The day I became an Olympic runner

The Day I became an Olympic runner

It was the summer I turned fifteen, the age where I had perfected my walk, talk, and smirk combo. Oh, I was it. The prettiest girl in the neighborhood, hands down, ask anyone. My wardrobe? Flawless, thanks to my mom finally figuring out that I didn’t do frills and florals like a wannabe Disney princess. No, I was bold, edgy, a walking fashion revolution in our small town.

And let’s not forget my social status. I was the butterfly everyone wanted to catch, boys buzzed around me like I was Santa tossing out candy canes on Christmas morning. Or, if we’re being honest, maybe more like flies around honey. But calling them flies feels rude, and I was far too much of a gift to have my admirers reduced to pesky insects.

Naturally, being the most wanted girl in the area, I had high standards. Not just anyone could stand next to me and hold their own. I decided I deserved nothing less than the most famous and hottest guy around. Let’s call him Ryan because every "hot guy" needs a name that sounds like it belongs on a movie poster.

Ryan was a head-turner, with his chiseled jawline, effortless charm, and that bad-boy edge every teenage girl thinks she can tame. He was the kind of guy who could walk into a room and have every other guy reconsidering their wardrobe choices. And me? Oh, I had him wrapped around my little finger like a charm bracelet.

To him, I was a trophy, a glittering, sparkling prize he could parade around to make all his buddies jealous. But to me, he was… an accessory. Don’t get me wrong, he was the hottest accessory I could’ve picked, but still, just an accessory. A statement piece. I wore him here and there, whenever I wanted to turn up the drama and keep everyone on their toes.

Life was sweet, really. What more could a 15-year-old girl want? Ryan and I were bowling. Not literally, of course there wasn’t a bowling alley for miles but we were cruising through life like royalty. Every corner we turned, people noticed us. I was the queen, and he was my loyal subject. Everything was just… perfect.

In an African society, girls don’t date. I mean, we do, but it’s like some kind of underground operation. You’ve got to keep it on the low. No one tells their parents, not unless you’re looking to get the beating of your life and I’m not talking about a slap on the wrist. No, I’m talking about the kind of beating that has you questioning if your existence was ever a good idea.

But as for me? I was careful. Smart. I had mastered the art of sneaking around without a trace, always ten steps ahead of everyone else. Or so I thought.

It was a sunny afternoon, and Ryan had convinced me to meet him after school. “Just a quick hangout,” he said. “No one will even know,” he promised. And of course, I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? I was untouchable or so my 15-year-old brain thought.

We decided to meet at a spot far enough from home that no one would recognize me, yet close enough that I could make it back before curfew. The plan was foolproof. But then again, isn’t that what every criminal says before the heist goes south?

We met at our usual spot, a hidden gem tucked away from the prying eyes of society. It wasn’t much, just a patch of green near a small river, but to us, it was paradise. The kind of place where the air smelled sweeter, the birds seemed to sing just for us, and the sound of the flowing river felt like nature’s own love song.

Ryan was in full charm mode, dishing out little compliments about my beauty every chance he got. “You’re unreal, you know that?” he’d say, and I’d smile, pretending to be modest when, deep down, I knew he was absolutely right.

He’d reach out for a little touch here, a brush of my hand there, and I’d shy away just enough to keep him guessing. I wasn’t easy, after all. A queen doesn’t just hand over the crown. But I’ll admit, his touches sent little sparks up my spine, the kind that made the whole world around us blur out.

We sat there, soaking in the magic of it all, with the birds serenading us and the river providing the perfect background melody. At that moment, it felt like we were the only two people on the planet. No rules, no society, just us and our little slice of heaven.

With a setting like that, you forget everything, your troubles, your chores, even the time. And oh, time… what a cruel, silent traitor. While I was busy basking in my very own romantic novel, living my best queen-of-the-jungle fantasy, reality was unraveling somewhere else.

Apparently, back at home, I had become the headline act of a full-blown search party. Mom, Dad, neighbors, the local shopkeeper everyone was in on it. Someone had declared me missing, and the entire community had mobilized like I was the president’s daughter.

They were scouring every corner of the neighborhood, calling my name like I was some wayward sheep that had wandered off into the wild. Worst of all, the older women had started doing that thing African moms do spinning horror stories. “What if she’s been kidnapped?” “What if she’s fallen into the river?” “Maybe she’s with bad company!” Spoiler alert: I was with bad company, but they didn’t know that. Yet.

And there I was, completely oblivious, lying on the grass with Ryan, listening to the birds and thinking I was the main character in a love story. I didn’t know that, at that exact moment, my name was being dragged through the mud and back at home, a storm was brewing, the one I wouldn’t escape unscathed.

When we finally decided it was time to head home, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in shades of regret well, panic in my case. The romantic haze was gone, replaced by a sinking feeling in my stomach as I realized just how late it was.

Still in my school uniform, I tried to keep calm, but each passing minute felt like it was mocking me. The world around us was getting darker, and so was my mood. The birds had stopped singing, the river now sounded more like an ominous warning, and I was sure the trees were whispering, “You’re in trouble now.”

Ryan, the picture of calm, casually asked, “You okay?” as if this wasn’t about to become the worst day of my life. He didn’t get it. Boys never do. They don’t understand the real consequences of being out late in an African household.

I started walking faster, every step fueled by panic. I had already missed my curfew by hours. HOURS. My mind raced through possible excuses, but none of them seemed convincing enough.

“Should I say I stayed late at school? No, they’ll check with my teacher.”

“Maybe I should blame a friend? No, snitching will only make it worse.”

“What if I just tell them I was kidnapped? Too extreme.”

As I got closer to home, my plan was simple: sneak inside, keep my head down, and take whatever came my way like a soldier going to war. I figured if I acted normal enough, maybe just maybe no one would notice how late I was.

But then, like the genius teenager I was, I decided to hug Ryan goodbye. I mean, a queen has to maintain appearances, even under pressure, right? So there we were, in a dramatic, slow-motion embrace, my heart still racing from panic, when it happened.

“What the hell is going on here?”

My blood froze. I didn’t even need to turn around to know it was my mother. The voice alone carried a level of rage that could shatter glass. But turn around I did, and oh, the sight that greeted me was nothing short of a courtroom scene.

My grandmother was standing right next to her, clutching her walking stick like she was ready to use it. “I blame the makeup kit you bought her,” she said dramatically, pointing an accusing finger at my mom. “This is what happens when you let children paint their faces like Jezebels!”

And that wasn’t all. My dad, cousins, neighbors, and even the shopkeeper who sold me gum last week were all there, crowded at the corner like they’d been waiting for a live performance. It was as if they had coordinated their arrival for the sole purpose of catching me red-handed in the middle of a hug.

I pulled away from Ryan so fast, you’d think I’d been hugging a cactus. “Uh… I can explain,” I stammered, but let’s be real there was no explaining my way out of this one.

Ryan, the traitor, just stood there with his hands in his pockets, probably calculating how fast he could escape without being chased down by my dad. And me? I was already drafting my will.

As soon as the words left my mum’s mouth “We’re solving this at your boyfriend’s place. I know his mother” Ryan’s survival instincts kicked in. Before I could blink, he bolted like his pants were on fire, leaving a puff of dust and a very unimpressed crowd behind.

“YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE!” my mum shouted after him, her voice echoing down the street. It wasn’t a warning it was a promise. She didn’t care how fast Ryan thought he was; she had the determination of a lioness chasing down dinner.

Meanwhile, I was the unfortunate gazelle caught in her claws. She grabbed my left ear with a grip that could rival a steel trap and started marching me down the street. “We’re still going to his house!” she declared, dragging me along like a criminal caught at the scene of a crime.

The audience? Oh, they were loving every second of it. Neighbors, cousins, and even the shopkeeper were watching the drama unfold with expressions that ranged from shock to sheer amusement. Some even had the nerve to whisper to each other, like this was a live soap opera.

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Forget horror movies this was my nightmare, and it was playing out in full technicolor for the entire neighborhood to see. My grandmother, ever the drama queen, wagged her finger at me as we passed. “You see? This is why children shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions! Look at her now DISGRACED!”

And me? Oh, I was mortified. Completely, utterly mortified. My dreams of being the perfect queen bee, the untouchable girl everyone admired, were crumbling with every step my mum took toward Ryan’s house.

The closer we got to Ryan’s house, the more I felt like my soul was leaving my body. The thought of facing his mom, his Mom! with my mum dragging me by the ear was enough to make me wish for spontaneous combustion. Death by embarrassment seemed like the only logical outcome.

But then, brilliance struck. A true master plan, crafted in seconds by the cleverest girl in town. I stopped suddenly and said, “Mum, wait! My shoe lace is untied.”

She paused, still gripping my ear, but gave me just enough slack to crouch down. I bent over, pretending to fuss with my shoes while my heart raced like a drum. My mind was screaming, Now or never, girl. RUN!

And just like that, I made my move. With the grace of a gazelle and the speed of a cheetah, I bolted down the road, leaving my mum stunned, hand still mid-air, grasping at nothing.

“YOU DID NOT JUST DO THAT!” she hollered, but I was already halfway down the street. My bare feet slapped against the pavement I didn’t even bother to put my shoes on properly. Survival mode had fully kicked in.

I didn’t stop running until I reached the safety or rather, the impending doom of home. The laughter from the crowd and my mum’s furious shouts faded into the distance, replaced by the sound of my own breath and pounding heart. I knew what awaited me, but I had made my choice.

I’d rather take the beating in the privacy of my own house than face Ryan’s mum. At least here, my dignity or what was left of it wouldn’t have an audience.

But my victory was short-lived. My mum burst through the door minutes later, slipper in hand. Let’s just say the “lesson” I got that night was unforgettable.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN EMBARRASS ME IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD?!” she shouted, punctuating every word with a swing. I tried to apologize, but between dodging and yelping, it was hard to get a word in.

When it was finally over, I lay in bed, sore and humiliated. But as I stared at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but smile. Sure, I’d gotten the beating of a lifetime, but I’d also set a new personal record for speed. If running away from your mum doesn’t prepare you for the Olympics, I don’t know what does.