The Springbok: Part 3

Ben and Tshepo Being Encircled

Ben still played with Tshepo after school, but things had begun to shift. The warmth that once existed between their families cooled, not because of anything the boys had done, but because of the unspoken fears creeping in from outside. The street they lived on had become a boundary, one that marked not just geography but the slow unravelling of trust.

At school, the playground was no longer just a place for games. It was a place where allegiances were tested. Children mirrored the fears of their parents, parroting conversations they didn’t fully understand. One boy said his cousin had been hijacked on the M2. Another bragged about how his uncle had installed an electric fence that could kill a man. These stories circulated like myths, shaping the ways kids looked at one another.

Ben didn’t care about fences or family politics. All he knew was that Tshepo was his friend. They shared the same love for drawing cartoons and eating NikNaks until their fingers turned orange. One afternoon, they sat behind the soccer field drawing monsters with wings made of fire. Riyaad joined them, laughing as he drew a robot with dreadlocks.

But that kind of joy was becoming rare. The incident happened on a Wednesday.

Ben and Tshepo had stayed late at school for an art workshop. They took the long way home, cutting through an open lot filled with tall grass and rusted car parts. As they passed the edge of an informal settlement, a group of older boys approached.

“What are you doing with this mlungu?” one of them sneered, jerking his chin toward Ben.

Tshepo stood straighter. “He’s my friend.”

“Your friend’s ancestors took this country. Now he takes your time?” the boy shot back.

Ben felt something tighten in his stomach. He didn’t know what to say. He looked to Tshepo, hoping his friend would defuse it with a joke or a shrug. But Tshepo just stared at the ground.

The boys circled them, not hitting, not shouting, but crowding in. One of them shoved Ben lightly on the shoulder. “You don’t belong here, blondie.”

It wasn’t just a threat. It was a verdict.

The boys left eventually, bored by the lack of reaction. Tshepo and Ben walked in silence for a long time after. The sun had dipped low, and the cold wind of winter rolled in from the east.

When they reached Ben’s gate, Tshepo mumbled, “Sorry about that.”

Ben wanted to say, “It’s okay.” He wanted to say, “Let’s still hang out tomorrow.”

But neither of them said anything.

The next morning, Tshepo wasn’t at school. He wasn’t there the next day either. Finally, on Friday, Ben saw him sitting near the fence at lunch, alone. When he approached, Tshepo didn’t look up.

“My mom said we shouldn’t be friends,” he said flatly. “She says things are too tense. She said it’s dangerous, for both of us.”

Ben swallowed hard. “But we’re not the ones causing trouble.”

Tshepo looked at him for the first time. “That doesn’t matter.”

The rest of the school term passed like that, quiet nods across classrooms, averted eyes, unshared jokes. Riyaad still talked to Ben, but he was guarded now, always glancing around like friendship was contraband.

At home, Ben didn’t tell his parents. He didn’t want them to worry. But his mom noticed something had shifted.

“You seem lonely these days,” she said gently one night as she folded laundry. “Do you miss your friends?”

Ben nodded but said nothing.

Instead, he threw himself into his sketching. His notebooks filled with darker images now, abandoned buildings, birds with broken wings, cities where everyone wore masks. He didn’t mean to make them sad; they just came out that way.

One Saturday, while he was drawing in the park near the old library, he saw Tshepo again. They made eye contact from across the field. For a moment, it felt like the old days. Tshepo lifted his hand in a half-wave. Ben waved back. But neither of them walked closer.

Later that day, Elsa received a phone call. It was Tshepo’s mother.

“She said she was sorry,” Elsa told Ben afterward. “She doesn’t want to keep you two apart. But she’s scared. So are we.”

Ben felt something in him harden. A kind of understanding, not of hate, but of inevitability. He knew that none of them had asked for this world. They were all just trying to survive in it.

That night, he drew a picture of two boys standing on opposite sides of a cracked bridge. Each was holding a brick. Not to throw, but to build.

He titled it: Still Friends.

Still Friends

The Springbok: Part 3 is the property of the Author and must not be plagiarised. Legal action will be taken against those that copy, download and/or use for monetization purposes.