The bus rattled through Johannesburg's veins, shaking my bones and jostling my bag where the last of my borrowed money clung to hope. The city was bigger than I'd ever imagined louder, brighter, pulsing with a life that felt both electric and out of reach. Towers clawed at the sky, billboards and neon signs flickered with stories I hadn't yet earned a place in.
I clutched my bag tighter, hunger gnawing at my insides. I hadn't eaten since morning toast back home. Now, the sizzling smells from street vendors made my mouth water and my resolve falter. My eyes drank in the city: women in bright dresses weaving through snarled traffic, men in sharp suits barking into phones, children darting past in worn shoes, laughter trailing behind them.
Stepping off the bus, the city pressed in from all sides. Every sound, every movement, made me feel both invisible and exposed. I took a shaky breath and started walking, feet aching already. I had to find work. I had to survive.
Two hours later, my soles burned, my bag felt like an anchor. Hunger twisted inside me, but pride kept my mouth shut. Then I saw a small cafe tucked between two glass towers. The young woman behind the counter smiled as I hesitated in the doorway.
"First time in the city?" she asked, her voice warm and easy.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
She passed me a plate of leftover pastries. "Here. You look like you need it."
The gesture was so simple, so unexpected, that my chest tightened. "Thank you," I whispered, clutching the plate as though it might vanish.
I ate on a bench outside, savoring every crumb and each sip of lukewarm water I'd brought from home. For a moment, the city softened less a beast, more a place that might let me breathe.
But relief was fleeting. I needed work. I went from shop to shop, handing out my resume, trying to look confident even when my hands shook. Rejections came quickly, smiles polite but distant. A shopkeeper promised to call. A cafe said maybe next week. Each "maybe" was a thread I clung to, thin as it was.
By sunset, my feet throbbed and my mind buzzed with exhaustion. All I had to show for the day were a few nods and the memory of a stranger's kindness. I caught a bus back to my rented room, the landlord's key heavy in my pocket, the lock stubborn in my shaking hand.
Inside, I collapsed on the floor. Hunger clawed at me, but there was no food left. I listened to the city humming outside a car stereo, a barking dog, a far-off siren. It was beautiful and cruel at once.
I pulled out my battered notebook and wrote letters I'd never send, notes to myself, prayers to a mother I'd never really known. I wrote about buildings, about faces in the crowd, about hope and fear tangled together inside me. I wrote about the taste of hunger and the warmth of a stranger's smile.
For the first time, I understood: survival here would not be easy. Luck would not be enough. I would have to fight for every scrap, every chance. But somewhere deep down, a stubborn spark told me this city overwhelming and magnificent might just be where I found what I'd been searching for all my life.
As Johannesburg's lights flickered against the night, I whispered into the darkness, "I will find her. I will find her. I will."