I was six years old when I first stepped into primary school. The world felt so big to me then, every wall towering high, every teacher's voice booming as though it carried the weight of authority from heaven itself. My little hands clutched my books with trembling excitement, and my uniform, stiff and new, smelled of starch and soap. It was the beginning of something, though at that age I didn't quite know what. All I knew was that I had to wake up early, dress neatly, and sit in a class where the chalk squeaked on the blackboard like a bird crying in the morning.
At first, I didn't understand much. Numbers danced before my eyes like restless ants, and words seemed like strange codes only teachers could unlock. But I tried. I tried because I wanted to please my parents, because every time I came home with a smile, my mother would pat my head and say, "Good child." That, to me, was everything. My father's quiet nod after seeing my neat notes meant more than gold. I wanted to keep making them proud, even if I barely understood the difference between addition and subtraction at the time.
In those first years, friends were scarce. Children ran around the playground, chasing each other with laughter, forming little circles where they whispered secrets and exchanged biscuits. But me? I was quiet. I stood apart, watching them, wondering if I would ever belong. I didn't know how to join in their games. Sometimes I wanted to run with them, to be part of their giggles, but my legs refused to move, and so I stayed alone.
It was only later that I made my first real friends — two girls who would stand by me like pillars, through sunshine and rain: Jumahi and Khadijah. I don't remember the exact day we became friends; it wasn't like in stories where one big event creates an unbreakable bond. No. Ours was simple. One day, Jumahi sat beside me in class, her braids swinging as she wrote in her exercise book. She smiled at me, a small, shy smile, and asked if I could lend her my eraser. That was all. From that single moment, something clicked. And then Khadijah followed, her laughter bright like bells, pulling me into conversations I didn't even know how to start on my own.
The three of us became inseparable. We shared food during break time, whispering over meat pies and puff-puffs. We walked home together sometimes, talking about things children considered important — dolls, cartoons, teachers we liked, and ones we thought were too strict. We sat in class side by side, competing quietly in our books. And for the first time, I felt I wasn't alone anymore.
Still, primary school was not without its challenges. I wasn't the smartest, at least not at first. There were days when I stared at the board until my eyes hurt, yet I couldn't understand what was written. There were nights when I went home and cried quietly into my pillow because the other children seemed smarter, faster, better. But deep down, I carried something inside me: a fire, a stubbornness, a refusal to remain behind. So I pushed. I stressed myself, even at that young age.
If other children studied for one hour, I would study for two. If they wrote a page of notes, I would write three. I didn't want to be left behind. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be known as the best. Sometimes, that desire consumed me so much that I forgot I was just a child.
And yet, there were moments of joy too. Sports day, when the whole school gathered under the hot sun, cheering and clapping as children raced across the dusty field. Speech-and-prize-giving day, when parents filled the hall with their bright clothes and proud faces, waiting to see whose child would be called. I remember one year — my name was called. My heart leapt as I walked up to the stage to receive a prize. The clapping felt like thunder in my ears, and though the prize was just a small book and a pen, to me, it was everything. It was proof that my hard work was not in vain.
And of course, my friendships with Jumahi and Khadijah grew stronger with every year. We promised each other, in that childish way, that we would never separate, that no matter what happened, we would always be best friends. At that age, promises were everything, even if life had other plans later.
By the time I was leaving primary school, I was no longer the shy little girl who stood at the edge of the playground. I had grown. I had laughed, cried, failed, succeeded, and made memories that I still carry with me. But little did I know that stepping out of primary school was only the beginning. The real test of who I was — and who I was going to become — waited for me in secondary school.