This Thing Called the Future by J.L. Powers

sits, heavily, in a chair. Its metal legs scrape across the uneven floor.
    I sit there in the dark, on the floor of the bathroom, staring up at the box of Omo washing powder we store in the window. What just happened ?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    HOMECOMING
    The drunk man starts waiting for me at the khumbi stop when Zi and I come home from school. He doesn’t say anything to me—he just smiles with his big rotten teeth and follows us home.
    One day, Thandi throws little rocks at him. “Leave her alone,” she yells.
    He ducks to avoid the shower of small stones. But still, he follows.
    â€œBig coward,” Thandi mutters. “What are you going to do?”
    â€œYou don’t think I should make him my sugar daddy?” I ask her.
    â€œAre you crazy , Khosi?” Thandi shouts. Then she sees I’m teasing. “You’ve gone mad, girl! I don’t think you should make jokes about that man. He’s dodgy. You shouldn’t ever walk anywhere alone.”
    â€œWho’s going to walk with me everywhere I need to go?” I ask. “Gogo’s too old and Mama’s not here most of the time. I just have to learn to protect myself.”
    But how? I sound brave even while my insides are one big bowl of mushy phuthu . The problem is that I don’t see a solution. So I have to act brave. Of course, I pray to God, hoping that he can hear my prayer out of the millions flooding his ears. Sometimes, I pray to Jesus. At least Jesus was a man and they did terrible things to him before he died. Maybe he understands my fear. Maybe he’ll help me, like Babamkhulu.
    Thandi glances over her shoulder. The drunk man keeps his distance, but he ambles along, some few houses behind us, running a stick along the metal gates. Ching ching ching ching . A chicken darts across the road.

    â€œYou need to come get some protective muthi from my gogo ,” Thandi advises. “She has muthi that can make you invisible to your enemies.”
    â€œI’ll come get it,” I say. “Tomorrow after school.”
    But that night, Gogo tells me that Mama is finally coming home, after so many weeks—two months—away.
    â€œShe will be here tomorrow night,” Gogo says. “She said they have given her a three-week holiday.”
    I’m surprised. It isn’t the right month for winter holidays so how did Mama get three weeks off?
    â€œWho is teaching her class while she is gone?” I ask.
    â€œShe didn’t say. But we must plan a special meal, Khosi.” Gogo sounds so excited, like a little girl.
    â€œAll Mama’s favorites,” I agree. “I’ll go shopping tomorrow on my way home from school.”
    Â 
    The next day, I hurry to pick Zi up as soon as my last class is over. We run through the city streets to catch a khumbi back to Imbali.
    Zi always says hi to all the women traders sitting on the sidewalk in front of Freedom Square, the ones selling bracelets and necklaces and toys to the people rushing past. Today, we’re the ones rushing.
    â€œDon’t make me drag you home,” I threaten Zi when she falls behind.
    â€œWhy are we running, Khosi?” she complains. “I’m tired.”
    â€œMama’s coming home today,” I remind her. “Don’t you want to hurry? Wouldn’t it be terrible if Mama arrived home and we weren’t there yet?”
    Zi’s entire face brightens and she shouts at the women, “Mama’s coming home! Mama’s coming home!”
    They wave at her, their special little friend, calling after us, “ Hambani amantombazana! Sheshani! Hurry hurry hurry!” They shake with laughter when she runs past on her fat little legs.
    As our khumbi zips out of the city and down the road toward Imbali, the driver turns the music up. I put my fingers in my ears and nudge Zi to do the same. It’s too loud to talk so I lose myself in warm thoughts about Little Man. His dreadlocks, so