The morning was heavy with the scent of steamed porridge and warm ironing cloth. Outside, birds chirped with no clue what the day meant. But inside the Mkhize household, Pretty's heart raced with quiet thunder.
It was the first day of Grade 8.
Imbeka Secondary School.
A new world. A bigger world. A world where she was starting from zero — no familiar teachers, no childhood friends, no protective older brother walking her in.
She stood in front of a cracked mirror sitting atop her aunt's dressing table, adjusting her collar for the third time. Her deep brown skin gleamed softly, her afro puffed proudly, held together by a thin ribbon she had tied "just to look spicy."
Her uniform was neat, though the skirt was a bit too long. The shoes were clean, but already cracking at the heels. Worst of all? Her socks were white, not black — the official color of the school.
She noticed.
And didn't care.
Pretty smirked at herself. "Let them look."
When she stepped through the school gate, there was no hesitation.
While some learners clung to cousins or old classmates from primary, Pretty walked alone — and owned it. Her steps were not unsure. They were a rhythm. Her head was high. Her eyes scanned everything.
"Sanibonani!" she greeted two girls by the entrance. "Ningibheke ngathi ngiyintombazane enezimanga!"
One of them chuckled awkwardly.
Pretty grinned. "You'll get used to me."
She waved at the security guard like she knew him. Greeted teachers like they were guests at her party. One of them stared at her socks.
"White?" he asked.
"I'm giving purity," she replied with a wink.
Even the principal turned briefly when Pretty, loud and laughing, passed by a group of teachers and said, "Principal! I hope my class is full of intelligent people. I'm allergic to boring!"
They all stared.
She didn't mind. That's how she entered new spaces — big, bright, and unforgettable.
Inside her assigned classroom, the walls smelled like varnish and chalk. Pretty chose a desk at the front and sat confidently like the room was hers.
A few minutes later, a girl stepped in — thin, quiet, eyes soft but unsure. She clutched her plastic-covered books like they might run.
"Wena! Over here!" Pretty called, waving dramatically.
The girl froze.
"I'm Pretty. You're sitting here. I decided."
The girl laughed shyly and took the seat.
"I'm... Sanelisiwe. I live nearby," she said softly.
"Perfect! I like smart neighbors. You'll teach me when I oversleep."
They laughed, and from that moment, it was official — Sanelisiwe Shandu became Pretty's deskmate, and the first friend she made at Imbeka.
By 9AM, Pretty had:
A deskmate
Two people who liked her jokes
A warning for her socks
And three girls who already asked her: "Uzohlala nathi nge break?"
She was a magnet. Her voice echoed across the corridors. Her questions were bold. Her compliments real. Her jokes risky.
"Girl, your bag looks like it holds groceries."
"That teacher's forehead is giving computer monitor!"
"I like your face. You look honest — I hope it's not a trap."
People laughed. Teachers sighed. And Pretty? She collected names like stickers.
During break, she settled under a tree with Sanelisiwe, who brought her lunch in a cold, cracked lunchbox. Not long after, two more girls joined.
First was Snothando Mngonyama — short, serious, tightly braided, and clearly unimpressed.
Then came Promise Shenge — short, dark-skinned, Bible in hand, with eyes that carried more peace than her age should allow.
Pretty opened the circle quickly.
"Snothando, you look like you don't laugh. We must fix that."
Snothando rolled her eyes. "You talk too much."
"And you think too much. We balance."
Promise just smiled, already opening her Bible.
"You reading Psalms?" Pretty asked, peeking.
"No. Genesis."
"Yoh! First day and you already starting from the beginning?"
Promise's shy smile grew wider. "It keeps me calm."
"Well, keep reading, sisi. Sitting with me, you're going to need all the prayers."
That afternoon, the four girls sat on the grass, legs stretched, cracking jokes and sharing snacks like they'd known each other for months. Pretty was the glue, and she knew it.
Just after break, a man walked into their classroom.
He didn't say much. He didn't need to.
"Class. I am Sir Dwalane. Your maths teacher."
Sharp suit. Sharper eyes.
No smiles. No wasted words. His tone carried authority.
"I don't tolerate noise. I don't chase after learners. I don't repeat myself."
Someone giggled at the back.
Without turning, he said, "Laugh outside."
Silence. You could hear the chalk waiting to be used.
His lesson was fast, clear, terrifyingly strict. No jokes. No kindness. Just numbers and sharp reminders to "focus."
When he left, the whole class exhaled like they'd been underwater.
Pretty whispered, "Yoh. That one eats nails for breakfast."
Everyone laughed — quietly. No one wanted Sir Dwalane to appear behind them like a ghost.
Last period of the day was supposed to be Life Orientation. But the teacher didn't show.
"Free period!" someone shouted. And like bees set free from the hive, learners poured into the field behind the admin block.
Grade 8s. Grade 9s. All buzzing together — giggling, chasing each other, showing off new shoes or new hair.
Pretty stood with her girls, arms crossed, smiling.
Then came the approach.
A group of boys — older, louder, definitely Grade 9s — strolled up casually. Leading them was a boy with a fade cut and untied shoelaces. Behind him were two others who looked very familiar.
Mpilo and Ntando.
From Nkantini.
"Yoh!" Pretty clapped her hands, surprised. "Nkantini boys!"
Mpilo laughed. "We thought you'd scream."
Ntando stepped forward, grinning. "We saw your name on the new list. We just wanted to say — you made it."
"Eyy, Pretty," Mpilo added, "Imbeka isn't ready for you."
Pretty chuckled, pleased. "And you two think you're ready for Grade 9?"
They bumped fists. Laughed. It was a sweet reunion.
Behind them, another boy — Sphiwe, from Mahlanyeni — kept his eyes on her.
He didn't talk much.
Just observed.
Then finally said, "You're new."
"I'm special," Pretty corrected.
He smirked. "Same thing."
She looked away, pretending not to smile. "Go impress someone else. I'm busy."
He nodded, said nothing more, and walked off with the others.
But Pretty's heart did… something.
Later that evening, after bathing and eating, Pretty lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her afro now loose and wild, her white socks in a pile near the door.
Her phone buzzed — Sanelisiwe sent a voice note:
"Uvuke kahle namhlanje, Pretty. Lungiselela usuku lwakho uye esikoleni. Good day."
Pretty smiled.
A good day? Yes.
A dramatic day? Definitely.
A new start? Without question.
But something in her chest felt heavy. Not bad. Not sad.
Just… deep.
For the first time in a while, she didn't miss Siyabonga. She didn't wonder about the mistakes of Grade 7.
Today, she had laughed too much. Met too many people. Seen the future's eyes blinking in the distance.
No boys. No promises. No drama.
Just Pretty.
And a heart that whispered:
"Start again. But don't forget who you are."