Noon. Panganai and Tendai tug tufts of candyfloss from pink clouds as the Chinese girl in a pink tutu rides a circus horse round and round. The frenzied jabber of the dogs and the rumble of a diesel pickup haul Jabulani out of reverie. He smells the pap Jonas has cooked in the dusty, dour light. A yelled command is a high note over the deep-river tones of men singing in his language. Jabulani gears himself to see a gang of hardened, jaded old men. The barn door slides open and the men plod in. They give off a gamey reek of smoke and sweat. Sidestepping the stranger, they scoop water out of the drum with enamel mugs. They drink half and tip half over their heads. The curing cool of the water draws smiles from a few of the men. Jonas shyly shuffles his feet. The men are younger and jauntier than he had imagined. They must be Polemen. – Boys, this is Jabulani, says Jonas. He is a teacher. The way they nod their sodden heads at him reveals deep awe of teachers. They all, not so long ago, sat at the feet of a teacher with a slate and chalk in hand, keen to learn about the world beyond the Limpopo.
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