I was born where the sun burns slow over the acacia, where the wind whistles through the tall grass and the horizon stretches like it don't end. The Kruger was my cradle, my classroom, and sometimes my jail. Out here, a man learns quick that the world don't owe him nothing — not food, not shelter, not respect. You take what you can, or you stay behind.
My ma used to wake me before the sun. She'd slap the walls of our small shack, shouting in that thick Venda accent, "Calvin! Stop dreaming! Life won't wait!" I hated that shout and loved it at the same time. She was tough, sharper than the thorns of a leadwood tree, and I knew that toughness had kept us alive. My da was gone before I could remember him. Stories say he chased money and never came back. Maybe that's why I always felt like I had to chase it for both of us.
I remember walking to the dusty primary school every morning with my little brother on my back, the red earth sticking to my bare feet, the smell of the bush thick in the air. Some kids laughed at my torn jersey, but I learned to laugh last. That's where the first fire of ambition started — not because I liked school, though I did, but because I saw the future as something I had to fight for.
By the time I hit my teens, I was restless. The Kruger was beautiful, but it wasn't enough. I needed a stage, a space where my voice could matter. Politics found me in high school. At first, it was small things: helping organise events, arguing about budgets for student activities, debating about fairness. Then I realised — the loudest voice often gets what it wants. I started paying attention to how leaders moved, how they smiled, how they made people feel like every word mattered. I wanted that power, not for vanity, but to change my world.
University at Univen was a shock. The city wasn't Kruger; it was alive with noise, ambition, and danger. People were hungry — some for learning, some for money, some for influence. I got involved in student politics the first week. Not for the glory, but because I recognised that this was training. Every debate, every campaign, every late-night meeting sharpened me like a knife. I made allies carefully and learned quickly who could betray me. And oh, betrayal came. Always does.
Some nights I'd lie on my tiny dorm bed, listening to the city breathe, thinking about my ma and the dust of home. I told myself I wouldn't be stuck there forever. I'd take what I learned — the politics, the cunning, the connections — and I'd turn it into something tangible. Something real. Money. Property. Freedom. Respect. All of it.
I remember the first time I saw the block of multi-rental houses I would one day buy. It was dusty, a little run down, but I saw beyond the peeling paint. I saw potential. I saw the money. I saw a future that Kruger had never given me, that the world owed me for surviving the dust and the hunger and the bullshit. That deal, worth over five hundred thousand dollars, wasn't just about property. It was about proving that Calvin Williams, the boy who walked barefoot through the red earth, had arrived. And that, I told myself, was just the beginning.