Ndalwenhle
The first day of January felt different. I wasn't just starting a new year; I was starting a new life. The scholarship letter lay folded neatly in my drawer, but every morning I would take it out, run my fingers over the paper, and remind myself that it was real. For the first time in my life, the future didn't feel like a closed door.
The orphanage buzzed with excitement. Some kids had been taken by relatives for the holidays, others stayed behind with us. We shared laughter, sang around the small tree we decorated with cut-out papers, and ate the food Mrs. Nzama managed to get sponsored. Fatcakes, pap, and chicken stew — nothing fancy, but for us it was a feast.
I looked at the younger kids running around barefoot on the dusty yard and felt a deep ache. They reminded me of the little boy I used to be — scared, broken, waiting for someone to choose him. I wasn't fully healed, but I knew I had to keep going, if not for me, then for them.
A week later, I started training again. Gym in the morning, soccer practice in the afternoon. My legs ached, my body felt heavy, but every time I wanted to quit, I heard Mrs. Nzama's voice echoing: "My boy, I'm proud of you."
When school reopened for the new term, I walked into the gates of my new college. It wasn't a fancy private college after all I had passed my matric and I had 36 aps score, but it was more than I ever dreamed of. Books in my hand, a bag on my back — I looked like any other student, but inside I carried scars invisible to them.
The sponsor, a businessman named Mr. Dlamini, checked in on me often. He wasn't just investing in my soccer, but in my studies too. "Balance them both," he always said. "One day the legs will give up, but the mind must carry you further." His words stuck with me.
Life was moving. Slowly, painfully, but moving. Still, nights were the hardest. Alone in the dorm, I sometimes woke up sweating, Nobahle's voice echoing in my head. The shouting. The insults. The beatings. I could still feel the sting of her hand, the heaviness of her eyes when she looked at me with hate.
But then I would remind myself: I was no longer there. I was free.
Every day was a battle — between who she told me I was and who I was becoming. And every day I chose to fight.
This was my second chance. My light in the dark. My beginning.