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soul-searching that, somehow, it had been her fault, that she’d encouraged him, that she was nothing more than a slut.
    She’d been only fourteen. He’d been a forty-something neighbour. Angela had told no-one about the rape, not even her parents. But the scars left her terrified of men. She could see lust in their eyes whenever they looked at her. All men were the same. Her mother once told her it was normal. Angela couldn’t understand how other women accepted what was, to her, a terrifying invasion of body and soul. She would look at married women and wonder how they could stand it. Did they do it often? Did it hurt them? Did they bleed?
    After the rape, when talk at school turned to sex, Angela always found something else to do. At university, where nocturnal activities were more openly discussed, she pretended to participate. But after that one soul-destroying experience, Angela had not allowed a man anywhere near her. The rape had left scars so deep that, emotionally, Angela never progressed beyond the age of fourteen. She was in a kind of time warp, though in all other aspects her body and mind developed normally.
    To hide her phobia, Angela went out of her way to be friendly, believing if men liked her they wouldn’t dream of sullying her with their filthy lust. Unfortunately, in her nervousness and innocence, males thought she was flirting. She was in a catch-22 situation, but completely unaware of it. Sending out the wrong signals for the wrong reasons, Angela, now firmly convinced that all men were driven by the same thing, knew with certainty it was exactly that which she could never give.
    Troy was a perfect example. She’d been nice tohim because he seemed to fancy her. Fancying her would lead to . . . So she was especially friendly, sitting with him on the bus, giggling at his jokes. She had to make him like her. If he did, then maybe he wouldn’t want to . . . Being friendly hadn’t worked. He’d sensed she was a slut – somehow men always knew – and made that disgusting comment, ‘I want to kiss you all over.’ He had that look in his eyes, the one Angela knew meant his thing was stiff and ready to hurt.
    Angela stared at her reflection in a small mirror, trying to see what it was that made men think she would want them to hurt her. As usual, she saw nothing. Putting the mirror back in her toilet bag, Angela collected up what she would need for the morning. Ready at last, she crawled from the tent, reluctant to face yet another uncomfortable day in the bush.
    Kalila Mabuka took great pains with her attire. Let no-one say that, as the token African of the group as she firmly believed she was, there would be any question of letting the side down. Fawn-coloured bush shorts, a crisp white cotton blouse, white ankle socks and lightweight walking shoes. She was tall for a Zulu, her skin the colour of polished ebony, and finely featured. By anyone’s standards Kalila was beautiful, and she knew it. It was a fact accepted as her due. If she found fault in herself at all, it was the size of her bottom. Kalila had an African’s posterior, which men of her own race found highly attractive. However, she was well aware that white men preferred the tight littlebacksides of European women and, proud as she was of the generous proportions of her own rear end, which rolled invitingly when she walked, there lurked within Kalila a vague disquiet that because of it, she would never be accepted as an equal.
    One part of her wanted that acceptance. The other, as proud daughter of a Zulu chief, considered herself a cut above most. And that included English- or Afrikaans-speaking Europeans.
    At twenty-six, Kalila was considerably older than just about all the other students in her year. The reason for that was simple enough. Her father had entered politics just as soon as South Africa achieved majority rule. As a member of Inkatha, his political party was in