Chapter 1

"You stink," they said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "And you sleep with Nigerians."

I didn't understand at first. The words felt strange, like they didn't belong in my ears. But then the laughter started. Other kids turned to look at me, their eyes sharp and mocking. My face grew hot, and I felt my heart pounding against my ribs. I wanted to disappear, to shrink into nothing and become invisible. But I couldn't. I was there, trapped in that moment, with everyone staring.

I was very sad. That's the only way I can describe it. A deep, heavy sadness that settled in my chest and made it hard to breathe. I didn't know why they said those things. I hadn't done anything wrong. But there it was, the hurt, raw and real, and I couldn't shake it off.

When I got home that afternoon, I found my parents in the kitchen. My mother was stirring a pot of stew, and my father was reading the newspaper at the table. I stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to find the words. Finally, I told them what had happened. I told them about the names, the laughter, the way it felt like the whole world was against me.

My parents listened. They didn't interrupt. When I finished, my mother put down the spoon and came to hug me. My father sighed and said he would talk to the teacher. The next morning, we went to school together, and my father spoke to my teacher and the principal. I thought that would be the end of it. I thought the grown-ups would fix everything.

But that's not what happened. Instead, after my parents left, the teacher and principal called me into the office. They didn't look at me with kindness. They looked at me like I was the one who had done something wrong. And then they said it: "Makwimbi."

I didn't know what that word meant at first, but I could feel the weight of it. It was like a label they were stamping on my forehead, marking me as different, as lesser. Later, I learned it was Khaukanani Mamuthubi who first called me that. They were the one who told the teacher and principal to call me Makwimbi, and they did. They listened to Khaukanani Mamuthubi, not to me.

I went home that day feeling worse than before. The sadness had turned into something heavier, something that pressed down on my shoulders and made me weak. I didn't want to go back to that school. I begged my parents to let me stay home. I cried and pleaded, but they said no. "You have to go," they told me. "You can't let them win."

But I wasn't trying to let them win. I was trying to survive. Every morning, I woke up with a knot in my stomach. I dragged myself out of bed, my legs heavy and my head foggy. I had no energy. The stress ate at me like a slow fire, burning away my strength until I was just a shell going through the motions.

At school, I tried to stay out of everyone's way. I sat in the back of the classroom, kept my head down, and spoke only when I had to. But the whispers followed me everywhere. "Makwimbi." The word echoed in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in the playground. It became my name, the only name some people seemed to know me by.

I stopped wanting to be around others. I ate lunch alone, sitting under a tree at the edge of the schoolyard, watching the other kids laugh and play. They seemed so carefree, so happy. I wondered what it felt like to be them, to not have a word hanging over your head like a dark cloud.

The days blurred together. I was weak, not just in my body but in my spirit. I felt like a shadow of the person I used to be. Before all of this, I had been full of life. I had dreams and hopes. I liked school, even when it was hard. But now, everything felt pointless. What was the point of trying when people could tear you down with a few cruel words?

My parents didn't understand. They saw me moping around the house, refusing to eat, snapping at them when they asked what was wrong. They thought I was being dramatic, or that I was just going through a phase. But it wasn't a phase. It was pain, real and constant, and it was changing me.

One night, I sat in my room, staring at the wall. I thought about the bullies, about how they had taken my friend away, about how they had taken my happiness. I thought about Khaukanani Mamuthubi and the teacher and the principal, all of them part of the same machine that crushed me day after day. And then I thought about writing.

I had always liked writing. It was a way to escape, to put my thoughts on paper and make sense of them. But now, I realized it could be something more. I could write about what happened. I could write about the bullies, about the names, about the way it all made me feel. I could write a book, and maybe then people would understand.

That thought gave me a tiny spark of hope. It was small, barely a flicker, but it was there. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I had a purpose. I got out of bed and found an old notebook and a pen. I sat down at my desk and wrote the first words: "When my friend bullied me at school."

It wasn't much, but it was a start. I kept writing, letting the words flow out of me like a river. I wrote about the day in the classroom, the laughter, the hurt. I wrote about telling my parents and going to the teacher. I wrote about being called Makwimbi. And I wrote about how it all made me feel: stressed, weak, tired, alone.

The writing was hard. Every word brought back the pain, but it also brought a kind of relief. It was like I was taking the poison out of my system, drop by drop. I wrote until my hand cramped and my eyes burned. Then I closed the notebook and went to bed.

That night, I dreamed of a different world. A world where words didn't hurt, where friends were kind, and where grown-ups listened. When I woke up, the real world was waiting for me, with its sharp edges and cruel names. But I had my notebook now. I had my story. And I was determined to tell it, no matter what.

The next day, I went back to school. My parents forced me, as always. But this time, I carried a secret with me. I carried the notebook in my bag, and I knew that every time they called me Makwimbi, every time they laughed, I would write it down. I would turn their cruelty into words, and those words would become a weapon against them.

I didn't know then how long the road ahead would be. I didn't know if anyone would read my story or care about what I had to say. But I knew one thing: I would not let them silence me. The bullies had taken my friend, my energy, my joy. But they would not take my voice.

And so, I kept writing. One page at a time. One word at a time. Until the story was complete. Until the world could see what they had done.