marriage nor cohabitation. Amazingly, the bold plan worked: Robert agreed, and in 1984 their son Trevor was born. Thus appeared a child whose very existence broke every racial law in the country. Mixed marriages and sexual relations between whites and Blacks were then criminal offenses punishable by prison. Trevor was literally born a crime - such was apartheid law at the time.
The boy's early years passed in strict secrecy. To his mother he was priceless, but in public she couldn't even take her son's handwithout giving herself away. The light-skinned baby with curly hair resembled neither his Xhosa mother nor his Swiss father. To keep the family safe, Patricia passed him off as "Coloured" - in South Africa the term for descendants of earlier mixed unions. On the street she walked beside Trevor pretending to be the nanny of a white child. Robert likewise dared not be seen with them; meetings with his son occurred furtively, sometimes only a few times a year. Trevor's grandmother in Soweto forbade him to play outside with local kids - she feared curious neighbors might inform the authorities and the police would take the boy. So Trevor early on got used to sitting indoors for hours. He had to learn to entertain himself alone, inventing games and fantasies so as not to feel imprisoned.
When the apartheid regime began to crumble, many mixed-race families fled the country. But Patricia never thought of leaving South Africa. Trevor later asked her why she hadn't taken him, say, to Switzerland to live with his father. Patricia merely shrugged: "South Africa is my home. I wasn't about to run from it."She loved her homeland with all her heart and believed she had the right to raise her son where she herself had been born. This steadfast patriotism inspired Trevor. Despite the desperate circumstances of his birth, Patricia instilled in him a sense of self-worth. Her courage - to secretly bear a "forbidden" child and stubbornly raise him as if nothing were amiss - forever inspired Trevor to be just as resolute and freedom-loving. He proudly carried his unusual heritage: the son of a Black woman and a white man, living proof of the absurdity of racial barriers. And though his childhood passed undercover, there was always a loving, fearless mother ready to do anything for him.
Trevor grew up without a father, but not without male influence. The only constant man in his early life was his grandfather - Patricia's father, named Temperance. In childhood Trevor saw him as the life of the party: charming, fun-loving, adored by all the aunts in Soweto. Only later did the grandson learn that his grandfather had bipolar disorder. Temperance could be affectionate and generous for days, then suddenly fly into rage or gloomy silence. Grandma Frances, by contrast, was wise and calm - the true quiet center of the family. On her frail shoulders lay the upbringing of many grandchildren, for nearly all her daughters raised children without husbands. Such was life for Black women under apartheid. Thus Patricia had little difficulty raising Trevor on her own; strong women were always nearby with help and advice.
In Soweto Patricia belonged to a Christian circle of "prayer sisters." These devout women gathered to discuss pressing troubles and seek support in prayer. Little Trevor often attended these meetings - the only child among the pious aunties. He actually liked it: each gathering was his chance to be useful. The boy sincerely believed that his prayers could help someone too and prayed fervently, feeling himself an important part of their small community.
But one day an incident made Trevor pray more than ever, while at the same time pushing the whole company to the brink of mystical panic. It was raining, and five-year-old Trevor was patiently waiting for his mother at home, playing in the yard. Suddenly he desperately needed the toilet, and going to the outhouse in the pouring rain was very unappealing. Thinking quickly, the rascal relieved himself on an old newspaper and hid the bundle at the bottom of the trash bin. At that moment only great-grandmother Koko was in the house - a completely blind old woman. Hearing suspicious rustling, Koko sniffed but couldn't figure out what the great-grandson was up to. When Mom came back she immediately sensed something wrong: the house stank, and in the rubbish lay something highly indecent. Interrogated, Trevor swore he hadn't been home at all. The adults decided it must be devil's mischief.
News of the foul demon's pranks quickly spread. That evening all the prayer sisters flocked to the house - to fight the demon that had dared defile a respectable Christian home. Trevor was given the main task: cast out the evil spirit with prayer. He knew that confessing meant harsh punishment, so he humbly bowed his head and prayed with all his might. For two whole hours the improvised exorcism went on - the women cried
loudly to the Lord, sometimes falling into a trance. The little "preacher" did his best to show zeal so everyone would believe the demon was about to be vanquished. And lo, at the end the grandmas declared the spirit expelled - the stinking guest, they said, would no longer trouble their house.
Later, left alone, Trevor felt pangs of conscience. He honestly turned to God with a private prayer, but about something else: he asked forgiveness for having distracted Him with such nonsense. In his childish mind it settled that he had perhaps abused heavenly help to hide his prank. Thus at five Trevor drew an important conclusion: even in fighting demons, there must be moderation. The curious episode was not just a funny story but a moral lesson. The boy realized he couldn't lie forever and that responsibility for misdeeds ultimately lay on him. He also saw how strongly his mother and her friends believed in the spiritual realm - so much that they'd sooner blame the devil than their beloved child. Trevor and God became a special topic. If his mother was blindly religious, Trevor from early years had more practical relations with the Almighty. He wasn't shy to note the amusing sides of faith. But when needed, he prayed earnestly and respected the power of prayer, as on that memorable night of casting out the imaginary demon.
Mixed heritage made Trevor's life complicated yet endowed him with a unique talent - the ability to adapt to any environment like a chameleon changes color. He realized early that the key to people's hearts is language. In multilingual South Africa, speech immediately revealed whether you were one of "us" or an outsider. Whites spoke Afrikaans or English; different Black tribes each had their own tongue. The apartheid government cynically exploited this linguistic divide: as long as Zulu, Xhosa, Tsonga, Tswana didn't understand one another, they couldn't unite against the oppressor. But little Trevor turned language into a survival tool. From his grandmother and mother he absorbed Xhosa, in the Soweto yard he picked up Zulu and Tswana, and through radio and books he learned perfect English. It became his secret weapon. Once he spoke a person's dialect, wariness vanished as if by magic.
Another oddity: even relatives feared treating Trevor like other children. Grandma Frances, a woman of the old school, regularly
whipped her Black grandchildren for mischief but never laid a hand on Trevor. When Patricia asked why, Granny confessed sheepishly: "What if he's like a little white - I hit him, he'll bruise all over..."To her he truly looked foreign, a fragile "white" boy. Only his mother treated him without regard to skin color. Patricia would spoil him with love yet discipline him strictly like all children. Affectionately she called Trevor "the Clever One" for his knack of wriggling out of any situation.
In primary school Trevor didn't feel much of an outcast. He attended Maryvale College, one of the few integrated schools where children of all races studied. At recess Blacks, Whites, Coloureds, and Indian kids played together, and Trevor got along with everyone. Middle school changed everything. In sixth grade, thanks to high grades, Trevor was placed in an advanced class. Suddenly he was the only Black among Whites and Indians. At recess the other African kids kept to themselves, and the "white" high-flyer from the elite class had no place among them. Trevor agonized over where to fit: he belonged neither here nor there. Black boys mocked him, seeing a show-off cut off from his roots. Trevor tried playing football with them but was initially chased away. Then he played the language card: addressed the leaders in Zulu and Tswana - and they were stunned. Within minutes the boys realized Trevor was "one of us," simply studying among Whites by chance. Walls collapsed: they respected him, and at last he was accepted by his peers during break.
The experience led Trevor to an important decision. He went to his mother insisting he be transferred back to the regular class, to his Black friends. Patricia at first didn't understand: her son could get a better education and opportunities! But for Trevor, belonging mattered more. Ultimately he left the gifted class, preferring to study with the kids he felt comfortable with. Thus his character showed: Trevor valued genuine connection over nominal privileges. He became a true social chameleon - smoothly changing "color" and language depending on surroundings. Later this ability to find common ground with anyone helped him forge friendships, disarm foes with humor, and feel at ease both among white millionaires and ghetto poor.
Patricia's courage and independence were not born from nothing -
heavy trials fell on her from youth. Under apartheid, educational opportunities for Blacks were grossly unequal. Before the regimesome Africans studied at missionary schools where they learned English, science, history, medicine, law. But under apartheidwhite authorities opened so-called Bantu schools for "natives" with a simplified program limited to agriculture and basic literacy. The aim was to keep Blacks in poverty. Patricia was lucky to get into a missionary school. Her father Temperance once made a surprising decision: when young Patricia complained about living with her mother, he sent his daughter to live with his sister deep in Transkei(Xhosa territory). There she got a good education and learned English.
Young Patricia was incredibly industrious by nature. From childhood she earned every penny herself so as not to burden the family. Returning to Soweto at 21, she took accounting courses and got a job, but still sent most earnings home. She'd been taught from the cradle: first duty is to repay elders. Patricia called it the "Black tax": before you live for yourself, you must lift up parents, brothers, sisters. Even her Xhosa name meant "She who gives back" - the woman was expected to endless self-sacrifice for family. Small wonder that when Patricia had a son, she gave him a simple, obligation-free name - Trevor, with no biblical or clan meanings. She wanted to free the boy from the burden of the past, let him start life with a clean slate. Instead of heavy duties Patricia strove to give her son wings - taught him to dream and think broadly. From early years she lugged him to the library, accustomed him to reading, discussed the world with him. Trevor grew up poor, but his mind was never limited by poverty - his mother's achievement.
When apartheid fell, Patricia understood: a new era was dawning, and her child must be ready. Shortly after Nelson Mandela's release she dared move from the Soweto ghetto to a better suburb - Eden Park. It was a mostly Coloured(mixed) area. The housing was modest; Patricia rented a small room and barely made ends meet. She and Trevor ate the simplest things, sometimes only maize porridge, and at times didn't even disdain caterpillars for protein. Yet she firmly instilled in her son: "Poverty is not destiny."She taught him not to see himself as a victim, not to let circumstances break him. In little Trevor she cultivated a big heart and confidence that the future was bright. And though around them were poverty, violence, and injustice, the boy believed his mother's words: the world was changing and he would find his place in
it.
The title "The Second Girl" refers to an incident in Patricia's life. Grandma Frances's marriage with Temperance was unhappy. One day, little Patricia announced she wanted to live with her father. He took the girl far away, essentially dumping her on relatives. Young Patricia felt like the second in importanceto her parents - needed neither by Mom nor Dad. She carried that feeling for years. When Patricia had her own child, she let him know he was an integral part of her life, not a burden. And she dedicated herself to "paying her debt" - to family and country. She accepted her "Black tax," working for pennies for relatives' sake, while simultaneously preparing a launchpad for her son. Every coin she managed to save went for his books, for bus tickets into the city where he could glimpse another world. She didn't want Trevor to feel second-rate, a "second child,"as she had. Largely she succeeded: the boy grew up daring to dream and believing he deserved more than prior generations. His mother's selfless love gave him a firm foundation for approaching the coming changes.
The racial hierarchy of apartheid was not only inhuman but absurd. As a child Trevor was amazed, for example, that the regime classified Chinese as "Black,"while Japanese were "White."It all hinged on political expedience: South Africa had warm relations with Japan, so the Japanese were granted top status, while the less useful Chinese were pushed to the bottom. An ordinary South African could hardly tell the two peoples apart. Such ridiculous loopholes in the laws raised many questions in young Trevor - the system clearly lacked logic.
Trevor himself grew extremely active, curious, and, truth be told, mischievous. Patricia had to be inventive to rein in her tireless son. One of her educational methods was... letter-writing. When Trevor was about eight they developed a funny habit: quarreling and making peace by correspondence. If Patricia was displeased with grades or behavior, instead of yelling she wrote him a formal message: "Mr. Noah, kindly attend to your household duties and apply yourself diligently..."Trevor, sulking, replied with equal formality: "Dear Madam, I find the punishment unjust..."Thus inked dispatches flew around the house. Meeting face to face, mother and son would exchange cold remarks: "Did you receive my
letter?" - "I did and answered; check your mail."Both barely suppressed smiles. In the end the conflict was exhausted without a shout. This game taught Trevor to argue with reasoningand to see his mom not only as a strict parent but as someone whose opinion could be debated.
Of course, not every misdeed could be settled by letter. Trevor often did things out of the ordinary. He was famous for his running ability - once he'd misbehaved, he bolted from maternal punishment so fast that even nimble Temperance would have envied him. Sometimes Patricia couldn't catch the boy, which emboldened him. But if Mom did overtake the fugitive, she punished mercilessly yet fairly. The principle was: "I spank because I love."Patricia always explained why she punished and reminded Trevor it was for his own good. He learned that discipline wasn't a sign of lovelessness but care. She never beat him in blind rage - only to hammer home a lesson.
At times Patricia sided with her son if she thought his rule-breaking was just. Once in primary school a teacher told Trevor - the only Black boy in class - to sweep the floor while other kids went home. He refused: "Why me in particular?"When the principal summoned Patricia, she unexpectedly supported her son. She said: "If this is a penalty for specific misconduct - I don't mind. But if you think my child should act as janitor - no, thank you."The school backed down. After this Trevor realized authority could be challengedif truth was on your side. His mother herself showed him not every power had to be obeyed blindly. As a result Trevor gained a reputation as a daredevil and arguer. Teachers shook their heads: "That boy is so disobedient!"But Patricia secretly felt proud - she was raising a man who thought for himself.
During those years Patricia met a new friend - Abel, who would later play a tragic role in their lives. For now he was just a cheerful guy in Eden Park, living in the garage of a white family where he worked as a mechanic. Trevor actually liked him: Uncle Abel(she called him by his resonant Xhosa name abi) took him for rides in a battered car and treated him to sweets. One problem - Trevor loved playing with fire. Literally: he adored burning things. In Abel's garage he once found a box of matches and a lens, setting an exciting experiment on how cloth ignites under the lens. He lost control - the whole garage caught fire! Panic, smoke, neighbors rushing. Luckily the blaze was put out before it spread to the house. Abel was shocked, but no punishment was devised
- the family was too glad no disaster happened. Trevor's cousin Mlungisi merely shook his head: "Unbelievable, everything gets forgiven you!"In his eyes Trevor was an invincible scampwho always got away with it. To some extent it was true - the boy grew into a cheerful whirlwind with an incredibly resilient psyche. He could forget troubles at once and switch to something positive. He owed this gift to his mother: both of them knew how to let go of anger quickly. If misfortune happened, after venting they lived on, not brooding. In Trevor's childhood this showed when, after a spanking, he was happily playing in the yard an hour later as if nothing had happened. Patricia only sighed, watching her naughty but good-hearted son. She knew: with such persistence and flexibility he would wriggle out of any life trap - find a loophole, as he'd done many times. And though harsh trials lay ahead, it was already clear - Trevor would not be lost.
Trevor's childhood was far from easy, yet one consolation was always at hand - animal friends. Even here, however, drama intruded. In South Africa Black people traditionally feared cats, believing they were linked to witches and brought misfortune. Almost no one kept them. Patricia, unsuperstitious, decided to do the opposite: after the family moved from an all-Black quarter to a mixed area she brought home two pitch-black kittens. Trevor adored them. One morning, though, the family found a horrific sight: the kittens had been poisoned and laid over the fencein full view of their house. Some neighbor, apparently afraid of "cursed creatures," had dealt with them. Trevor sobbed with grief. Patricia, lips pressed tight, buried the kittens and said, "Fine. If they don't want cats, we'll get dogs." Soon two puppies appeared. The sandy-colored one Trevor named Fufi; the jet-black one, Panther.
The pups grew playful and affectionate. Fufi, a small mutt, seemed less clever than Panther - she ignored commands and ran wherever she pleased. Later a vet explained the mystery: Fufi was deaf from birth. She never heard the calls. When Trevor learned this, he loved her even more, amazed at how she navigated by sight and gesture alone. Fufi's specialty was jumping. A high fence stood around the yard, yet the little dog learned to spring over it in one bound, roaming the neighborhood and coming back to sit obediently at the gate by evening.
One evening Trevor came home early and couldn't find Fufi. Searching, he spotted a familiar silhouette in the next block - a dog playing in a stranger's yard with a boy. Peering closer, Trevor froze: it was Fufi. He hopped the fence and an argument erupted. The boy insisted it was hisdog, calling her by another name. Fufi wagged between them, tail sweeping first one, then the other. Patricia arrived amid the commotion, sized things up, and quietly asked the neighbor, "How much do you want for your dog?" Startled, he named a sum; Patricia counted the money on the spot and bought Fufi back - paying for her own pet.
Trevor fumed all night. He wasn't sorry for the cash - he felt betrayed. How could Fufi, whom he fed and loved, cuddle a stranger as her master? Patricia listened and said gently, "Look, the little dog hasn't stopped loving you. She simply found someone else who pets and feeds her too. Her heart has more love now, not less." Trevor pondered: Fufi still met him joyfully at the gate. So her trustful heart embraced two owners. "Love isn't property,"his mother said. "You can't own it. You have to let those you love be free."The lesson stuck. Later Trevor would remind friends that love is freedom and that loyalty doesn't always mean following one person exclusively. The Fufi story started as farce but turned into a parable - about trust, freedom of feeling, and how love shared doesn't diminish.
From early childhood Trevor saw his father only in snatches; their meetings were always secret. Yet Patricia believed her son must eventually know his fatherand his white roots. When Trevor grew older his mother encouraged contact. Robert was already ageing but remained true to his principles: he still shunned racism and fanaticism. At apartheid's height he had opened a European-cuisine restaurant in Johannesburg that welcomed patrons of all races - unthinkable then. The place thrived until authorities took notice, issued threats, and Robert closed it rather than bow to racist rules. Trevor respected him all the more.
With apartheid's fall furtiveness became unnecessary. Trevor could legally visit his dad. They celebrated birthdays together and walked in parks. Robert, a longtime loner, opened up slowly. He was reserved, preferred listening to talking, but affection shone in small gestures. As a
teenager Trevor mused: oddly, I never called him "Dad," we have few shared memories, yet I feel a deep bond.
At thirteen Robert moved to Cape Town - far from Johannesburg. Years of silence followed. When Trevor began succeeding as a radio host and comedian he himself reached out, obtained Robert's address, and wrote. Robert replied briefly but warmly, and Trevor soon flew to Cape Town trembling with anticipation. Their reunion was surprisingly easy. Robert unchanged - calm, slight smile. After quiet small talk he produced a thick folder: inside lay neatly dated clippings from newspapers and magazines - every mention of Trevorover the years. Robert had tracked his son's career from afar. Trevor paged through, throat tight; his father, though distant, had cared all along.
That evening on the terrace Trevor finally asked why Robert had been like a ghost. Robert answered that he wanted Trevor to know him through shared time, not stories, and offered regular visits without rush. Trevor realized his father's love was respect for another's freedom. Robert never imposed, waiting till his son wanted closeness, then welcomed him. Trevor visited often; they strolled the waterfront, cooked Swiss dishes, played tennis. Silence and simplicity filled a long-empty space. By late adolescence Trevor knew he had a father - a principled, gentle man from whom he inherited steadiness. The chapter ends quietly - apt for the modest hero who supported from afar.
In the new South Africa, where official walls had fallen, unseen wounds remained. "Coloureds"(mixed-race descendants) felt special pain. Formally Trevor was one of them, yet he met more hostility from Coloureds than from Blacks or Whites. Under apartheid Coloureds had ranked slightly above Blacks; after Black majority rule they felt pushed to the bottom, belonging fully neither to Whites nor to Blacks, and stripped of former privileges. They grew embittered. Small Trevor sensed their resentful looks. Whites scorned his curls and olive skin; Coloured kids mocked his too-proper English.
One day in Eden Park the tension turned violent. Trevor played alone when a gang of older Coloured kids approached and began pelting him with mulberriesfrom a tree. The ripe purple fruit exploded, staining clothes indelibly - brand-marking the disliked. Trevor ran, but stones
followed. A rock nicked his arm, another split his brow. Cornered, he cried for his mother. Patricia wasn't home; luckily Abel was nearby. Hearing screams, he charged in, chased the bullies with a switch, and thrashed the ringleader until the boy sobbed apologies.
Yet Trevor felt no triumph. Looking at the beaten ringleader, he realized they were alike - both mixed, rejected by all, hating in each other what society taught them to hate in themselves. That was a bitter insight. He also saw a new, frightening side of Abel - ferocious violence that might one day turn on them. Trevor began to fear his mother's boyfriend. The episode branded two lessons: the absurdity of racial hatred, and the danger lurking in Abel's temper.
Growing up, Trevor was painfully shy around girls. His devout mother offered little practical advice on courtship. In the final year of primary school the class held a Valentine's dance. Friends urged Trevor to invite a girl named Maylene, saying she liked him. Terrified, he gathered courage. After walking her home for days he blurted the invitation; Maylene smiled and said yes. Trevor was elated - his first "girlfriend." He scraped savings to buy a plush bear and chocolates.
On the night of the dance he rushed to her, gifts in hand, but Maylene avoided his eyes. "Sorry, Trevor," she whispered, "another boy invited me. I can't be with you." Beside her stood popular, blond Leonard. Trevor's heart crashed. He mutely gave her the presents and retreated to a corner, fighting tears. The lesson cut deep: in love there are no guarantees, and girls are as free to choose as boys. Later as a comedian he joked, "The first time I paidfor a girl who left with someone else." Yet he was proud he didn't lash out; courtesy remained even in rejection.
Starting high school, Trevor hoped to leave awkwardness behind. Money was tight; Patricia's battered Mazda often stalled, and Trevor
would push the car, slipping off his blazer so classmates wouldn't spot him. In grade eight he entered Sandringham High - a large, mixed school where every group had its cliques. Trevor, commuting from distant Eden Park, belonged to none - a complete outsider.
Opportunity appeared at the snack van that parked outside. One day Trevor reached it first; latecomers begged him to buy their treats. He sensed a niche. Soon he was dashing to the van daily, taking orders and pocketing a few coins - a miniature business. More valuable than money was newfound visibility: the guy who brings food is wanted. Trevor joked with customers, selling chips and himself, gradually shifting from nobody to somebody.
Chronic tardiness earned him daily detentions, yet he even mined that for humor. By year's end he had a reputation as "the funny guy who can fetch pie faster than his shadow" - his first step toward a comedic path he didn't yet foresee.
Maylene's rejection hadn't killed Trevor's interest in girls; it made him careful. Acne still plagued him, but he discovered jokes melted ice. In middle grades he befriended Zaheera - a year older, beautiful, kind. She dated an upper-class boy, yet Trevor cherished their friendship, comforting her after spats. Eventually the couple split, and hope glimmered. Trevor resolved to invite her to the matric dance(prom) the next year, becoming her reliable, funny companion in the meantime.
During holidays Zaheera left to visit relatives. When school resumed she was gone. Shocked classmates said her family had emigrated to Americaabruptly. Trevor trudged home stunned, eaten by regret. Mutual friend Joanna confided, "Zaheera waited for you to ask. She always hoped you'd act." Trevor blamed only himself: when it mattered, he lacked courage. He vowed never again to let fear steal opportunity - better to risk refusal than nurse lifelong what-ifs. The sorrowful lesson would guide future choices, though a harsher romantic fiasco still awaited him.
After the family moved to the largely white suburb of Highlands North, Trevor thought he'd been given a ticket into a privileged world. Their little house stood among homes of well-off white, mostly Jewish families. Reality proved duller: the local white kids didn't hurry to befriend him. Their parents couldn't forbid the children by law, yet clearly discouraged contact. Trevor watched groups of teenagers racing past on bicycles, never once inviting him along. Even at home he felt isolated.
A solution appeared almost by accident. Many wealthy families kept Black domestic workers who lived in small cottages on the premises - and with them came their children. Those boys and girls, just as mischievous as Trevor, soon became his playmates. They kicked balls on empty lots, built slingshots, sneaked into orchards for fruit. To Trevor it didn't matter that they were staff children, not "masters of life." Friends were friends; boredom vanished.
At his new school he found a kindred spirit named Teddy, another Black kid living nearby. After classes they hung out constantly. Teddy had an adventurous streak, and Trevor readily joined every caper. Their favorite pastime became stealing candyfrom the local supermarket - small stuff: a chocolate bar or chips, slipped past the cashier for an adrenaline rush. They got away with it until fate intervened. One day store security spotted them. In an instant the boys bolted, an officer pounding after them. Trevor sprinted across the road, glanced back - and Teddy had disappeared. Sounds of shouting and a whistle came from behind. Evidently Teddy was caught.
Trembling, Trevor hid at home the whole day. Monday came: Teddy was absent, and soon his parents knocked at Patricia's door, grim and angry. Teddy had been arrestedfor shoplifting, and they were certain Trevor had been with him. Patricia stood silent; Trevor stammered denials. Teddy's parents left, unconvinced. Patricia merely said softly, "If you're lying - you punish yourself."
Next day the principal summoned Trevor. A policeman showed him grainy CCTV footage: two figures darting among shelves. Faces were unrecognizable. "That boy is white," the officer said, pointing to a pale blob. "You're Teddy's friend - who could it be?" The camera had turned Trevor "white."Sensing a chance, he shrugged: "Can't tell. Probably a passer-by." The policeman, disappointed, let him go.
Thus Trevor's skin color saved him - or rather, the camera's misreading of it. Teddy spent weeks in juvenile detention; Trevor escaped with fright
alone. He munched the stolen bar that night sick with guilt. The episode taught him: he'd been careless once too often. He swore off petty theft. Patricia, learning everything afterward, sighed: "God spared you again. Next time you may not be so lucky."
By senior year the former ugly duckling fancied himself a confident swan. Acne had cleared; he grew out his hair and even braided fashionable cornrowsat a friend's urging. Patricia teased, "Look at you, princess with girl's braids," but Trevor insisted they made him irresistible. And he craved female attention - prom night loomed.
The year before, Trevor had convinced Patricia to buy a computer "for homework." The aging PC became his window to the world. He launched a small businessburning pirated music CDs, mixing tracks, adding effects. With pal Tim as salesman money trickled in. But the internet also opened realms of adult images, which Trevor perused avidly while still dateless in real life.
Tim decided to change that. "You've got cash, bro - time for a prom queen. Leave it to me." Soon he introduced Trevor to a girl named Babiki. Trevor was speechless: she was stunning - tall, long braids, eyes like stars. Tim whispered she came from a modest neighbourhood and was single. They spent an evening dancing in a group; Babiki spoke little, which Trevor read as shyness. Tim later reported: "She'll go to prom with you." Trevor soared.
In brief meetings before the dance Babiki remained quiet, always with a cousin translating. Trevor, smitten by looks, ignored the silence. He vowed to impress her with a cool ride. Patricia's rattling Mazda wouldn't do; Abel owned a shiny BMW. Mustering courage, Trevor asked to borrow it. Abel scoffed but, seeing Babiki, relented: "Fine, but drive carefully."
Everything promptly unraveled. On prom day Abel returned drunk and withdrew the BMW. Trevor, panicked, tried the Mazda - dead battery. An hour of struggle later the car started; he reached Babiki nearly two hours late. She was near tears. In the car she stayed wordless. Outside the venue, dressed couples filled the entrance. Trevor said, "Shall we?"
Babiki refused to move.
Only then did he learn the truth - through halting phrases and gestures. Babiki barely spoke English.Her family used Sesotho; Tim had translated all previous conversations. She thought Trevor understood her silence and would bring mutual friends. Stranded alone with a boy chattering incomprehensibly and arriving late, she panicked. Nothing could persuade her out of the seat. Finally Trevor apologized and drove her home.
He sat behind the wheel, burning with shame. He'd chased image - hair, car, a beautiful date - without caring who Babiki was. Now prom was missed entirely, a humiliating disaster inflicted on an innocent girl. That night he concluded: never again treat a person as a trophy. Better alone than like this. His third romantic fiasco sealed the lesson: see the person first, not the picture.
After school Trevor plunged into adult life. Lacking university funds, he expanded his CD venture. Friend Sizwe from Alexandra township heard Trevor mixing tracks and proposed live shows: set up speakers on the street, play music, sell discs. Trevor agreed. They gathered dancers; the standout was a boy named Hitler. In South Africa the name carried little taboo - parents chose famous European names freely. Hitler danced spectacularly, living up to his name's unintended notoriety.
Their street shows boomed. One day a wealthy white parent invited them to perform at King David, a Jewish school. Thrilled, the crew set up in a packed hall. Trevor spun beats; applause roared. Then Sizwe grabbed the mic: "Now our best dancer - everybody cheer! Go, Hitler, go!" The troupe chanted the name; Hitler leapt out, dazzling footwork.
The auditorium fell silent, then a horrified teacher rushed the stage, ordering an immediate stop. The gig ended; the boys were hustled out unpaid. Trevor fumed, assuming racism. Only later did he realize the horror: in a Jewish school the chant "Go, Hitler!" was unspeakable. They'd known nothing of the Holocaust's weight. Mortified, Trevor apologized, but the damage was done. The incident taught him that words carry different power in different earsand that chasms of ignorance persist between communities.
Business flourished in Alexandra - "Alex" - Johannesburg's poorest warren of shacks. Trevor and Sizwe set up a sidewalk office: generator, computer, instant music factory. The township teemed with energy: shoe-fixers, food hawkers, petty thieves fencing stolen goods. Police raids were common; life, cheap and lively.
Sizwe's family lived in a newer government house - solid walls, a roof. Compared with tin shacks they were better off; they could afford cheese in their sandwiches, a luxury. Locals nicknamed them "the cheese boys."Trevor found it funny - and revealing of poverty's scale.
Eventually Trevor moved into Alex, renting a cot beside Sizwe to save money and live where business thrived. They soon added fencing stolen itemsto music sales. Their best customers were mothers who wanted affordable sneakers for sons. Some even let the boys escort their daughters to dances in exchange for discounts. This moral flexibility shocked Trevor, raised under Patricia's strict code. Still, he enjoyed a sense of family in the township.
Trouble struck when a stray bullet smashed Trevor's laptop - business halted. Sizwe proposed entering a dance contest in Soweto to win prize money. They hired a minibus, but police stopped them at a roadblock. Under a seat officers found a gun one dancer carried "for safety." Demanding a bribe the boys lacked, police beat Sizwe and Hitlerand hauled everyone to jail.
Locked up, Trevor faced the harsh truth: he could call a wealthier white acquaintance to post bail - his pass between worlds - while his Alex friends had no such lifeline. Released thanks to that call, Trevor decided he must leave the townshipor be dragged under. Friends understood; Sizwe urged him not to forget where he started.
Patricia always warned: "Be careful. I love you, but the world doesn't." She proved it when ten-year-old Trevor was caught stealing batteries. Police phoned her to collect him. She said, "Leave him there." Officers, baffled, simply released the boy - unable to imagine a mother abandoning a child overnight. Trevor trudged home, frightened and
ashamed, learning she might not rescue him next time.
Years later, at nineteen, Trevor borrowed a friend's VW Golf for a date. No papers, expired registration. A traffic cop arrested him. Patricia scraped funds for a lawyer, but Trevor spent three days in jail, navigating cell politics with language skills - greeting a towering Tsonga inmate in his tongue won instant protection. In the crowded remand cell groups formed by race; color once again dictated alliances.
At trial Trevor received a suspended sentence and fine. Outside, Patricia hugged him, eyes wet. She had waited three days, quietly arranging his defense. "I scared you," she said, "because the world is worse. Better you fear me than be killed out there." Trevor finally saw that her severity came from desperate love. He vowed to stay clear of serious crime - not to betray her faith.
The final chapter centers on Patricia Nombuyiselo Noah, the indomitable woman to whom Trevor owes his survival. Petite, wiry, always smiling yet with steel in her gaze, she solved every problem through prayer, trusting God above doctors or police. Trevor joked, "If I got sick on a Sunday Mom rejoiced - it meant church healing on the spot."
But her life held deep sorrow. After marrying Abel, the jovial mechanic, storms gathered. Abel's family was patriarchal; Patricia's independence angered them. Abel began drinking, tried controlling her churchgoing, then hit herduring a drunken fire he himself caused. Patricia filed a police report, but officers dismissed "domestic matters" and sent her home with her abuser.
Though Abel promised reform, violence resurfaced. Patricia financed his dream - buying him the "Mighty Mechanic" garage - only for the business to fail, debts forcing the sale of their house. They slept in the cold workshop; Trevor, eleven, hated greasy labor. Eventually Patricia rebuilt their life, but Abel's drinking returned, and beatings worsened. He even struck teenage Trevor.
Patricia finally left, divorced Abel, and remarried a gentle man named Sfiso. She seemed reborn - until Abel appeared one Sunday with a pistol. Drunk and raging at abandonment, he aimed at sons Andrew(13) and