Their meal went on like that, filled with gossip about the girl whose reputation—if ever presented before a suitor—would be enough to make him take back his dowry and walk away. The girl had already spoiled her name, though she looked as perfect as any other. She wasn't fit to be called anyone's lover, nor could a man boast of having a woman of worth in her.
When Frida took a soda to Rama, Siyawezi and her friends saw it clearly, for they were not far away. That day, they had decided to stay at school instead of wandering off as usual. When the young man received the drink and gave Frida a smile, Siyawezi's face twisted with a strong frown, so sharp that even Rahima stared at her for a few seconds, surprised at the sudden anger that had taken hold of her friend.
That incident deeply irritated Siyawezi—it burned her inside—because the boy had once rejected her and chosen another. She had only heard stories from those who had been close to him, but when a new student arrived and caught his attention so easily, jealousy consumed her completely. She hated Frida more than anything else, and secretly wished that something bad would happen to her so that Rama would be left alone. But as people say, a hen's curse never reaches the heavens, so she suffered in silence, devoured by her own envy.
There is nothing that wounds a young woman more than believing she has everything to win any man—only to watch him fall for another who seems lesser in every way. That's when resentment is born, even without being wronged. Siyawezi was caught in that web of bitterness, remembering the way the young man had once dismissed her, never realizing that she still longed for him. The thought that other girls had been with him before did not hurt her as much as seeing him with that new rival—because Frida, unlike the others, had managed to capture what Siyawezi could not.
"Bestie, knowing you, don't do anything foolish out of anger," Rahima warned. "You could end up hunted by soldiers from all sides, and you know some of those families are dangerous."
"If it weren't for that," Siyawezi hissed, "I'd have ruined her long ago. Who does she think she is? What does she have that I don't? I've wanted Rama for years—then she just shows up and takes him like it's nothing?"
"Listen, I'm begging you, hate her all you want but don't mess with Rama. Hee's clever, even the teachers like hom—but he's fierce, not someone you can easily provoke. I remember back in primary school he fought four prefects at once and beat them all. By the time he graduated, even the teachers were afraid of him."
Siyawezi scoffed. "You think I'm scared? If I didn't care, I'd have already called the street boys from Maandazi Road—they'd have torched her house by now. Rahi, don't take me lightly."
"Bestie, please drop it. Oh—there goes the bell-ringer, off to do his job."
"And that Jafari is always so full of himself," Siyawezi muttered, pouting, clearly wishing she could stay outside longer instead of going back to class.
The teacher who came after the break was Mr. Manjenje. As usual, he hurried to class—he was known for his strictness. If a student entered after him, they'd be either caned or sent out entirely. Like most math teachers, he had a reputation for discipline and intimidation.
He entered with his notebook, a box of chalk, and a long cane in his hand. That day, he found all students already seated, a rare occurrence. He placed his books and chalk on the desk, gripped his cane, and swept the room with his eyes. Finally, his gaze settled on Frida, who was sitting near Rama.
He glared at them both, tempted to move one away, but hesitated—he still remembered the warning he'd been given in the staffroom. He decided to ignore it, though irritation burned within him. His eyes then shifted toward Siyawezi and her group, who, surprisingly, were seated near the middle instead of hiding in the back. Each had opened their books and looked attentive.
"If you all studied as seriously as this," he said mockingly, "then maybe the whole school wouldn't end up with zeros."
Everyone knew who he meant. Siyawezi clenched her lips, pretending not to care, though the sarcasm stung.
Without wasting time, he began writing on the board, teaching with his usual sharpness. But that day, his visible hostility was directed toward Frida. He made her stand several times, asking difficult questions—even from topics he hadn't yet taught—just to humiliate her. Yet the plan backfired spectacularly. Frida answered each question correctly, impressing everyone in class.
Throughout the lesson, he avoided calling on Rama, knowing full well that boy was top of the class—there was no trap he could set that would make him fail. Still, his eyes kept darting between Rama and Frida, hoping they'd slip up, say a word, or exchange a look so he could justify using his cane. But they were careful. Having guessed his intentions, they remained composed and silent. That frustrated him even more.
"This term," he barked near the end, "you must study hard! Stop wasting time on foolish love affairs. You girls especially—stop chasing street boys who smoke and wander about doing nothing. They'll ruin your lives and your studies. The next exam will be hard—if you fool around, you'll have only yourselves to blame. My cane won't spare you.
And you, girl, you leave school at two and go to see your 'boyfriend' until five before heading home. Do you think you'll ever pass your exams that way? Unless immorality has become your subject, don't expect to succeed!"
His words, filled with hypocrisy and bitterness, were aimed entirely at Frida. Everyone knew why—because she had rejected him before, and he had never forgiven her. Behind his harsh advice was a wounded pride.
After his self-righteous sermon, he gathered his books, left an unfinished exercise on the board, and stormed out. He insisted that all notebooks be submitted before students went home—he didn't care if it disrupted other lessons. The order was just another way to vent his irritation at Rama and Frida for being close. In his heart, he vowed that one day they would suffer for defying him—unless they left the school, or he did.
No sooner had he stepped out than a student known for his antics stood up, walked to the front, and began mimicking the teacher's tone and gestures.
He repeated the entire speech word for word—complete with the teacher's pompous voice and swagger.
The whole class burst into laughter, unable to contain themselves.