THE POWER OF BECOMING

I was raised in a happy home. Not perfect, but full of warmth, the kind of home where love showed up in quiet ways: in the smell of simmering porridge, the hush of early-morning chores, and the silent pride of those who raised me. While my mother worked tirelessly in the city to build a life for my sister and I, I grew up under the care of her uncle and his wife; a couple who didn’t just take us in, but poured themselves into raising us right.Did I mention that they raised my mom too?(they are her adoptive parents).

They never made me feel like I didn’t belong. I was theirs, through and through.I was raised with structure, kindness, and discipline; a balance that would one day form the bedrock of my character. In that household, you learned early that respect was non-negotiable, hard work was expected, and love was shown through actions more than words.

Life in Kanngwe was simple, humble, and full of meaning. It was the kind of place where the sun rose to the sound of roosters and hymn-singing women, and where the earth held stories that lived in silence. Though it was a small village, it shaped me in big ways. Our days were predictable; after school, we had no time to roam the streets like city children. We had goats to herd. On weekends, we took the cattle to drink from the river, walking for hours under the hot sun or early-morning fog. That work made us responsible, taught us endurance, and reminded us every day that life required effort.

But we were still children. Curious. Mischievous!One afternoon, temptation got the better of us;we left the goats unattended and ran off to play, forgetting the responsibility placed on our young shoulders. By the time we returned, the goats had strayed into someone’s farm and caused serious damage. The farmer came, furious, and demanded compensation. The price? A whole goat.

That day, mom’s uncle taught us a lesson we would never forget. He was not a man of many words, but when he acted, it echoed. He flogged us,not out of cruelty, but out of a deep quiet love that refused to raise careless children. We cried, but even then, we understood. It wasn’t just about the goats ,it was about accountability, responsibility, and protecting the family name. That flogging didn’t scar me, it shaped me. It planted in me the value of trust, and the cost of neglect.

Still, the nights in Kanngwe brought softness. After the sun had set and the yard was swept clean, we’d sit under the stars while mom’s uncle told stories. Most were about his time in the mines,A world so far from ours that it felt like fiction. He described it in vivid detail: the danger, the dust, the camaraderie, the hardship. And always, always, he’d slip in a joke. He had a way of making us laugh even after a long, tiring day. His laughter was deep and contagious, and his storytelling was unmatched. He taught us history without needing a book.He would sing the "Mphatlalatsane"song for us.What a man! I owe him so much,not just for raising me, but for teaching me to love stories, to find lessons in the ordinary, and to face life with both strength and humor.

His wife? gentle, soft-spoken,humble-taught me just as much. She didn’t need to speak to lead; she led by how she moved through each day. She was up before the sun, folding blankets, lighting fires, preparing meals. She cared for all of us like her life depended on it. And in a way, it did. Her quiet devotion left a lasting imprint on me. She showed me how to serve without feeling small, and how to love without expecting applause.

And while life at home shaped my values, school became my stage. I didn’t just attend, I excelled. I was the best overall student, year after year. I loved books, numbers, essays, anything that challenged my mind. I asked questions that made teachers smile. I soaked up knowledge like it was food, and in a way, it was. It fed the part of me that knew I was meant for more. My caretakers were proud, and I could feel my mother’s pride from afar, even if I couldn’t see her face.

I wasn’t trying to be better than anyone , I just knew I had a fire inside me. A drive to make all their sacrifices worth it. I studied not just for grades, but for becoming. Every lesson, every test, every gold star was a brick in the foundation of the woman I was building.

Kanngwe may be unknown to most. It may not be found on billboards or remembered in textbooks. But for me, it is unforgettable. It is sacred ground. It is the place that carved out the earliest version of me,the version that learned responsibility through goats, resilience through chores, strength through silence, and joy through stories told around a fire.

Kanngwe made me.

And one day, I will return — not as the girl who left,

but as the woman who became.