Afrika Read Online Free Page B

proud of her mother.
    A white boy across the room waved his hand. Alarmed, Kim glanced in his direction. His ears flapped open instead of lying flat against his skull.
    “Yes, James,” Miss Phillips nodded.
    James leaped to his feet. His jacket was draped over his shoulders and it swamped his short frame. “My dad says this commission is a waste of time. He says they should just get on with building a new country and not drag up the past and waste taxpayers' money doing so.” His large ears had become flushed with the effort it took to speak in public. He looked right at Kim and added, “My dad says that the foreign press uses our troubles for entertainment.”
    James sat down. Kim stared down at her paper. Would Miss Phillips ask her to defend her mother in front of the entire classroom?
    A tall black boy beside Kim put up his hand. He got to his feet to speak. “In 1990 my pa was taken away in the middle of the night in the back of a police van. We searched for months but never found him. My mother knows that the commission will not bring my father back, but maybe our questions will be answered.”
    Kim looked at the boy. He had a distinct African accent, yet he spoke clearly. As he sat down, he noticed Kim staring at him. He returned the look, but his eyes were impossible to read. Were they cold or curious? Then Kim noticed the cover of his exercise book. On it he had scribbled
Afrika
over and over.
    “Thank you, Themba,” Miss Phillips said as she began to hand out the assignment for the day.
    At the break Kim gravitated toward the field where a few boys were kicking a soccer ball around. Soccer had been her favorite sport at home. She played on a girl's team that competed all over western Canada. With longing she watched Thembapass the ball between himself and another black boy. A white boy stood farther down the field at the goal. She couldn't believe the black kids were still talking about the Truth Commission.
    “It's rubbish,” said Themba to the other boy. As he spoke he kicked his toe into the dirt field. “Reconciliation means that killers can walk free.”
    “President Mandela has shown forgiveness,” the other black boy argued. “Why can't you? You are what – better than Mandela?”
    Themba kicked the ball hard. The white boy lunged for it, but the ball rebounded off a goalpost toward Kim. She blocked the ball with her body and kicked it straight back to Themba.
    “Can I play too?” she asked.
    “A girl play soccer?” laughed the shorter boy. “Are you mad?”
    “Shut up, Sipho,” Themba said. He kicked the ball in Kim's direction. “Let her play,” he shouted.
    Relieved and happy to be included, Kim ran up the field with the ball between her feet. Themba was a good sprinter, but she swirled to one side, took the ball, and lost him. Then she jerked left and right past Sipho and charged up to the goalpost.
    Kim took her time setting up the shot. She was wide open, but she needed to kick the ball with force and control. She heard her Calgary coach yelling in her ear.
Slow down! Be precise!
She aimed for the farcorner of the goal and belted it. The white boy fell to his stomach but missed the ball. She scored!
    “Hey,” said Themba coming up behind her. His dark eyes, set deep in his nut-brown face, were encouraging. But a mocking grin spread across his face. He picked up a twig from the ground and held it near her mouth as if the twig was a microphone. Then he changed his voice, making it deep and urgent, like a sportscaster. “Miss Kim, tell our viewers how it feels to play on a real soccer team.”
    Kim took a step back. “How did you know that?”
    He moved the imaginary microphone from her mouth to his. “Does the name Lettie Bandla ring a bell?” he asked, planting one hand on his hip.
    “What about her?” Kim asked. He couldn't possibly know about Lettie or the blue and maroon soccer uniform she had brought with her to South Africa.
    He looked her straight in the eye.