THE POWER OF BECOMING

Even as a child, I carried something ,a quiet, pulsing sense that I was meant for something more. Not more in the worldly sense, but more in spirit. More depth. More meaning. More purpose. I didn’t know what to call it at the time, but I could feel it deep inside me, like a hidden seed waiting for its moment to bloom.

While other children played freely, content with the present, I often found myself thinking beyond the moment. I was reflective. Sensitive. Curious. I noticed things others didn’t, the way someone’s smile didn’t reach their eyes, the weight in a sigh, the silences in conversations. I was a child, yes, but my mind often felt much older than my years.

Still, I loved being a child. I loved the laughter, the games, the smell of soil after rain. I loved sitting in the yard with other kids, singing songs, sharing boiled maize, or racing barefoot across the dry ground. But even in those moments, a part of me was always watching ,observing, absorbing, becoming.

My world was small, yet rich. Life in Kanngwe was both routine and grounding. There was school, chores, livestock, prayer, and rest. And within that structure, I found room to dream. I wasn’t just another child doing the minimum to pass, I was determined to excel. I wanted my life to mean something. I wanted my caregivers to be proud. I wanted my mother, even from afar, to know that her sacrifice was bearing fruit.

School became my second home, space where I felt fully seen. I was an excelling student,and not by luck. I worked for it. I studied late into the night, read beyond what was assigned, and asked questions that even some teachers didn’t expect from someone my age. I wasn’t chasing trophies. I was chasing truth. Knowledge gave me power, and that power gave me hope.

From a very young age, I was trusted with leadership. I served as a class monitress throughout my school years,all the way until Form 5. It wasn’t just a badge of authority. It was a recognition of who I was becoming: dependable, thoughtful, strong. I learned to speak up, to mediate, to guide others even when I didn’t feel fully sure of myself. Later, at tertiary level, I continued in that path;becoming a class representative and stepping into spaces where my voice could advocate for others.

Leadership wasn’t always easy, but it was natural to me. I didn’t command attention through volume, I earned respect through how I carried myself. And when I joined the debate club, a whole new side of me came alive. I learned to sharpen my words, to think on my feet, and to defend my beliefs with grace. Debate wasn’t just an activity,it became a mirror, revealing to me just how much I loved language, truth, and the power of persuasion.

There was also the work at the fields,a sacred rhythm I grew up knowing well. I learnt how to plant, plough, harvest, weed, and winnow. These weren’t just chores; they were life lessons taught in motion. The soil taught me patience. The plough taught me effort. The harvest taught me reward. And the winnowing??? the separating of grain from chaff; taught me discernment, even before I fully understood what it meant.

I even learnt how to drive the donkey cart by myself,all the way to the standpipe and back. That wasn’t just a chore, it was a mark of trust, of maturity, of being shaped by responsibility. My hands learned before my voice did, how to make something from nothing, how to nurture life, how to serve with humility.

At night, when everything grew quiet, I would lie awake and imagine my future. I saw myself writing, speaking, traveling; not as an escape, but as a mission. I imagined standing in rooms where girls like me were rarely seen, where farm stories were never told, where people needed to hear what it meant to become more than your surroundings.

But dreaming didn’t shield me from struggle. Becoming isn’t gentle. It stings. It stretches. There were days I felt misunderstood, like I didn’t quite fit in. I was surrounded by love, but even love doesn’t always understand growth. There were moments I questioned myself, was I asking for too much from life? Was I too ambitious? Too sensitive? Too hungry for something people couldn’t see?

And yet, even in those uncertain seasons, I kept showing up. I kept leading. I kept learning. Because deep down, I knew: I was becoming-slowly, painfully, beautifully.

I remember one afternoon, after helping fetch water, I sat by myself under a tree near the kraal. The sun was setting in that golden hush only farm evenings know. I held a small notebook in my hands, an old school book with scribbled corners! and for the first time, I wrote for myself. Not homework. Not a copied lesson. Just thoughts. Feelings. Prayers. Questions. That moment cracked something open in me. It whispered: This is who you are. A writer. A reflector. A storyteller.

That night, I slept differently, lighter, freer, fuller. I had touched something sacred. Something mine.

Looking back now, I see it all clearly:

I was always becoming.

Even when I doubted myself.

Even when I felt left out.

Even when I didn’t have the words for it.

I was rising.

I was leading.

I was learning to be.

And I carry that girl with me even now-the barefooted ne with stars in her eyes and dust on her heels. She’s still guiding me. Still believing.

Because long before the world saw it-

I knew: I was born to become.