Changes

Chapter 1: The Announcement

Chapter 1: The Announcement

Friday, 14 January 2022 — 14:50 PM

The afternoon sun beats down on the dusty grounds of Kwaduma Secondary School. Double-story classroom blocks stand separated by stretches of worn grass and concrete—each building distinct, disconnected from the next. Faded paint peels from railings. Broken windows on the second floor of the English block have been patched with cardboard.

A handful of students mill about near the tuck shop, their voices carrying across the yard. Others stream between buildings, bags slung over shoulders.

We see a classroom that hums with the scratch of pencil on tracing paper. Large standing desks—slanted surfaces designed for technical drawing—fill the room in neat rows. Students stand or lean on high stools, hunched over their work.

At the front, Mr. Dumisa, a man in his 40s, dark skin, stern-faced, writes on the chalkboard in precise block letters: ORTHOGRAPHIC PROJECTION - FIRST ANGLE.

His voice is a low monotone. "The front view shows the most features. The top view goes above it. The side view—left or right—depends on the angle of projection. If you don't understand this now, you will fail your November exams. Simple as that." He says without turning. A few students exchange glances. No one laughs. Mr. Dumisa doesn't joke.

As the class settles again, one boy dares to talk in Mr. Dumisa's class. In the back of the class, a boy looks at the girl next to him and whispers  His eyes darted to the teacher, then. "Yanda, ingaba ikhangeleka ilungile lento kuwe?" back to his page. (Yanda, does this look right to you?)

Yanda glanced at his drawing, her brow furrowed in concentration. She tilted her head, studying it for a moment before speaking softly, "Kamo, umbono ongaphambili uchanekile. Kodwa umbono wakho wecala ukhangeleka ngathi isakhiwo sakho siza kuwa." ("Kamo, the front view is correct. But your side view looks like your building is about to fall over.")

Kamo groaned, his face scrunching in frustration. Yanda hid a smirk behind her hand.

Kamo's voice was louder than intended, "Kuwa?" The class fell silent, eyes swivelling towards him.

Mr. Dumisa turned sharply, his expression stern. "Kamo. Is there a problem?"

Kamo froze, his eyes wide. A few students snickered. "No, sir," Kamo mumbled. "nje ... ukucacisa into, mhlekazi." (Just... clarifying something, sir.)

Mr. Dumisa's gaze lingered on Kamo before returning to the board. "Clarify outside my classroom next time." Immediately everyone goes back to being silent but—

The bell's shrill cry cuts through the heavy afternoon air like a knife through cardboard—sharp enough to startle, but everyone's too used to it to flinch.

"Finish your work during this weekend, and on monday I'm checking everyone's work." Mr. Dumisa told everyone, even as all 42 of his students, all groaned simultaneously.

At the back of the classroom, near the window where the January sun forces students to squint, Mpendulo Jason Zwide exhales slowly. His dark brown skin glistening, he wears a blue Anorak jacket zipped to his chest, grey school pants. His head of hair is cut into a low clean skin taper. His hand stills on the EGD drawing board, and for a moment he just looks at the lines he's spent the last hour perfecting. A front view and side view of a house. Nothing special. But it's done, and that's what matters.

He stands, the metal legs of the standing desk scraping against the concrete floor—a sound so familiar it doesn't register. Around him, the class erupts into the controlled chaos of teenagers escaping. Chairs shuffle. Bags zip. Voices overlap in a dozen different conversations.