Run away bride: should I trust him?

Chapter 12:RUN AWAY BRIDE-(NORMAL LIFE ?)

Hmm everything has been quite good lately. Like suspiciously good. The kind of good that makes you check if you are dreaming.

I've started attending classes and yea it's cool here. Dube Adult Centre is not like my old high school in Tshidimbini where the roof leaked and we had one textbook for five learners. Here, the classes are small, the teacher actually looks at you when you talk, and they have a chalkboard that is actually black.

My class is Grade 11 and 12 combined, because most of us are older. There is a 32-year-old mama who wants to be a nurse, a taxi driver who wants matric so he can apply for metro police, and me — 19, in my blue jeans and Dream Big t-shirt, the youngest.

The first week, the teacher asked me to read an English paragraph. I read it fluently. Everyone clapped. The taxi driver said, "Yoh, you are clever like TV."

And even though I haven't made friends, I don't really care that much. I have Ma Dineo and Bra Solly at home, and that is enough. During break I sit alone with my vetkoek and my notes. Girls whisper about me — "That's the girl from FNB, the one who was almost kidnapped" — but I don't care. Let them whisper. I am there to learn, not to gossip.

Arjun doesn't scare me anymore, ohh yea he's in Nigeria now!! Love that for me.

Every time I remember his face in that police van, his smile gone, I feel a small power in my chest. I survived him. I kicked his balls, I screamed, I got him deported. When I get scared at night, I say his name out loud — "Arjun is in Nigeria" — and I sleep again.

Ma Dineo and Bra Solly have been supporting me in every way possible.

Ma Dineo wakes me at 5:30 AM to study before class. She makes me Milo and says, "Drink, brain needs sugar." She washes my school clothes even though I tell her I can wash them myself.

Bra Solly gave me his old small table so I can do homework properly, not on the floor. He even bought me a second-hand laptop from his friend at Bara for R800. "For your assignments, my teacher," he says. He calls me "my teacher" now.

They never ask me for rent. They never ask me to pay for food. When I offer the little money I make from tutoring Mrs. Khumalo's son, Ma Dineo refuses. "Your money is for your school shoes," she says.

They are my parents now. Not by blood, but by choice. Which is stronger, I think.

Khathu will be visiting us very soon. After he's medically stable to travel of course. I can't wait.

We video call every evening now. He is still in Tshilidzini Hospital, but he is sitting up. His leg is in a big cast, his knee swollen, but his laugh is back.

"Milondo, I am learning to walk like a penguin," he jokes, showing me his crutches.

"Penguin Khathu," I laugh.

He says the doctor says he will need physio for two months, but he will walk properly again. He will even run again. When he is stable, he will take the bus to Joburg to see me and to write a statement for his own case against Arjun's boys.

"I want to see Soweto," he says. "And I want to meet that soldier with broad shoulders who saved my cousin."

My cousin. He still calls me cousin, even though we are not related. That's how much he loves me.

I've called my mom and she didn't pick her calls again. I guess she's still disappointed. But I'm sure they will be proud when I finally tell them I'm finally a teacher. It's just a matter of time.

I have called my mom three times this week. New number, Soweto number. She didn't pick. Or maybe she saw unknown number and thought it's Arjun. My father also didn't pick.

I know my village. News travels fast. They probably heard I embarrassed them, that I ran from lobola, that Arjun was deported and their R10,000 is gone and they will never get it back because Arjun is in Nigeria and broke. They are probably angry. Or ashamed.

But I keep the voicemail: "Mma, it's me, Milondo. I am in school. I am safe. I am going to be a teacher. Call me when you are ready."

One day she will call. I know it. When I send her a picture of me in graduation gown, she will cry and be proud.

I haven't seen Nkosi since court day but who cares. I still find him rude and shady.

That's what I told Ma Dineo this morning when she asked, "Where is Lieutenant these days?"

"I don't know, Mma, and I don't care," I said, focusing on my maths homework. "He is probably busy protecting the President or polishing his boots that I poured water on."

But it's a lie. I do care a little. Not a lot, just a little.

Every time I pass Gate 3 at the taxi rank, I remember his deep voice. Every time I see soldiers on TV, I look for broad shoulders. Ma Dineo says Meadowlands is not far, and his mother lives there. Maybe he passed our street?

Yesterday, I washed his army jacket to return it properly. I folded it nicely, even though he already took it back on court day. I kept smelling it — it still smelled like his coffee.

Hmm, whatever. He is rude. He told me to get back to my seat. He made me miss almost peeing myself. Who does that?

I have school, I have Ma Dineo, I have Bra Solly, I have Khathu coming soon, I have freedom. I don't need a rude soldier with a scar on his eyebrow to check on me.

But today after class, when I was walking home alone with my backpack, a black army bakkie slowed down next to me.

Window came down.

"Milondo. Need a lift? It's going to rain."

Deep voice. Broad shoulders. Sunglasses on his head.

Nkosi.

I pretended to be annoyed. "I don't need a lift from rude soldiers."

He almost smiled. "It's not a lift. It's an escort. For top learners of Dube Centre. Very important persons."

It was going to rain. Big Soweto clouds.

I looked at his bakkie, then at my backpack.

"Fine. But only because it's going to rain. And you are driving me straight home, no kidnapping," I said, climbing in.

He laughed — that real, deep laugh.

"Copy that, ma'am."

And we drove, with my new normal feeling not so normal anymore.