The wind whistled rhythmically as my cousins and I pushed our bags toward the nearby taxi rank after bidding our goodbyes to Granny and to each other. I remember that day more vividly as the years pass. That was the day I said goodbye to the people I regarded as family, the ones I had lived with in harmony for years.
I can't quite remember how old I was, only that I was still young. My heart ached at the thought of leaving my grandmother alone, yet it fluttered with excitement at the idea of finally living with my mother, the woman I only saw during holidays and heard on the phone whenever she had time to call.
Chuckle. I actually lost her a year and a half later. Funny, isn't it? How the world works. Sometimes it feels like we're just puppets in the hands of a spoiled rich kid – one who pulls the strings for his own amusement, and somehow, our parents let him, because this is, after all, a rich man's world.
Anyway, I'm not here to complain. Back to the story.
We parted ways with my cousins that day, and things were never the same. Each of us went on to build a life of our own, and communication slowly faded into silence. Sad how that's almost everyone's reality.
When we were young, we lived. Oh, we lived life. We didn't have much, but we had each other. And that was everything.
I remember the time Granny chased us with a stick because we'd decided to play instead of going home before curfew. There were three of us – me and my two cousins, a boy and a girl, both a few years older. I was the only one who got caught. I took the hiding, cried my eyes out, and then, in true Granny fashion, got pampered afterward – food, a warm bath, and laughter echoing through the walls.
They got away, of course. I thought it was unfair. But now? It's one of those memories that feel golden with age. One we bring up whenever we visit home because, well, we don't talk on the phone anymore. It's awkward. We don't even know what to say to each other.
Sigh. Life.
Anyway, I moved in with my mom. She was studying building and working at the same time. I was in Grade 8 or eighth grade, as some call it. I'm not sure which standard that is for the millennials, but you get the point.
That's where my story truly begins.
A little girl, new to the area, not entirely ready for what the world had to offer but what choice did she have? She was already in the ring, expected to fight before she even learned how to swing.