I wake up before sunrise, the rooster’s crow slicing through the cool mist that hangs over our small farm in the outskirts of madibogo. The house, a modest two‑room brick structure with a tin roof, is already alive with the shuffle of my five younger siblings—Mira (14), Juma (12), Lila (9), Tayo (7) and baby Zara (4)—still tangled in their blankets. At 21, I’m the oldest sibling, the one who’s supposed to have a plan, a path, a future. Instead, I’m juggling school books, a part‑time job at the local market, and the endless rhythm of cooking, cleaning, and keeping everyone safe.My parents left for the city two years ago, chasing work that never materialized. A text message every few days, a promise of sending money “soon,” and a hollow silence that fills the house when the night falls. So, I became the mother, the tutor, the disciplinarian, and the only adult figure my siblings see daily. Breakfast is maize porridge; lunch is whatever we can pull from the garden—carrots, beans, sometimes a chicken egg if the hen cooperated. Dinner is a prayer that the power stays on long enough to finish homework.Every evening, after the chores are done, I sit on the cracked porch steps, Zara asleep on my lap, and stare at the horizon where the sun bleeds orange into the hills. I think about my own dreams—studying environmental science, maybe working with a NGO that protects the wetlands near us. Those aspirations feel like a distant song playing on a broken radio; the volume is low, the signal keeps .There are small victories that keep me moving. The day Mira finally solved a math problem on her own, her grin lighting up the kitchen. Juma’s first goal in the village soccer tournament, his shout of “We won!” echoing across the fields. Tayo’s hand slipping into mine as we walk to the well, trusting me to carry the bucket. Those moments remind me why I keep pushing, even when fatigue settles deep in my bones.Time is my scarcest resource. Between fetching water, fixing a leaking roof, and helping with homework, my own assignments pile up. I’ve missed lectures, skipped online classes, and watched my scholarship deadline slip further away. I apply for bursaries, send emails late at night, and every rejection feels like another brick on the wall I’m trying to climb.Yet, the biggest barrier isn’t financial—it’s mental. The guilt of wanting more for myself while my siblings need me now. The fear that if I step away, the fragile balance we’ve built will crumble. I wonder: Will I ever get a chance to leave this place and chase my goals, or will my future be defined by the responsibilities I carry today?Last month, a community centre opened in the next town, offering free evening classes in sustainable farming and a mentorship program for young leaders. I signed up, and for the first time in months, I felt a spark. Maybe the answer isn’t running away from my duties, but weaving my aspirations into the fabric of our daily life—learning techniques to improve our garden, teaching the kids what I discover, and slowly building a network that can lift us all.Living rurally, caring for five siblings at 21, is a paradox of strength and limitation. My dreams are tangled with responsibility, but they’re not dead. Each sunrise is a reminder that the world keeps moving, and with every small step—whether it’s a finished assignment, a harvested carrot, or a smile from Zara—I gather the courage to believe that success isn’t a straight road. It’s a winding path, and I’m learning to walk it while holding my siblings’ hands.