Clever calls me bhuti. Day in and day out, 5am in the morning, he punches my fist and says, morning, bhuti. In the rain and dark, he tells me, skipping, let’s go. 30 minutes later, we’re sparring, he grabs my fist and pulls it towards his face, until my knuckles are on his nose, and says, big punch, bhuti, right here, try, try try try. Another half hour, my sweat is everywhere around us, and Clever smiles and takes my fists, unties my wraps and says, sharp, bhuti. This is something my mom used to call me, when I was a kid. I grew up in Durban, we had a domestic worker who called me “bhuti Tom”, and there’s been something intimate, something familiar,