With himself Boston was honest, but to his mother he lied. In the corner of the platform where he sat, he said aloud: ‘I don’t have enough courage,’ and then took out a sheet of paper and wrote back home. Dear Mother. Good weather. Healthy boy. Missing her. He’d finished his studying earlier than expected and so was going to look for a post up here. It would take time. Be patient! So don’t let Mr Mabusa write your letters to the college. I’m not there anymore. Would let her have an address soon. Everything fine.

He put it into an envelope, addressed it, then threw away his ticket and hurried out of the station building. Carrying his suitcases he wandered aimlessly through the city, sleeping at night wherever he could find shelter; waiting for some miracle to sort out the mess he’d made of his life. A week was spent like this, and all that Boston subsequently remembered of it was the moment at the very end when he discovered that the last of his money was gone and he was hungry.

Fate stepped in and took over when he was on the verge of surrendering himself to the disgrace he had tried to avoid in not going home. Johnboy Lethetwa. He would always remember that name, because, although they had tried to bluff themselves, that was the beginning. Johnboy Lethetwa. The place where they had met was even more distinct because that was still there, whereas Johnboy had passed away like so many others since him

It happened at the Pass Office, and the time, ten o’clock on a cold winter’s morning. He had ended up there because a distant, a vaguely distant relative was supposed to work there, and if blood ties meant anything the man might be prepared to help. He had taken up a position near the fence, sitting on his two suitcases. There was a lot to think about before he found him, like the basic issue of Do! or Don’t! If he did, would the news get back to his mother? The relative was bound to ask questions. Even if he didn’t, what did he, Boston, expect from the man? Money? Food? A place to sleep? Work?

Boston looked around. It was certainly the right place to evaluate his bleak needs and prospects. The centre of all interest was the pass offices themselves, a collection of squat, ugly, rambling barrack-type buildings, a hangover from the great war that had raged in his youth, but somewhere else, broken down and reassembled here. The building stood in the centre of a windswept, barren piece of land. They had tried to grow flowers once. Two elderly black men had laid out the bed, and planted flowers, and watered them, only to watch them grow a little and then shrivel and die. ‘It’s too salt,’ they had said, looking at each other and knowing what they meant. ‘The soil is too salt over here.’ So on head office’s suggestion the neat diamonds and ovals and border strips of the bed had been filled with white gravel.