The Queen Of the flame

---

The Queen of Flame

Growing up in the rural parts of South Africa, ambition wasn’t something I lacked especially when it came to grand, foolish ideas. One day, I decided I’d impress my grandfather by mastering the ancient art of fire-making. He always bragged about how he used to do it back in the day. How hard could it be?

In my mind, this wasn’t just about starting a fire. Oh no, I saw myself being crowned Queen of Flame. I pictured villagers calling me to their homes, begging me to ignite their fires. I imagined stacks of money coming my way, no more school for me! I’d be the best fire maker there ever was.

With this brilliant plan, I gathered wood, plastic, and a patch of dry grass conveniently located near the kitchen. Sure, the kitchen had a grass roof, and so did all our huts, but that didn’t bother me. This was my stage, and I was ready to set it ablaze.

I started with two sticks, rubbing them together as my grandfather described. Nothing. I tried for the next hour, my hands blistering, my patience running thin. Then I tried rocks. Still, nothing. That’s when I decided to activate my cheat code: fake it till you make it. I’d use matches and let everyone believe I’d cranked the rocks just right. Genius, right?

Channeling my inner ninja, I tiptoed to the kitchen. I pretended to drink water while stealthily swiping an entire matchbox. After all, I’d need plenty of matches once I became the Queen of Flame. Back at my “fire station,” I struck the first match. The small flame flickered to life, and I laughed maniacally, feeling the power of creation in my hands.

The second matchstick, though that’s where everything went sideways. It fell onto the patch of grass, and within seconds, the fire spread. The wood and plastic caught fire instantly, and I stood frozen, watching my brilliant plan go up in smoke literally.

Panic set in. My first thought was to run to the river for water, but I couldn’t leave the fire. My second thought was… pee on it. Yes, desperate times call for desperate measures. Let me tell you, that was a bad idea. I almost burned my innermost parts, and the fire only seemed to grow angrier.

By now, my cousins had noticed the chaos and started screaming. Their high-pitched shrieks made everything worse, and the next thing I knew, the kitchen roof had caught fire. Grass roofing and fire are not friends.

In that moment, I realized the fates had either completely abandoned me or decided to grant my wish in the most ironic way possible. I wanted to be the Queen of Flame, and now everything was going down in flames literally.

By the time the flames were licking at the kitchen roof, my screams had summoned the entire village. Men and women came running with buckets, pots, and even a few calabashes, filled with water from the river. The whole scene was chaotic, people shouting instructions, kids running in circles, and my grandmother yelling my full name like a summons from the ancestors.

One brave uncle managed to climb onto the roof with a wet blanket, slapping down the flames with the fury of someone who had just discovered their favorite goat missing. Within minutes, the fire was extinguished, leaving behind blackened grass, a charred kitchen roof, and the overwhelming smell of burnt plastic.

I stood in the middle of it all, feeling very small and very stupid. My cousins glared at me like I’d just set their dreams on fire along with the kitchen. My grandmother turned to me, hands on her hips, her face a portrait of pure rage.

“NiNa,” she said in a tone that promised I’d regret every choice I’d made that day, “what in God’s name were you thinking?”

What could I say? That I wanted to be the Queen of Flame? That I’d imagined villagers paying me to light their fires? No explanation would save me.

That evening, I sat on a stool with a sore bottom, my grandmother’s words still echoing in my ears. “You want to make fire? Next time, do it in your own hut!” My cousins avoided me like a plague, and my grandfather shook his head, muttering something about “kids these days.”

As I sat there, rethinking my life choices, one thing became very clear to me:

If you play with fire, you don’t just get burned, you get a sore bottom, a ruined kitchen, and the entire village knowing your business. Oh, and in case you were wondering, the title of Queen of Flame remains vacant.

nn Khumalo