The sun was sinking, painting the streets orange and gold, but it didn't warm the chill that sat in my chest. I walked home, clutching my bag, every step heavy with the rumors that clung to me—rumors about who had really raised me, about the mother I'd never met.
I cut through the old corner market, passing vendors packing up for the night. That's when I saw her: an older woman, posture proud but tired, skin marked with stories I could only guess at. She swept dust from the step of her little wooden shop, each movement slow and certain. When our eyes met, it felt like she could see straight through me.
"You," she said, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning, "you look so much like her… Mem Vance, isn't it?"
The name hit me like a slap. My stomach twisted. My heart hammered. I opened my mouth, desperate to ask, to demand, but nothing came out. I just stood there, exposed, while the woman smiled—a secret, knowing smile—and went back to her sweeping.
It wasn't a question. It was a fact. A nudge from the universe. Something was changing, and I could feel it.
I walked on, replaying her words. Mem Vance. I whispered it to myself, rolling it around in my mouth, hungry for answers. Could that be my mother? Was this the first real clue in a life built on shadows and silence?
That night I couldn't sleep. I opened my battered notebook and wrote her name on a new page: Mem Vance. Underneath, I scribbled everything I remembered—the woman's tone, the street, the rumors, the feeling that the truth was close enough to touch.
The next day at school, I let the name slip into conversation, watching faces for a reaction. Some teachers looked away. Neighbors murmured. Nobody would give me answers, just fragments: She's in the city. Johannesburg. She's busy. Nothing real, but enough to stoke the fire inside me.
The idea rooted itself in my chest—growing, pulsing. I started picturing Johannesburg: tall buildings, crowded streets, people moving like fast rivers. If Mem Vance was there, I would find her. I would look her in the eye and finally know where I came from.
But it was never going to be simple. I had no money, no plan, nobody waiting for me in the city. All I had was stubborn hope and a name I wrote again and again: Johannesburg. This is where it starts. I will find you, Mem Vance.
I closed my notebook and let the words hang in the dark. They felt alive. For the first time, the dusty streets and shadows of my old life seemed smaller, almost behind me. The city was out there, waiting. And I would walk into it, one raw, careful step at a time.
I didn't know what I would find, what it would cost, or how much it would hurt. But for once, I had something real—a name, a direction, a piece of the puzzle. And for now, that was enough.