I was in Class 6, living with my grandparents on my father's side. Our house stood firm, like my grandfather's rules — strict, sharp, and unbending. He believed in discipline, and I got plenty of it. But strangely, I was also treated like a princess. I never cooked. My only chores were sweeping the floor and picking up rubbish around the yard. No heavy lifting, no pots and pans — just a broom and a keen eye for stray wrappers.
Respect was stitched into me early. I greeted elders properly, kept my uniform neat, and never talked back. At school, I was known for being responsible — the kind of student teachers trusted with keys and errands. But beneath the neatness was a tomboy spirit that couldn't be tamed.
I played every sport the school offered: soccer, volleyball, netball, even rugby when they'd let me. I wasn't just playing — I was competing. I made it into the school tea, facing off against other shooters with grit and fire. My aim was sharp, my feet fast. The boys respected me. The girls cheered me on. I didn't just belong — I led.
At home, I was the quiet one. At school, I was the storm. My grandfather didn't understand how a girl could be both obedient and wild. But my grandmother smiled knowingly. She saw the balance. She saw me.