure she’ll appreciate it. Lebz is a smart girl, but you’ll never catch her showing it. “Go to the braai, Lebz. I’ll only hold you back from your destiny.”
“Drama queen,” she sneers, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “Don’t think you’re off the hook. You have to get a life, one way or the other. I’ll be there soon.”
I roll my eyes and replace the receiver. I understand how desperate everyone is for a little excitement. Gaborone is small and dull. Don’t get me wrong – we don’t have shootings on every street corner, but we also only have a couple of cinemas and a handful of copycat malls. There is nothing to do here, so people get creative. Loitering is popular. Braais, house parties and underage drinking are big, too. I prefer to stay out of trouble. The problem with being sort-of psychic is, well, foresight.
I’m halfway through the movie when Lebz turns up. She’s one of those cute, curvy girls who like to flaunt what they’ve got, so her grey school skirt is as short as she can get away with. As usual her white socks are pulled up to her knees, even though she’ll have to fold them every time a teacher walks by. She’s done something new with her hair – red streaks weaving through jagged cornrows.
“Your hair looks good,” I venture, though I’m not quite sure I’m being honest.
“You’re so bad at this,” she laughs. “I know you hate it, but it’s not for you.” She pats her head, then sneaks a peek at my bushy ponytail. “We can’t all be content with coloured-girl afros.”
We hang around until Auntie Lydia, our housekeeper, arrives. She’s been with Dad and me since my mother died. She’s compact, very dark in complexion and extremely efficient. She bustles into the house like a whirlwind in floral print.
“Hello, girls,” she says in her Zimbabwean accent, planting maternal kisses on our cheeks. Then she glances at her cell phone, lets out a cry of dismay and shoves us towards the door with surprising strength for someone so petite. “Out, out! I was supposed to start work ten minutes ago!”
Lebz and I head down the streets of Phase Eight towards Syringa, swept up in a sea of crisp green shirts and grey trousers. Other kids greet Lebz, glance at me briefly and then turn away. We take a right turn and there it is – Syringa.
High black gates, a brick wall topped with barbed wire and a lawn so green and fragrant you’d think you just stepped into The Sound of Music. The campus is dotted with stone benches with leaf patterns carved into the sides. There is carefully tended sand, flowerbeds and neat brick walkways. There is even a fountain in the middle of the campus, just in front of the admin building. Every one of the five large buildings is made of red brick. Glass doors slide open to welcome you into pristine corridors polished to within an inch of their lives. We have state-of-the-art facilities, or at least as state-of-the-art as we can get in Botswana.
All this costs enough to make my dad grind his teeth at the start of every term, but he’s convinced I’m getting a first-class education. Getting to go to Syringa means I don’t get a lot of other things, but that’s cool. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
As Lebz and I enter the school grounds, a skinny boy with thick glasses and a neat baby afro steps out of a car idling by the roadside and catches up to us. He has the faintest suggestion of sideburns, full lips that are usually pursed in concentration and huge eyes. His long fingers are clasped around a thick book, and he walks with the short, quick strides of someone with lots to do and no time to do it.
“Hey, Wiki,” Lebz and I say in unison as he falls into step with us.
“Morning, ladies,” he replies in his soft voice. His real name is Elijah, but everyone calls him Wiki – as in Wikipedia – because he remembers everything he has ever read. He’s from Côte d’Ivoire, which is somewhere up there on the map next to… um… Nigeria?
The three of us have known each other almost since birth. My dad, Lebz’s mother and Wiki’s father are all in the business of education, and they became friends way back when teaching was the ultimate profession and surfing was done on the ocean. I suppose our friendship happened by default and then we grew on each other. Lebz is the only one of us who actually has other friends.
As we step onto the campus, Lebz runs
