Grade 8, African House College
Once upon a time he said, “The future is in your hands, son.” This was while I was seeing my future flashing before my eyes. Through a window engulfed in fire, I saw community members running around with buckets full of water like ants on a mission. Old women had their arms extended, and were yelling, “Sizani!” In a slip of a second, my mother’s lifeless body was on the floor. My father kept on trying to break the door down. All was in vain, as he was panting like a marathon runner.
All he kept on saying was, “I won’t let anything happen to you and your mother.” I was so confused by everything that was happening. I could hardly breath as the smoke from the fire found residence in my lungs. I tried to remember what might have started the fire at that time of the night. After what seemed to have been two hours of hell, I heard sirens, bringing me some hope that we would be saved. My father fell on his knees and said, “The future is in your hands, son.” I cried, begged him to hang in there. I could feel the blazing fire on my skin.
I tried to interact with him, but he was not moving anymore. I felt dizzy and passed out at that very moment.
“He’s not responding,” one nurse shouted. I opened my eyes, and I was covered in what can never be erased, something with greater power than memories. I was covered in scars that will never fade. I moved around with a reminder of the death of both my parents as a result of a cigarette that ended in the wrong place at the wrong time.