Kindness Banda’s English Journey

The library door clicked shut behind Lindiwe Ndlovu with a sharp, final sound, like a stamp on her day. Her fingers were still cold from gripping her timetable too tightly on the walk over, and the dust on the corridor floor had made her shoes squeak as if the building itself was whispering, hurry, hurry. In her schoolbag, the place where her English notebook should have been felt empty in a way that was almost physical - like a missing tooth you keep touching with your tongue.

She had discovered the notebook was gone at the last classroom minute, when she reached for it and found only a pencil case and a folded timetable. For a few seconds she stood there, staring at the bare space in her bag, sure that if she looked hard enough the notebook would pop back into place. Then a classmate had walked past, laughing at something on the board, and Lindiwe’s stomach had tightened as if the laugh had been for her. Now, before classes began, she had come to Makhaya Primary School’s library because it was the last place she remembered opening it - right before the bell, right before her routine started to break.

The library was not like the bright rooms outside. The ceiling felt lower, and the air was cooler, smelling of paper and old glue. A ceiling fan turned slowly, pushing a steady hush across the shelves. Lindiwe’s footsteps sounded wrong on the tiled floor, too loud for the quiet. She moved between the first row of books and the long study tables, her eyes scanning spines, labels, and the gaps where a book might have been slid away. Somewhere a page turned - just once - and she froze, heart thumping in her throat.

“Miss?” a voice asked from near the front desk.

Lindiwe looked up. Mrs. Dlamini, the librarian, stood with her cardigan sleeves pulled down to her wrists. Her glasses caught the light from the small window, turning her eyes into bright dots. Mrs. Dlamini’s expression was calm, but Lindiwe could see the question waiting behind it.

“I - my English notebook,” Lindiwe said, forcing the words out neatly. “It’s missing. It was… it was in my bag.”

Mrs. Dlamini stepped around the desk and held out a hand, palm up, not rushing but expecting. “What does it look like?”

Lindiwe swallowed. “Blue cover. The name is inside. Lindiwe Ndlovu.” She tapped the strap of her bag as if the missing notebook might still be attached there. “I came here because I was sure I left it somewhere.”

Mrs. Dlamini’s mouth tightened slightly. “We don’t keep books for long without someone noticing. People put things down and forget. Let’s search properly.” She pointed toward the nearest table where children sometimes wrote during quiet time. “Did you bring it in today?”

“Yes.” Lindiwe lifted her chin, suddenly protective of her own memory. “I opened it on the table during our earlier English activity.”

“Earlier?” Mrs. Dlamini’s brows lifted. “Before the bell?”

Lindiwe nodded. Her confidence was small and sharp, like a pencil point. “I was practicing. My teacher asked us to write polite sentence starters.”

Mrs. Dlamini nodded once, as if that detail mattered. “Then it might be on the table or slipped into another book. Quietly, please. We have classes later.”

Lindiwe leaned over the table. The surface was covered with faint marks - ink stains that had dried into ghosts. She ran her fingers along the edge, feeling the roughness of old paper dust. Under the table, she could see a few stray bookmarks and a crumpled worksheet. She checked between the table legs, then beside the chair. Nothing.

A rustle came from the shelf above her, and Lindiwe jerked back. Mrs. Dlamini’s hand moved smoothly to steady a book that had shifted as someone brushed past a shelf. It wasn’t a person - just the weight of paper settling. Still, Lindiwe’s nerves flared, because the library noise had become her enemy. Every sound made her imagine the notebook being carried away and hidden, like a secret.

“I can’t find it,” she admitted, and the words came out smaller than she meant.

Mrs. Dlamini didn’t scold. She simply looked at Lindiwe as if she was measuring how worried she was. “Most missing items are not taken,” she said. “They are misplaced. Tell me where you sat.”

Lindiwe pointed to the far end of the library, near the window. “There. Under that light.”

Mrs. Dlamini walked there first, her shoes whispering against the tile. Lindiwe followed, her bag pressing against her hip. The window light made the dust sparkle. She could see the spot where a chair had been pulled in slightly and where a pencil had once rolled, leaving a faint line.

“I was there.” Lindiwe’s voice tightened again. “I remember the corner of my notebook curling when I turned the page.”

Mrs. Dlamini crouched and checked the floor, her hand moving carefully to avoid stepping on anything. “Did you place it inside a book?”

“No.” Lindiwe shook her head too fast. “I would remember.”

A pause stretched between them, filled with the soft hum of the fan....