How Would I Know Sicelo Khoza   (c) Copyright 2025 by Sicelo Khoza

Photo courtesy of the author.

Jason looked at my test paper and pointed to my answer for the last question, “That’s wrong, Sello,” he said (the white kids didn’t have the words to say my name either).

“But how could it be wrong? I counted it out”

“Ma’am said it’s wrong, so it’s wrong.”

Jason always got worse marks than I did, but that evidence was irrefutable.

“Ma’am said it’s wrong, so it’s wrong.”

How could I argue with that? There was a reason she was my Grade 1 teacher, and I was just six years old. If the rules of math suddenly changed overnight, she would be the first to know. So, shamelessly, I rubbed out my previous answer and changed it to match Jason’s, which was “16”. We then nodded at each other with the imagined sophistication of two businessmen coming to an agreement. Then, the moment of truth. Jason got his paper marked first and got a big “X” next to his answer for the last question. I didn’t care about the other x’s he got because I answered those questions on my own, but I couldn’t go back and change my answer because someone was already behind me in the line. I just accepted my fate. Mrs Young took her red pen and crossed a bloodied X by my “16”.

I followed Jason to his desk, quietly shouting “Why did you say ma’am said my answer was wrong?”. The anger I felt was half my own while the other half felt like something I’d seen on TV.

“Keegan said ma’am said it was wrong. I was just trying to help.” Jason appeared as small as I did while pleading his innocence. His frantic arms and wide eyes gave me insight to the lack of patience my parents had for my own mistakes. His performance didn’t convince me. Much like what I saw on TV, I decided his friendship meant nothing to me in that moment. “I’ll never trust you again,” I thought. I’d trust the holy word of Mrs. Young. I’d trust her over my own fingers. I tried to bring the scene to a close, but that thought never gave me solace. It made me think of all the other times I had been right. It made me think of my older brother, who had been dead for two years up until that point.

I was coming home from creche the day we found him in the garage. My mother seemed panicked and didn’t really answer my questions while we were driving home. She had gotten a call from our helper who had found him first. He was fourteen. My siblings were in the car with me, and they were also apprehended by what was being insinuated. All I could think about was what I had done wrong since no one wanted to talk to me. When we got to the house, everyone flooded out the car and ran to the backyard where confirmation waited. A blanket laid over his still body while my mother cried over him. The bricked frame of the garage hid them both from the sun. Dried bleach ran inconspicuously from the corner of his mouth; his throat was slightly reddened by the discarded rope that laid by his side. Everything outside was brilliantly alive. Every corner of our house was filled with statues in mourning. My brothers and sisters were paralysed by their tears. My mother was the only one moving in grief. I tried to approach her, but she cried out, “No Sicelo! Just stay there!” as if what my brother had done was to be kept secret. Bonga was his name. When the sun went down, police came and carried his handcuffed body into the back of a van. Everyone in the house started talking to me not long after. Thinking back to that day made me wonder if he would’ve gotten a big “X” for what he did. It made me wonder if he had counted out his answer at that time, and if it was truly his.

The day when Jason screwed me over was a Friday. Fridays at B-Sure Private School had scheduled hymn practice before first break (recess) every week. The whole school would pile into the hall at 09:00 and sing God’s praises as they were projected onto two big white boards. While we sang, I thought about how anyone knew anything. How the teachers knew things when they didn’t have teachers. The songs we sang made me think of God as their Teacher. Surely the Man Who had the whole world in his hands knew how to take its measure. But who told Him what was right and wrong? The whole thing felt vague to me. God started feeling like the practice formulas we’d be assigned for homework. He felt like another way to get the right answer. All the prayers I prayed with my brother started feeling the same way too. I didn’t understand the meaning of the formulas. My brother did what was right and still got the wrong answer. I sang along with the rest of the students until the bell rang.

*****

My name is Sicelo Khoza and I’m a student of the BA Honours Creative Writing course at the University of Witwatersrand. I ventured into creative writing seriously in 2024 upon the recommendation of my English lecturer who recognised my talent in my third year of my BA degree. I’ve grown to love literature for its capacity to teach me about myself and the world. When I was younger, I was never into reading, as the problems I faced felt too expansive for fiction; little did I know that fiction writing was not an indulgence as I had come to believe in my youth. I write because I know of no other way to express myself and my thoughts. I would like to hopefully make a career of it, as it is one of the only things I’m passionate about. I’m a South African born author, and I believe my unique experiences and cultural upbringing give depth to my insights as a person.