FATES CROSSROADS

BEYOND MY YEARS

CHAPTER 3 : BEYOND MY YEARS

School had become a second home to us. By now, I was in Grade 2, Lucky was in Grade 4, and my twin sister, Talia, was also in Grade 2. We had settled into a routine—waking up early, wearing our neatly ironed uniforms, and heading off to school in our dad’s Mazda Demio.

Most days were normal, filled with lessons, playtime, and the occasional homework struggles. But one particular day changed everything for me.

It started with a fight.

I don't remember how it began exactly—maybe it was a small argument, maybe the other kid pushed me first, or maybe I just had enough of their attitude. All I knew was that we fought. Not the kind of fight that gets desks overturned or teachers rushing in, but a quiet, quick one—just enough to settle the issue without drawing attention.

At least, that’s what I thought.

No teacher had seen it. No one had come to stop us. So by the time the last bell rang and we were lined up for evening parade, I was sure the incident was behind me.

Then, I heard my name.

"Lucky, Grade 4... Dahlia, Grade 2... report to the principal’s office."

My heart dropped.

I was frozen in place. Was it because of the fight? Had the other student gone and snitched? And if so, why wasn’t their name called too? Maybe the teacher had found out some other way. Maybe there was a hidden camera in class.

A thousand thoughts ran through my head as I walked to the office, my stomach twisting with nerves.

The principal sat at his desk, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look angry, which was a good sign, but he also didn’t look like someone about to give me good news.

He looked up and, in the calmest voice, said, "Bring your parent to school tomorrow."

That was it. No explanation. No scolding. Just that one sentence.

I left the office more confused than ever.

On the way home, I kept wondering—was it about the fight? Was it something else? I had never been summoned to bring a parent before. I was too scared to tell Mum, knowing she would press for details. So, I went to Dad.

He was relaxing on the couch when I approached him.

"Dad," I started hesitantly, "the principal asked you to come to school tomorrow."

Dad raised an eyebrow. "Ulikosa shuleni?" (Did you misbehave in school?)

I quickly shook my head. "No."

It was a lie. A small one. But I wasn’t about to admit anything before I knew what this was about.

The next morning, Dad and I drove to school. My heart pounded the whole way, but I tried to stay calm. Maybe, just maybe, the principal had forgotten about the fight.

When we arrived, we were ushered into the office. The principal greeted my dad warmly, offering him a seat.

"Mr. Bumpy," he began, "your daughter is exceptionally bright. We’ve been monitoring her progress, and she’s ahead of her class. We’d like to move her from Grade 2 to Grade 3."

I almost sighed in relief. It wasn’t about the fight!

Dad smiled proudly. "That’s good news. She works hard."

I beamed. Not only was I getting promoted, but my secret was safe!

But the moment we stepped out of the office, my excitement faded.

Talia stood outside, watching us suspiciously.

"Where were you?" she asked, frowning.

"Nowhere," I said quickly, trying to walk past her.

But she wasn’t buying it. She stormed off to ask the teacher, and when she found out that I was being moved to Grade 3, she burst into tears.

"I want to go, too!" she wailed.

Dad and I exchanged glances. We both knew there was no way Talia would let this go.

So, after a long talk with the teachers and a lot of pleading from Talia, she was also moved to Grade 3.

By the end of the day, the fight was long forgotten. What started as one of the most nerve-wracking days of my life turned into a victory.

Talia and I were now in Grade 3. Lucky was still ahead in Grade 4, but at least I was no longer two grades behind him.

And best of all? Dad was proud.

While other kids were fascinated by games and cartoons, I was drawn to something different—knowledge. Books became my best friends, shaping how I saw the world. But it wasn’t just about reading; it was about understanding, questioning, and thinking ahead.

One day, when we were barely in Grade 3, our Science and Technology teacher stood in front of the class and threw a challenge at us.

"Why do electric wires appear saggy in cold weather?" he asked, scanning the room.

The class fell silent. I could see the confusion in my classmates’ eyes. Some whispered, trying to guess the answer. Others simply shrugged.

The teacher smiled and shook his head. "It’s okay. This is too advanced for you guys. You’ll learn it in Grade 7."

I hesitated for a moment, then raised my hand.

The teacher looked surprised. "Yes?"

I cleared my throat and began explaining. "The sagging of electric wires is caused by thermal contraction and expansion. When it’s hot, the metal expands, making the wires tighter. But when it gets cold, the metal contracts, causing the wires to sag because they lose tension."

I saw the teacher’s eyebrows shoot up. I continued, using words I had picked up from my readings—conductivity, thermal expansion, resistance. The whole class stared at me, some in awe, others in disbelief.

When I finished, there was silence.

Then the teacher smiled. "That… was correct. And impressive. I didn’t expect anyone in this class to know that."

I remember the feeling in that moment—the rush of excitement, the pride of knowing that my hunger for knowledge had set me apart. It wasn’t about being the smartest in the room. It was about thinking beyond what was expected, about challenging limits, about always being a step ahead.

That day, I wasn’t just another Grade 3 student. I was the kid who had just answered a Grade 7 question with confidence. And that was just the beginning.

I wasn’t just a reader—I was a seeker, drawn to words that held wisdom far beyond my years.

At the age of seven, I came across a book that shifted something deep within me—Think Big by Ben Carson. It wasn’t a brightly illustrated children's book or a short novel with simple words. It was a story of resilience, discipline, and the power of the mind. It told me that intelligence wasn’t something you were simply born with—it was something you earned. That success wasn’t for the lucky but for those who worked for it.

That book wasn’t just an inspiration—it was a gateway. It unlocked a hunger in me, a thirst to understand more, to think deeper, to see the world differently.

From that moment on, I was no longer just any other student in the school library. While my classmates rushed to the middle-school section, reaching for James Patterson’s Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life or Diary of a Wimpy Kid, I found myself scanning the shelves for something more. I wanted books that made me question the world, books that challenged the way I thought.

I began looking for books that held power within their pages. Books like The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene. At my age, I barely understood its complexity, but I was fascinated by the way power worked, how influence shaped people’s lives, and how knowledge could be a weapon. While other kids laughed over comic strips, I sat in a quiet corner, flipping through pages about strategy, leadership, and ambition.

Teachers noticed.

"You're reading this?" one asked, holding up a book that was far from the usual school syllabus.

I just nodded.

They didn’t understand it. Maybe they thought I was too young to grasp such concepts. But to me, every page was a lesson. Every book was an opportunity.

It wasn’t long before this mindset began shaping the way I carried myself. I started thinking differently, speaking differently, even acting differently. My conversations weren’t about cartoons or school gossip—they were about ideas, success, and discipline. I had no interest in the things that fascinated my age mates.

This difference set me apart. My teachers saw it. My classmates saw it. Soon, I wasn’t just an ordinary student—I was chosen to be a prefect.

But my thirst for knowledge didn’t stop at school. At home, I would go to my dad and challenge him with questions—big, complicated ones that no seven-year-old had any business asking.

"Why do people in power fear losing control?"

"Can someone be truly self-made, or do we all rely on connections?"

"If someone is intelligent but lazy, will they still succeed?"

Most of the time, he’d pause, look at me with a mix of amusement and admiration, then shake his head.

"You are a genius," he’d say.

And maybe I was. Or maybe I had just tapped into something most kids hadn’t yet discovered—that knowledge was the most powerful thing a person could have.

To some, being a prefect was just another school responsibility. To me, it was proof that my mindset, discipline, and hunger for knowledge had set me apart. I wasn’t just any kid. I was a kid who had already decided that my life was meant for something greater.

While others were growing up to fit into the world, I was growing up to change it.