The sun rose slowly, as though it too was unsure how to begin this day. Clouds still hung over Nkantini, and the rust-red paths leading to Imbeka Secondary were still soaked from the rain that had kissed the soil the night before. Pretty stood in front of the cracked mirror, brushing out her afro. Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately, not from sleepiness, but from the weight that had settled on her chest ever since the day Sphiwe had pulled out that pocket knife.
Even though she'd never said it out loud, the moment haunted her.
She hadn't asked to be defended. She hadn't asked to be seen as weak. And yet, she hadn't hated it either.
She tied her shoelaces tightly and checked her socks—today they were black. Clean. Regulation. She looked herself in the eyes and whispered, "Today we keep walking. Even if the path feels muddy."
Their first class was Life Orientation with Mr. Dube, a calm man with a chalk-stained collar and soft but serious eyes. He walked into the room with the kind of presence that quieted a noisy class without needing to raise his voice.
"Good morning, Grade 8," he said. "Today, we're writing reflections. Title: 'Who Am I Becoming?' Think about your choices, your fears, your voice."
Pretty stared at her page for a long while. Her pen hovered.
She wasn't sure who she was becoming. Some days she was the loud girl with white socks and quick jokes. Other days, she was the girl who didn't know what to say to her friends when they asked if Sphiwe liked her.
Finally, she wrote:
"I think I'm becoming someone who listens more. Who observes. I still like to laugh. But now, I want to feel safe laughing. I want to be myself without being labelled a flirt or a fighter. I want to be brave in small ways. I want to say no without explaining. I want to breathe without shrinking."
She closed her book gently and passed it forward.
During break, she stood with her girls: Sanelisiwe, Snothando, Promise, and Namisa. Their group had grown into a small, steady circle—one that stood slightly away from the chaos but watched everything.
They leaned against the fence, chewing on stale cheese curls and laughing about a teacher who had tripped on the carpet during morning assembly.
"That shoe of hers is older than our school," Snothando joked.
"You're not lying," Namisa said, giggling.
Promise shook her head. "Don't make fun of her. It's probably the only pair she owns."
"Still dangerous though," Sanelisiwe added. "One day, it'll take someone with her!"
Pretty laughed but her mind wasn't fully there. Every now and then, her eyes darted toward the walkway where Sphiwe sometimes passed.
He didn't.
Namisa noticed. "You okay?"
Pretty nodded quickly. "Just thinking."
"About him?" Promise asked, gentle.
"I don't even know what 'him' means," Pretty replied. "He helped me, but I didn't ask him to. Now people look at me like I'm some drama series."
"Let them look," Snothando said. "You're not here for them."
And in that moment, Pretty believed her.
Natural Science with Ma'am Msomi followed. She was demonstrating how the lungs expanded using two balloons in a plastic bottle. The class was mildly interested—more focused on not getting picked to answer questions.
Pretty sat still, notebook open, pretending to follow. But her thoughts drifted again.
What did that moment with the boys say about her? Had Sphiwe done it to prove he was better than others? Or did he actually care?
She didn't want violence written into her story.
She wanted words.
Books.
Laughter.
The type of power that didn't come with fear.
After school, they lingered under the tree near the gate. The air was humid, like the sky was planning to cry again. They shared a bag of peanuts and salt biscuits, passing it around like communion.
"I've decided," Namisa said suddenly, "I want to be loud this year."
"You?" Sanelisiwe blinked. "You're the quietest of all of us."
"Exactly. I'm tired of being invisible."
"Be careful," Pretty said softly. "Loud girls get labelled fast."
"But maybe it's better than being silent," Namisa replied.
Promise nodded. "I think the secret is to know your volume, not theirs."
It made Pretty smile. "Y'all sound like a podcast."
They laughed.
The next day brought a lesson in Social Science. Miss Mavimbela, newly introduced, was a firm woman who believed in writing everything in neat paragraphs and underlined headings. She wrote on the board: Gender Roles in Society.
"What are some things girls are expected to do or be?" she asked.
"Cook," said one boy.
"Clean," added another.
"Not fight," said a girl.
Pretty raised her hand. "Stay quiet."
Miss Mavimbela turned, intrigued. "Explain that, Miss Mhlophe."
Pretty stood. Her voice wasn't loud, but it filled the room.
"Girls are taught to be neat. Polite. Gentle. If we speak loudly, we're told we're angry. If we speak often, we're told we want attention. So, many of us learn to be silent. Even when we want to scream."
A beat of silence followed.
Then Promise clapped once. Soft. Then Snothando. Sanelisiwe. Namisa.
Miss Mavimbela gave a slow nod. "Thank you. That's a voice we need in this classroom."
Pretty sat down, heart racing. But it was a good kind of racing.
The kind that says: You are not shrinking today.
That evening, she sat on the stoep, feet resting on the bricks, watching the sun disappear behind Nkantini hills. Her aunt joined her with a mug of warm mageu.
"You've been quiet lately," her aunt said.
Pretty sipped slowly. "I'm thinking a lot."
"About boys?"
Pretty laughed. "No. About myself."
Her aunt smiled. "That's even harder."
They sat like that until the stars appeared, both wondering what kind of woman Pretty would become—and knowing it would be one who didn't stay silent for long.