The sun burned relentlessly on the dusty streets of my childhood, making the cracked earth shimmer in waves. Most mornings, I walked barefoot, clutching the remnants of yesterday's hope in a small bag. My house if it could be called that was cramped, filled with shadows, laughter that never included me, and arguments I learned to ignore. I didn't know who I truly was. At least, not yet.
I was raised by Ntombentsha, a woman as unpredictable as the wind. Sometimes cruel without warning, sometimes, in rare moments, showing a flicker of care. Those moments confused me; just enough to keep me going, never enough to feel I belonged. I learned quickly life wasn't about fairness. It was about survival, and the rules were never explained.
Grade 7 was when truth seeped in uninvited. Something ordinary started it a conversation about farewell clothes. I had an outfit, not by choice. Dabawo noticed and erupted in anger. She assumed I'd been favored, that someone was looking out for me. The truth? My teacher had quietly paid for my trip and clothes. I didn't know this yet. I just got her rage spilling words I wasn't ready to hear. Hints that I wasn't truly part of the family I'd grown up with.
That day, I felt the silence around me. The adoption, if it could even be called that, had never been explained. No papers, no ceremony, no acknowledgment. Just me, left in a world determined to remind me of my absence. I carried that small sharp stone in my pocket, heavy against my chest.
Life became a series of tests I hadn't asked for. After uSoyintombi passed away, the house grew colder. I tasted neglect, danger. A cousin, drunk or pretending, stalked me in dark corners. I learned to anticipate threats, to expect pain. Protection wasn't guaranteed. Safety was a privilege I couldn't afford.
Yet, I survived. I clung to fragments of hope: the teacher who bought my farewell outfit, a rare exception in a sea of indifference. Those moments were anchors. Proof someone believed in me enough to act.
I often wondered about my mother. Who had she been? Why had she left me? Questions haunted my nights, tangled with dreams I couldn't understand. Sometimes I saw her in flashes—a smiling face just out of reach, a hand extended but never touching. Memories? Longings? I didn't know.
School was another battlefield. Friends came and went. Laughter carried me briefly, then left me emptier. Teachers spoke in measured tones, unaware of the storms inside me. I learned to hide the vulnerable parts, to build walls strong enough to protect what little self I had. Still, curiosity persisted. I watched other children with their mothers and wondered what it felt like to be known, to be loved without fear or condition.
Even my smallest victories became treasures. A good grade, a kind word, a moment of safety. Proof survival was possible, and maybe one day, I could piece together fragments of my identity.
But emptiness never left. Every smile, every kindness, was tinged with abandonment. I saw patterns: the world rewarded some, overlooked others. How quickly attention shifted. How easy it was to become invisible. I became hyper-aware of myself. Painful, but it sharpened me.
At night, I whispered to the darkness: "Why wasn't I enough?" The silence only answered more questions. I imagined my mother somewhere, maybe thinking of me, maybe living a life without me. The uncertainty gnawed at me, silent and constant.
Still, moments of possibility existed. A neighbor's smile lingering, a friend's parents' offer of help, a teacher's quiet intervention. Fragile seeds of hope. Easily crushed, but they gave me reason to believe that one day, I might find answers.
By the end of Grade 7, I learned two truths: the world would not hand me the love I craved, and I would have to seek it myself. Survival demanded cunning, patience, hope—a secret treasure I carried quietly. My early lessons, the isolation, the longing, the small victories, the constant setbacks, were shaping me for a journey beyond the dusty streets of my childhood. A journey that would test my patience, my will, my heart. A journey that one day would bring me face to face with the truth of who I was, and the mother I had been seeking all along.
And so, I waited. Quietly. Patiently. Every question, every small triumph became a step forward. I didn't know when, or how, but deep inside, I carried certainty that someday, the threads of my life would connect.