Chapter 2

But the mornings were still the hardest part. I would wake up to the sound of my mother's voice calling me for breakfast, and my stomach would twist into a knot. I knew what waited for me at school: the same faces, the same names, the same feeling of being trapped. I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and wish I could just disappear. But my parents always came to my room and told me to get up. "You have to go," they would say. "You can't let them win."

I didn't understand why they couldn't see how much I was suffering. To them, it was just words. But words have power. They can cut deeper than any knife, and they leave scars that don't heal easily. I remember one morning, I refused to get out of bed. I pulled the covers over my head and said, "I'm not going." My mother came in and sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't yell. She just said, "If you stay home, they win. You have to be stronger than them."

But I wasn't strong. I was weak. I had no energy. The stress had hollowed me out, and I felt like an empty shell. Still, I got up. I got dressed. I ate a little bit of breakfast, even though the food tasted like nothing. And I walked to school with my bag slung over my shoulder, my notebook tucked safely inside.

At school, I tried to blend into the walls. I kept my head down, avoided eye contact, and spoke only when a teacher asked me a question. But the bullies always found me. They would wait for me in the hallway, or corner me in the playground. They would say the same things over and over, like a broken record. "You stink." "You sleep with Nigerians." "Makwimbi."

I never fought back. I didn't have the strength. I would just stand there, staring at the ground, waiting for them to get bored and leave. Sometimes they would shove me, or trip me as I walked away. Other times they would just laugh and walk off, leaving me standing alone.

I started eating my lunch in the library. It was quiet there, and the librarian, a kind woman named Mrs. Dlamini, didn't ask questions. She would just nod at me when I walked in, and I would find a corner table and take out my notebook. Writing became my escape. I wrote about everything: the names, the laughter, the way my heart raced every time I heard footsteps behind me. I wrote about how I felt like a ghost in my own life, invisible to everyone except the people who wanted to hurt me.

One day, Mrs. Dlamini came over to my table. She had a gentle voice, soft and warm. "You're always writing," she said. "What are you working on?"

I hesitated. I didn't want to share my story with anyone. But she had been kind to me, and kindness was rare. "It's just something I'm writing," I said. "About what's happening to me."

She sat down across from me. "Is it helping?"

I thought about it. "Yes," I said. "A little."

She smiled. "That's good. Keep writing. Sometimes the page is the only place where you can say everything you need to say."

Her words stayed with me. They made me feel like what I was doing mattered, even if no one else saw it. That afternoon, I wrote with more purpose than ever. I filled five pages, my hand cramping and my eyes burning. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. The words were the only thing keeping me afloat.

That night, I showed my notebook to my mother. I didn't read it to her, but I let her hold it. She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the words. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "I didn't know it was this bad," she said softly. "I thought... I thought you were just being dramatic."

I wanted to be angry at her. I wanted to say, "I told you. I told you over and over." But I didn't. I just said, "It's okay. I'm going to write a book. And then everyone will know."

She hugged me, and for a moment, I felt safe. But the safety didn't last. The next morning, I had to go back to school. The knot in my stomach was back, tighter than ever. I walked through the gates and saw them waiting for me: Khaukanani Mamuthubi and their friends. They were laughing, pointing at me. "Look, it's Makwimbi," one of them said.

I kept walking, my eyes on the ground. But I could feel their eyes on me, like needles pricking my skin. I wanted to run, to scream, to disappear. But I didn't. I walked into my classroom, sat down at my desk, and took out my notebook. I wrote one sentence: "Today, they called me Makwimbi again."

It was a small act of defiance. But it was enough. It reminded me that I had a voice, and that voice was not going to be silenced.

Weeks passed. The bullying continued, but I started to change. I wasn't just a victim anymore. I was a writer. I was telling a story, and that story was becoming my armor. Every time they tried to break me, I would write. Every time I felt like giving up, I would write. The notebook became my best friend, the only one who never judged me or hurt me.

One day, something unexpected happened. A boy in my class, someone I barely knew, came up to me during break. He didn't laugh or call me names. He just said, "I saw you writing in the library. Is it a story?"

I nodded, wary. "Yes."

"Can I read it sometime?"

I didn't know what to say. No one had ever asked to read my writing before. "Maybe," I said. "When I'm done."

He smiled. "Okay. I'll wait."

And then he walked away. It was a small moment, almost nothing. But it gave me hope. Maybe not everyone was cruel. Maybe there were people who would listen, who would understand.

I went home that day and wrote for hours. I wrote about the boy who asked to read my story. I wrote about Mrs. Dlamini, the librarian. I wrote about the bullies, but this time, I didn't just write about the pain. I wrote about the strength it took to keep going. I wrote about the hope that was beginning to flicker inside me, fragile but persistent.

When I finished, I closed the notebook and looked out the window. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It was beautiful, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.

I didn't know what the next day would bring. I didn't know if the bullying would ever stop, or if I would ever feel like myself again. But I knew one thing: I would keep writing. I would keep telling my story, one word at a time, until the whole world heard it.

And that was enough for now.