Chapter One
Qhawe
It was 1999, the year I joined my brother at Sibley College. It was my first year and his final year. I had looked forward to my first day there for a long time. I don’t know how he felt about me joining him. I just knew what it meant to me. I had waited a long time, and now at last the day had come.
It all started on a hot mid-January day with the long journey from home to Sibley College. We travelled with our parents from Margate on the South Coast of KwaZulu-Natal along the N2 to Durban, where we switched to the N3 highway before blasting past Pietermaritzburg and finally taking the off-ramp in the direction of Underberg.
We wound our way along a narrow road with eroded shoulders and craterous potholes, passing numerous villages and a couple of single-road towns. The hills rolled on forever, both to the left and to the right. We eased into their curves as we climbed into altitude. It was the height of summer, and the sun blazed magnificently. Its rays glinted off the surface of bean-shaped dams and a river that snaked along the road, keeping up with us.
The brightness brought out the kaleidoscope colours of the fields, the trees and the flowers. Even the blue of the sky was as rich as something delicious to eat. The landscape became mountainous as we travelled further.
We took our final turn onto an unlined road and wound up a steady incline. The weather changed as we climbed. Mist hung in the air, clinging to the trees and blanketing the landscape. The wind blew colder. The light dulled. It felt like we were entering the heavens through the basement.
Poplar trees lined either side of the road. At the end, the entrance to Sibley College loomed suddenly out of the whiteness of the mist. The great metal gate split open for us, moss dripping from its bars, beckoning us into an eerie alternative reality. Huddled in our battered vehicle, we passed beneath a stone archway crumbling with the weight of history.
The school was situated on top of a small mountain. Officially, the mountain had no name, but to those who knew something of the lore of the land, it was called Goat’s Hill. It was backdropped by the larger and more ominous Drakensberg mountains, which watched over it like the gods guarding their prodigy. Goat’s Hill was bearded by thick forests on two sides. At least three streams twisted down the side of the mountain and disappeared into the pine trees, eventually feeding into the same raging river running alongside the road.
There was a lot of activity on that first day: parents dropping off their sons, siblings wishing their brothers well, boys getting reacquainted, and boarding house staff helping wherever they could.
Dad and my brother Biko carried the trunks. Mine was shiny green. My brother’s was brown, dented and rusty. Our names were scribbled on them in Mom’s handwriting: large looping letters in black marker pen. She wrote the letter ‘z’ in our surname, Bhanekazi, in such a way that it looked like the number ‘3’. Mom and I carried the rest of the bags, as well as the bedding.
The parking lot outside Trafford House was busy. A steady stream of people entered and exited the boarding house, many of them with their hands full of luggage and linen. Tall oak trees next to the boarding house overlooked the parking area. A flock of white-necked ravens perched in the highest reaches and watched the proceedings through shiny black eyes that blazed with condescension.
Mom and Dad didn’t stay long. Their awkwardness was palpable. Once they’d helped us put our things inside, they braced themselves by the car, ready to leave.
‘You are special, son,’ Dad said, placing a hand on Biko’s shoulder. ‘We always believed you would live up to your name. You are a true leader.
‘Take care of your brother,’ Mom said, hugging him.
Dad straightened my tie with both his hands. ‘You’re a man now. We are so proud of you. Don’t make trouble for your brother.’
Mom gave me a hug. ‘Listen to him always,’ she said. ‘He’ll be there for you.’
I stood side by side with Biko and watched our parents drive off in Dad’s beige Peugeot station wagon; the back number plate hung at a slight angle. I felt unsettled in a weird way. This was not my first experience of boarding school, and yet it all felt so uncertain. I was clinging to the fact that I had made it to Sibley College – joining my brother at last.
Biko turned and walked towards the boarding house.
‘B,’ I said.
He stopped.
‘I’m so glad to be here with you. It’s going to be great. The Bhanekazi boys creating history.’
‘First of all,’ he said coolly, ‘don’t call me that. I’m the Head of Trafford House. Call me Bhanekazi or Sir. Got it?’
I was too stunned to respond.
‘Secondly,’ he said, ‘don’t embarrass me. It’ll be much worse for you if you do.’
He turned away and walked off without another word.
Continue with Chapter One
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