Chapter 1:Small Boy
They called me a small boy.
Bontle said it first when she threw my R20 back at me.
"Keep it, small boy," she said. "My new man buys lunch with hundreds. Or a black card."
I was 19. Broke. Code 10 learner. We were standing at the Seshego taxi rank outside Shoprite. The sun was hot. My Shoprite plastic was sweating in my hand. People were watching.
But it wasn’t always like that.
In Grade 11, Bontle used to wait for me after school at the school gate. I’d walk from Nobody to Seshego just to see her smile. We were broke, but we had stolen airtime and shared earphones. One wire for her. One for me. Listening to Thabsie-African Queen.
I remember one rainy day in August. Her uniform was soaked. I took off my grey jersey — the only one without holes and gave it to her. I walked home cold. Shivering. Happy.
That night, under the streetlight near her house, I told her: "One day I’ll buy you a car, Bontle. A real one. Not a taxi."
She laughed. Poked my chest with her finger. Her nail was chipped from helping her mother with washing. She said, "I’ll wait, small boy. I believe in you."
She didn’t wait.
After matric, things changed. She got a job at the hair salon in Limpopo Mall. Started doing other girls’ hair. Started getting her own done. Brazilian weave. Long nails. New phone I’d never seen before.
She stopped texting back fast. Started hiding her screen when I was there. Started saying "my friend will drop me" when I offered to walk her home.
I found out at the taxi rank. I was waiting to give her lunch — kota and Coke, like old times. R20. All I had.
She didn’t come alone.
A black Mercedes-Benz C63 pulled up. The window rolled down. An older man inside. Gold watch. Bald head. Smiling like he owned the whole of Polokwane.
Bontle got out. She was laughing. She saw me. The laugh died.
I held out the kota. "I brought you lunch."
She didn’t take it. She looked at my takkies. Carvela. Fake. The sole was coming off. She looked at his shoes through the car window. Timberland. Real.
That’s when she threw my R20 back at me.
"Keep it, small boy," she said. Loud enough for the atchar gogo to hear. Loud enough for the taxi queue to turn. "My new man buys lunch with hundreds. Or a black card. Stop playing house. You can’t afford me. You can’t even afford yourself."
The Merc’s engine growled. The older man didn’t even look at me. He just said, "Bontle, let’s go. We’re late for Spur."
She got in. Didn’t look back.
The Merc drove away. Left smoke. Left me.
The atchar gogo clicked her tongue. "Sies, my boy. Women are fire. They burn you when you’re cold."
I looked down. The R20 was on the ground. Greasy. Folded. Dirty. Like me.
A Grade 8 kid picked it up. "Is this yours, bhuti?"
I shook my head. "Keep it. You need it more than me."
I walked home to Nobody that day. Two hours. No taxi money. No pride left.
My takkie tore open completely by the time I reached my shack. I looked at it. Hole in front. Hole in my chest.
I opened the door. No lights. Eskom or no money — same darkness.
On my wall were our photos. Grade 11 dance. My matric jacket too big. Her smile too bright.
I took them down. One by one. Put them in the same Shoprite plastic I used for her lunch.
I found the note she wrote me in Grade 12. Blue pen. Book paper. _"To my King. I’ll always be your Queen. Love, B."_
I read it twice. Then I struck a match.
I watched "my King" burn. I watched "your Queen" turn to ash.
I lay on my thin mattress that night. Stared at the roof. It was leaking. Just like my eyes.
But I didn’t cry. Small boys don’t cry.
I just closed my eyes. All I saw was the Merc’s tail lights.
And all I heard was her voice.
_Small boy._
_Small boy._
_Small boy._
My phone buzzed at 2am. Thabo. 10 missed calls.
One message: _"Ntwana, you see Bontle’s status? And bro... have you heard about that older dude? People are talking. Just... be careful."_
I didn’t reply.
I couldn’t afford to be careful. I couldn’t afford anything.
I was just a small boy.
But small boys grow up.
And when they do, they don’t forget
