Miss B Harvey

Hi I’m *Kuhlesbonge*. *Kuhlesbonge Dlamini*. This is my story I don't have much to say because I'm late. It started at 6:47am. The sun came in rude, no knock, no warning. And my mom? Yelling through the door like it was a national emergency. “_Awu Kuhlesbonge! Uyalibala! Your father will have a fit!_” So I ran. Shower, teeth, blazer, heels. No breakfast. No lipstick. Just a quick prayer: _“Nkosi, please don’t let me get fired today.”_ Joburg traffic was Joburg traffic. Late. Again. 8:03am. Walked into that glass building with my head down already knowing what was coming. “Ms. Dlamini. Your father wants you.” Yeah. My father. Also my boss. Also the man who thinks _on time_ is a personality trait. Ten minutes of “You have a name to protect” and “This company has standards.” I nodded. I smiled. I died a little inside. By 5pm I was done. So I did what any tired, over-lectured 24-year-old would do. I went to the mall. Bought perfume I didn’t need. Shoes I didn’t need. Treat yourself, right? That’s when I saw him. On the side of the road. Torn umbrella. Crates of naartjies. Laughing with a gogo like he didn’t have a care in the world. I rolled down my window. “How much for the naartjies, bhuti?” He looked up. And smiled. Not a customer-service smile. A real one. We talked. About the fruit. About my long day. And then, I don’t know why, I told him. “Yeah. It was rough. I’m Kuhlesbonge, by the way. Kuhlesbonge Dlamini.” He said, “*Langelihle*. I just sell fruit.” Like that was all he was. But when he said my name — _“Drive safe, Kuhlesbonge”_ — For the first time that whole day, I felt seen. Not as the boss’s daughter. Not as the late employee. Just… Kuhlesbonge. I drove off with perfume in the back and his name in my head. And me? I have a feeling this isn’t the last time I’ll be buying naartjies on this street. _Ilanga liphumela bonke._ The sun rises for everyone. Even for girls who are late. Even for boys with torn umbrellas. --- *LANGELIHLE'S POV* I’m *Langelihle*. *Langelihle Zulu*.I'm 30 years old. And before you judge me by the umbrella and the crates... let me tell you who I really am. I have a diploma. Business Management. Graduated with distinctions. Top of my class. My gogo cried at my graduation. My mom took 100 pictures. I thought that piece of paper meant _job_. _Office_. _Suit_. I sent *87 CVs*. Went to *12 interviews*. Got 3 “We’ll call you back.” They never did. So rent still needed to be paid. Groceries still needed to be bought. And then... my mom got sick. Diabetes. Then her feet. Then hospital bills that don’t care that you’re unemployed. My father? He left. New wife. New kids. New life in Pretoria. He calls on birthdays. Sometimes. So now it’s me. Me and my little brother Sizwe who’s in Grade 11, my sister Nomvula who’s in Grade 8 and wants to be a doctor,my mom who needs medication every month and gogo who also needs medical attention. That’s why I’m here. Under this torn umbrella. Selling naartjies from Tzaneen. R30 a bag. Sometimes R60 on a good day. People drive past in their Mercedes and BMWs and look through me. Some hoot. Some feel sorry for me. Most don’t see me at all. But yesterday... A white Mercedes stopped. Window came down. And there was this girl. Blazer. Tired eyes. Perfume that smelled like money. “How much for the naartjies, bhuti?” I gave her the price. We joked a little. And then she said something that threw me off. “Yeah. It was rough. I’m Kuhlesbonge, by the way. Kuhlesbonge Dlamini.”I'm Langelihle Zulu. Kuhlesbonge Dlamini. Uyindodakazi kaBhunu. The boss’s daughter from the big glass building. She could’ve just bought the fruit and left. But she told me her name. Like I mattered. “Drive safe, Kuhlesbonge,” I said. And I meant it. Look, I don’t know what that was. But for 2 minutes, I wasn’t just “the fruit guy.” I was Langelihle. The guy with a diploma. The guy with a sick mom. The guy trying. _Ilanga liphumela bonke._ That’s what gogo always says. The sun rises for everyone. Even for guys selling fruit on the side of the road. Even for me. So... remember that fruit guy? Langelihle? Yeah. My dad found out. I don’t even know how. Maybe the receptionist saw me. Maybe someone in traffic took a picture. Joburg is small when you’re a Dlamini. It was 7:30am the next morning. I wasn’t even late this time. I made it at 7:55. Proud of myself. Walked into the office. “Ms. Dlamini. Your father. Now.” Same receptionist. Same eyes that say _you’re in trouble_. His office. Door closed. And he was already standing. Pacing. Like he’d been waiting. “Kuhlesbonge. Sit down.” I sat. He didn’t. “Do you know what people are saying?” he started. “That the Dlamini daughter was seen buying fruit. On the roadside. From a vendor. In her Mercedes.” He said _vendor_ like it was a dirty word. “Kuhlesbonge, what were you thinking? Do you know what that looks like?” He slammed his hand on the desk. I jumped. “You have a name! This family has a name! And you’re degrading yourself! Degrading US!” Degrading. That word hit me in the chest. “Dad, I was just buying naartjies—” “Don’t ‘Dad’ me!” he cut me off. “If you want fruit, we have a Woolworths. We have a housekeeper. You don’t stop for... for street boys on the side of the road. What if someone took a picture? What will the board say? What will our clients say?” Street boys. That’s all he saw. A guy with an umbrella and crates. The truth is... I don’t even know anything about him. I don’t know his last name. I don’t know if he’s in school. I don’t know if he has a family. All I know is he said “Drive safe, Kuhlesbonge” and for 30 seconds I didn’t feel like the boss’s daughter. But I couldn’t say that. Because when my father yells, I go quiet. Like I did when I was 10. Ten minutes. About image. About reputation. About _knowing your place_. I nodded. I said sorry. I walked out with my face hot and my hands shaking. In the bathroom I cried for 2 minutes. Then I washed my face. Put on lipstick. Went back to my desk. But here’s the thing, guys... I don’t know Langelihle. Not really. But I also don’t know why my dad gets to decide who I’m allowed to talk to. _Ilanga liphumela bonke._ But does it rise for people my dad calls “street boys”? According to him... no. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. But I know I want to know more than just his name. ---