Afrika Read Online Free

iron gates of the school. “I'm still sick,” said Kim. “I'm really not much better.”
    “You are,” stated Riana.“And I'm late for work.”
    Whenever Riana went out to work, she replaced her cloth slingbag with a battered old brown-red leather bag. Now it was sprawled open on the seat beside Kim. It smelled of smoke-filled rooms and Riana's tangy musk. Whenever Kim tried to point out the slick new briefcases in stylish store windows, her mother would say, “I like this old thing. It's me.”
    “If I'm not here after school then Lettie will fetch you,” Riana said, getting out of the car.
    Kim pulled a face. “I can walk home,” she insisted. “I have a key.”
    “It's not safe, darling. Seriously. Lettie will fetch you.”
    “Lettie doesn't drive.”
    “She will come for you on foot,” Riana said as her cell phone sang its silly jingle.
    “I thought you didn't want to be a white madam with a maid,” Kim said. “I thought you had principles about it.”
    Riana sighed and jammed the phone to her ear. Kim remained in the car and fumbled in her blazer pocket for her Smarties. She gobbled them down. What amazed Kim was this: back home, her disorganized, untidy mother never had a nanny or a cleaning lady, much less a full-time maid. After recovering from the initial shock of seeing Lettie, Riana appeared to enjoy giving her instructions on what to cook, how to wash something, and when to pick up Kim. Even though they appeared friendly at the same time, Kim noticed a distance between them. “White madame with a maid” was a side of her mother that Kim had never witnessed before.
    The phone call ended. “I have to leave,” Riana said, as she flagged down a teacher who happened to be passing. “Sorry. It's my daughter's first day. Could you show her to the office?” she asked the gray-haired teacher.
    “Of course,” the woman said as she gave Riana a thorough once-over. “Come now. The bell will ring soon.”
    Reluctantly, Kim got out of the car. Kim knew what the teacher was seeing. Riana wore a frayedman's shirt and striped pants that tied at the ankles. Just before the car spun off, Kim resisted the urge to tell her mother that she couldn't go off dressed like that.
    Kim followed the teacher beside a green manicured lawn. The school was surrounded by thick, whitewashed walls and iron railings. Ivy swirled around two thick pillars that flanked the entrance. Kim, uncomfortable in her unfamiliar school uniform, despised wearing a skirt, but she did enjoy wearing a tie.
    “What school are you transferring from?” the teacher asked, looking Kim over. Her accent was clipped and formal, different from Oom Piet's.
    “I'm from Canada.” When she spoke her mouth was thick with chocolate.
    “Canada?” The teacher's gray brows lifted. “Why are you in South Africa?”
    “My mother is a journalist,” Kim explained. “She's covering the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.” The teacher stared back from behind her glasses.
    They arrived at the main office as the bell rang. The teacher tried to determine where Kim belonged. Two secretaries were chatting about a mid-day burglary in one of their apartments.
    “No, really, they took everything. Even the milk in the fridge,” said the brunette.
    “Jeez,” her blonde friend replied. “What are you going to do?”
    “Get a watchdog, man.”
    “Or a gun. I got one.”
    “Or both. I mean it.”
    They finally tore themselves away to come to Kim's end of the counter. No students were left in the hall. No doubt whatsoever, Kim would be brought in late and all eyes would be glued on her.
    “Room 20,” announced the blonde secretary. “Miss Phillips' class.” She had fragile, almost blue-white skin and Kim had trouble imagining her carrying a gun around, let alone shooting it.
    The teacher led Kim down the empty hall and knocked on the first door to the right. “Prudy, this is Kim van der Merwe,” she said, when Miss Phillips opened the door. “She's