THE POWER OF BECOMING

In 2010, everything changed.

I had just completed Standard 7 at the end of 2009 and was leaving Kanngwe, a place where I had stayed for my primary education–to move to Mmathethe, my true home village. While Kanngwe had shaped me deeply, this was a return to my roots. But it wasn’t just about location. It was a new phase of life: new home, new school, new environment ,and a different kind of rhythm.

Though I had lived in Kanngwe with my mother’s uncle and his wife, my mother was always present in my life. She worked in the city, yes, but her love and involvement were constant. She visited, called, provided, and made sure we never felt neglected. She didn’t raise me from afar–she walked that journey closely, even from a distance.

In 2010, I finally began living with her full-time. It felt beautiful and long overdue –being under the same roof with the woman who gave me life and never let me forget I was loved. I also began living with my brother(my late aunt’s son),our mothers are twins.And later that same year, my mother had another baby girl child. Our home expanded overnight, and so did my role within it.

But the biggest shock came with school.

I had gone from a quiet class of 13 students at Kanngwe Primary to a Form 1 class of 45 learners at Mmathethe JSS. Only two girls from Kanngwe were in my class. Everyone else was new, loud, different – from various backgrounds, with different life experiences, different characters too.It was like stepping into a crowded room after years in a quiet library.

Mmathethe itself was nothing like Kanngwe.

Kanngwe was peaceful, tucked away in the safety of silence. No bars. No loud music. No midnight arguments drifting through the wind. Just goats,birds,chickens, and quiet stars. But Mmathethe was loud. Music blasted from nearby bars at night, laughter and drunken voices rolled through the darkness, and I often laid awake missing the calm of my beautiful Kanngwe.It felt like the whole village breathed differently — noisier, faster, more grown-up.

At school, things weren’t easier.

There were fights between students– over names, over rumors, over almost nothing. I swa Teenage pregnancy unfolding right before my eyes. Some girls disappeared, only to return months later.Some boys and girls drank alcohol, even during school events.

One of my classmates died(May Her soul Continue To Rest in peace).Although I don’t want to revisit the pain of it, I can say that was my first taste of the cruelty of life –how young people, with their dreams and laughter, could be here today and gone tomorrow.

Then came 2011, and with it, the nationwide strike. Teachers walked out, lessons stopped. We waited eagerly in confusion, fear, and boredom. No one had prepared us for what it meant when adults gave up fighting silently and took their pain to the streets. That year taught me that institutions could fail– but I didn’t have the luxury of giving up. I had to keep going

Through it all ,the noise, the fights, the system glitches – I stayed rooted. I was still that girl from Kanngwe who had carried water in donkey carts, who had sewn by hand, who had learned to lead in small classrooms. But now I was learning how to lead within myself –quietly, steadily, even when the world around me felt unpredictable.

Living with my mom felt natural, not strange. She was warm but firm. Her love didn’t change just because we now shared a roof, it deepened. I saw the strength of a woman who had built so much with so little, and I admired her more than ever.

Mmathethe was noisy, yes. But it also gave me something valuable: a clearer sense of the world. A look into reality. It showed me that the real test of strength isn't avoiding the noise, it’s learning how to rise above it.

And in that chaos, I grew.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

But steadily. With eyes wide open and a heart that refused to shut down.