Chaper 2 - The Queen of Cry

Most of my earliest memories are like smudged colors on a canvas—blurred, hazy, uncertain. Yet a few stand out, painted so vividly in my mind that even now they glow with sharp detail.

They said I was a mischievous child, always running, always crying, loud enough to earn the title of the queen of cry. A black-skinned baby in the lap of a fair-skinned mother, I was often the subject of whispers, gossip, and mocking laughter in a place where neighbors and relatives never spared anyone from judgment.

I don’t recall much about what kind of student I was then, but I do remember the first moment my heart swelled with true happiness. It was in Year 2. I had scored a perfect 20 out of 20 on my English paper. My handwriting was neat and clean, carefully shaped with a black pen. I remember holding that paper, smiling in a way so pure and genuine, as if the world around me didn’t yet exist—just me and that simple joy.

School was full of strange little moments. There were drawing exams—yes, actual exams for drawing. Even now, the thought makes me laugh. I remember sketching a bird against a small, childlike scenery, only to notice the girl beside me copying my work stroke for stroke. I grew restless, hiding my paper like it was a secret treasure, my tiny heart angry at her audacity.

But not all memories were lighthearted. Once, during play, I pushed a girl without meaning any harm. She stumbled, tumbled down the stairs, and landed headfirst into a bucket of water. She cried and cried until the teachers called my guardian. I was terrified—my mother had always punished every mistake, every wrong choice. But that day, she didn’t raise her hand. I remember sighing with relief, the fear slowly leaving me.

Final exams came, and I placed second. The sting was sharp. In Year 1, I had been first. My rival, a girl from the same neighborhood, looked at me with triumphant eyes and said, “Finally, I beat you.” Our story had begun long before school—we were born just minutes apart, in the same hospital, our mothers sharing the same bed in the maternity ward. Years later, fate would bring us to the same high school, though by then I had skipped a grade and our paths only crossed in passing.

Some memories linger not because of greatness but because of the strange detail. I remember walking past a Year 3 classroom and smelling something foul. A boy had soiled his pants. His grandmother arrived, embarrassed, to clean and collect him. The other children had been sent outside, their laughter echoing in the hallways. Years later, I saw that same boy again, still in the neighborhood, still in a class below me—he had failed, I assumed.

But there were tender memories too. My mother, despite her strictness, sometimes bought me matching hairbands for my dresses. I wore them proudly, feeling for once like the little girl she wanted me to be.

Year 2 was a blur of triumphs, mistakes, laughter, and fears. I was still too young to understand the world’s cruelties, still too innocent to recognize the weight of comparisons and judgments. All I knew was that, in moments like holding that perfect English paper or wearing a new hairband, I felt a rare, unshakable happiness.

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