Marika is in shorts and dirty white Dunlop tackies she has drawn blue daisies on with a pen. Butterflies dance in me as I wonder how Moses and Marika will get on, and what she will think of our rusty old junkyard Volvo. When Moses catches sight of us, he stands up from his Black Label beer crate and pockets his yellow handkerchief. – Ah, kunjani, Douglas. I see you have a friend. Kunjani, miss. He bows and Marika twiddles the hem of her shorts. It is the first time I have seen her unsure. – My pa does not want me to talk to blacks. He says blacks smell, and they rape white girls if they catch them in the veld. That’s why he does not want me out by the reservoir. Moses bows his head. I feel like burrowing under the earth. – But I’m not scared, says Marika. Moses tilts his old, scrubby head and looks deep into her eyes. I look up and down the road, hoping a motorcar will turn in for petrol, but nothing happens. Across the way, Ou Piet Olifant sits on the steps of the Rhodes Hotel, his head under a newspaper.
