The Heart That Stayed Behind

The sun returned reluctantly after days of rain, rising behind soaked hills and rooftops in Imbeka. The ground still held the scent of yesterday's storm, and the schoolyard puddles glittered under the morning light like forgotten secrets. Pretty walked slowly, her bag swinging gently against her back, her freshly polished shoes avoiding the mud like dancers on a stage.

She had changed her socks.

Black, as the rules demanded. But the fire in her hadn't dimmed. It only learned how to wear a uniform.

She met Sanelisiwe by the gate. "Ngiyabona, you finally obeyed the sock law," her friend teased.

Pretty lifted her foot. "The rebellion is on pause. But it's not over."

They burst out laughing and were soon joined by Snothando and Promise, both armed with small umbrellas despite the sun.

"These umbrellas are not for the rain," Snothando declared, holding hers up like a queen's parasol. "They're for shade and class."

Promise added, "And to chase away certain boys."

The girls shared a knowing look. Pretty raised an eyebrow. "What did I miss?"

Snothando smirked. "You'll see."

In class, Miss Mthembu 's warm welcome set the tone. She asked learners to write a short paragraph titled What Rain Teaches Us. Pretty's thoughts danced onto the page:

Rain teaches me that even the sky needs to cry. And sometimes, what grows after the crying is beautiful.

When he read it aloud, the class went quiet. For a second, Pretty wanted to hide. But then she looked at Promise, who nodded with proud eyes.

During break, a group of older boys loitered near the water tank. Pretty walked past them to the tuckshop, not noticing their eyes until one of them called out, "Eh, ungubani wena? Too confident for Grade 8."

She ignored it.

Another added, "Ucabanga ukuthi because you got pretty hair you can fly?"

Laughter followed. Pretty turned to respond, but her heart raced. Sanelisiwe wasn't nearby. Her mouth opened—but before she could speak, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"You speak like your mother raised you in a goat kraal. Leave her."

Sphiwe.

He stepped in front of her, calm but firm. The other boys muttered and moved back slightly. Then, without a word, Sphiwe pulled out a small pocketknife from his sock and opened it halfway, just enough to glint in the sun.

The message was loud. They backed off.

Pretty stared at him. "What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Teaching them about boundaries."

She frowned. "You can't be going around waving knives, Sphiwe. You'll get expelled."

He slid it back in quietly. "So they don't touch you. That's all."

He walked away before she could say more. And though she didn't want to admit it, part of her was… grateful.

But she wasn't ready to feel that way. Not for him.

Later that afternoon, Pretty sat with her girls under the tree near the science lab. The umbrella now served as shade from the gossip blazing around them.

"He pulled out a knife for you?" Snothando gasped.

Promise frowned. "That's not romantic. That's dangerous."

Sanelisiwe joined them and placed a lunchbox in the center. "Boys act wild when they don't know how to express care. But that's not your problem, Pretty."

"It's not," she replied. "He's trying too hard. I just want to live, make friends, and pass."

Namisa arrived minutes later, her presence already part of the group's rhythm. She listened, then smiled softly. "Sometimes, being loved loudly feels like an attack."

The others nodded. They didn't know everything about one another yet, but the code was forming:

Protect each other. Respect space. Speak truth. Don't let boys decide your value.

After school, the sky darkened again. Just before the final bell, clouds rolled over the mountain, heavy and grey.

"Rain again," Promise whispered.

"Our umbrellas are ready," Snothando grinned.

They walked home together, umbrella tips poking the air like proud flags. Pretty glanced at the school building behind her, then ahead toward the path home. Her mind wasn't on Sphiwe. It wasn't even on the knife.

It was on the sacredness of girlhood.

On the small, quiet strength of friendships built under umbrellas, between books, through laughter.

She didn't need a love story right now.

She already had something golden.

Sisterhood.

And in her heart, a quiet prayer rose: Let this last.