The township had its own kind of heartbeat. Faster. Louder. Unapologetically alive. It was nothing like the village where mornings rose gently, and evenings folded quietly over small talk and smoke from the fire. Here, everything demanded to be seen. The music, the arguments, the laughter from next door, even the dogs barking at shadows. Life here had no pauses.
And then there was me, quiet in the middle of all that noise. Trying to keep up. Trying not to be seen too clearly. I walked like I was counting my steps, like if I walked too fast or too slow, I'd give something away. People looked, and I could tell when they noticed… something. I'd look away before their eyes could say more than their mouths ever would.
Sometimes, in that endless rush of taxis, shouting vendors, and restless life, I'd drift back to the village, to the simpler noise of childhood. To laughter that came without fear of echoing too loud.
One memory always follows me around. We were all together.. me, my cousins, even the big cousins who were always too cool for us. We were playing a game, our favourite one. A small ball made from bread plastic, tied tight with an elastic band. The rules were simple: throw, run, dodge, laugh. The sound of our laughter could've filled the whole sky that day.
Then someone threw the ball my way, fast. I jumped high, too high. For a second, I swear I touched the clouds. Then the world disappeared beneath me. The next thing I knew, I was on the hard rock floor, the wind knocked out of me. I blinked, and I was in the clinic. Blinked again, and everything had changed.
What happened that day… that's a story for another time. A story I still haven't found the right breath to tell. All I can say is, I was never quite the same after that.
Living with my mother was its own slow kind of discovery. She was an early bird, up before the sun, her day already half lived before mine had even begun. Most times she was at work, but somehow her presence lingered in every corner of the house. We never missed church, not once. That was non-negotiable. God came first, always.
She was loving and loved. Or so I thought. Looking back, I realize she was loved by people, by everyone around her. She carried something that drew people in, like warmth on a cold day.
My mother wasn't the kind of pretty that made men stop in their tracks. She was softer than that. She was light-skinned, with an afro that always looked like it had been dipped in silk. It grew fast, but she cut it often, said she didn't like hair that "got in the way." She had a beautiful smile, the kind that made you feel seen. And her voice - deep, not in a manly way, but deep in the kind of way that made you listen. She sang, too. Oh, she sang. Loudly. Proudly. Off-key sometimes, but always with joy. Especially in church. She sang like the world would break if she didn't.
That was my mother - a beamer of light. People loved her. I loved her. I think that's why I was so proud to call her mine.
By the end of the first term, I had found six friends. Six wild, funny, loud souls who pulled me out of my shell. We were inseparable, talking too much, laughing too loud, and arguing about things that didn't matter but felt like they did. It was messy. It was chaotic. It was beautiful.
But life has its ways. It teaches you that not everything golden stays.
Six friends became three. Then two. And that's just life.