The chosen

President Russell M. Nelson: "Repentance is not a punishment, it's a gift." I remember the way he spoke in the General Conference that year. I was going through a lot of difficult times, and his words touched me deeply. Present day. Me: "Cuz, I'm going to BYU to register." Wayne (cuz): "Alright, no problem." I decided to give this BYU Pathway program a chance, even though I had never heard of it before. It might change my life. On my way, I met my friend Sfiso—he's also applying. I went to apply, and when I arrived, I was warmly welcomed with smiles and happiness. A service missionary named Elder Houdson sat down with me and switched on the computer—my favorite one now, number 39. Then he opened the website, and I clicked "Apply." Elder Houdson: "Alright, let's apply. What is your name?" Me: "Hlomla." Elder Houdson: "Alright, no problem." The room carried a quiet hum, the kind of silence that wasn't empty but expectant, like it was waiting for something to begin. I stepped inside, still unsure of what this "Pathway" program really was, but the warmth of the smiles that greeted me made me feel as though I belonged. Elder Houdson, a service missionary with a calm presence, motioned me toward a desk. His badge caught the light as he leaned forward, switching on the computer. The screen flickered to life, glowing softly, and I noticed the number etched on the side: 39. I didn't know why, but that number felt important, almost like it had been waiting for me. He adjusted the chair so I could sit comfortably, then opened the browser. Elder Houdson: "Alright, let's apply. What is your name?" I hesitated for a moment. Saying my name out loud felt heavier than usual, as if it carried all the weight of my past struggles and all the hope of my future. Me: "Hlomla." He typed it in carefully, his fingers steady on the keyboard. Elder Houdson: "Alright, no problem." The words were simple, but they carried reassurance. It was as if he was saying, Your name belongs here. You belong here. The application page loaded, rows of questions waiting to be answered. Elder Houdson leaned back slightly, giving me space but staying close enough to guide me. Elder Houdson: "Let's start with the basics. Where are you from?" Me: "Johannesburg." He nodded, typing it in. Elder Houdson: "Good. And your email address?" I gave it to him, watching as each letter appeared on the screen. With every keystroke, I felt the future taking shape. The questions kept coming — education, goals, reasons for applying. Some were straightforward, but others made me pause. Why do you want to join Pathway? I stared at the words, realizing they weren't just asking for information. They were asking for my story. I spoke slowly, almost as if confessing: Me: "I want to change my life. I want to give myself a chance." Elder Houdson looked up from the screen, his eyes kind. Elder Houdson: "That's exactly what this program is for." His voice carried conviction, and for the first time, I believed it. We continued, question after question, until the form began to feel less like paperwork and more like a doorway. Each answer was a step forward, each click a declaration that I was choosing a different path. When we reached the final section, Elder Houdson smiled. Elder Houdson: "Alright, Hlomla. That's it. You're officially applying." He pressed the button, and the screen shifted. I watched the words Application Submitted appear, glowing against the white background. My heart raced. It was done. I leaned back in the chair, staring at computer number 39. It wasn't just a machine anymore — it was a witness. A witness to the moment I chose to believe in something new. Elder Houdson stood, offering his hand. Elder Houdson: "Congratulations. You've taken the first step." I shook his hand firmly, feeling a surge of gratitude. The room seemed brighter, the silence now filled with possibility. And as I walked out, I carried with me not just the memory of the application, but the certainty that this was more than paperwork. It was the beginning of a chapter I had been waiting to write. Elder Houdson: Alright, looks like we're done here. So you will be starting next month. We are just one week away. A wave of happiness washed over me as I realized I would finally be studying and advancing my education. Afternoon Scene: Lefika La Phodiso Art Centre The afternoon sun stretched across Johannesburg, painting the streets in gold and shadow. My heart was still light from the morning's victory — the application submitted, the doorway opened. But the day was far from over. I made my way to Lefika La Phodiso Art Centre, a place that always seemed to breathe creativity. The building stood quietly, yet inside it pulsed with color, voices, and the rhythm of brushes against canvas. Children laughed in one corner, their sketches scattered across the tables. A group of young artists debated shades of blue, their hands stained with paint. The walls carried stories — murals layered with hope, grief, and resilience. As I stepped inside, I felt the shift. The art center wasn't just a building; it was a sanctuary. Here, pain found expression, and joy found form. The air smelled faintly of acrylic and clay, and every corner seemed alive with possibility. I paused, taking it all in. The morning had been about paperwork and names typed into a computer. The afternoon was about colors, voices, and the reminder that life itself is an art form. Afternoon Dialogue: Hlomla and Miss Rozanne The art center buzzed softly with the sounds of brushes scratching against canvas and voices rising in gentle debate. I wandered past a mural in progress, its colors spilling like sunlight across the wall, until I noticed Miss Rozanne seated at a table surrounded by sketches. Her presence carried a calm authority, the kind that made the room feel anchored. She looked up as I approached, her smile warm and knowing. Miss Rozanne: "Ah, Hlomla. You look lighter today. Something good must have happened." I nodded, unable to hide the grin spreading across my face. Me: "Yes, Miss Rozanne. I applied for the BYU Pathway program this morning. Elder Houdson helped me through it." Her eyes brightened, and she set down the pencil she had been holding. Miss Rozanne: "That's wonderful news. You've taken a brave step. How did it feel, sitting there, typing in your name?" I paused, remembering the glow of computer number 39, the hum of possibility. Me: "It felt... different. Like my name wasn't just letters anymore. It was a promise. A doorway." She leaned back, folding her arms thoughtfully. Miss Rozanne: "That's exactly what education can be — a doorway. But remember, it's not just about the classes. It's about how you carry yourself, how you grow, and how you give back." I glanced around the art center, at the children laughing, at the murals layered with stories. Me: "That's why I came here this afternoon. Lefika reminds me that growth isn't only in books. It's in colors, voices, and people." Her smile deepened, touched with pride. Miss Rozanne: "You understand more than you realize, Hlomla. The path you've chosen will test you, but it will also shape you. And here, in this space, you'll always find strength." I felt the weight of her words settle inside me, steady and reassuring. The morning had given me a doorway, but the afternoon gave me roots. To be continued The moon slowly fades away Evening Conflict Scene The moon slowly faded beyond the horizon, leaving the house wrapped in the heavy stillness of night. Inside, the silence didn't last long. A voice broke through, sharp and impatient. Family Member: "Why don't you clean this? And that? Every time I come in here, it's the same mess!" The words echoed against the walls, louder than they needed to be. I felt the sting immediately, though I hadn't even answered yet. Me: "I was busy today. I had things to do. I can't always get to everything." The tension thickened, like smoke filling the room. Footsteps paced across the floor, the frustration refusing to settle. Family Member: "Busy? There's always an excuse. Look at the dishes, look at the floor. You think they'll clean themselves?" I clenched my hands, fighting the urge to shout back. The day had been full of hope — the application, the art center — but now the evening pressed down with conflict. Me: "I'm trying. I really am. But sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, it's never enough." The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of unspoken emotions hanging between us. The fading moon outside seemed symbolic — light retreating, shadows rising, and the battle of home life beginning again. So many problems, and the year just started, and I feel like going away. Why aren't they going away? What am I still in the same series of narcissistic people I live with? Mom: Hlomla! "Didn't I tell you to wash the dishes and clean?" Why do you act like you're the only one important"? Uncle: "You're not the only one important; you have to put your family first," and you will follow. Uncle's wife: I know that you make yourself the only important one, and you make yourself like you are better than us. I stand there, silent, while their voices overlap—layered accusations, each one heavier than the last. None of them asks why I didn't do the housework. None of them notices the weight sitting on my chest, the exhaustion that makes even standing feel like a chore. To them, I'm not tired. I'm not struggling. I'm just selfish. I look at their faces as they talk about me, not to me. It feels like I'm shrinking, like the room is getting smaller and there's no space left for me to breathe. I want to scream that I'm trying. That some days just existing feels like work. That I don't think I'm important—I think I'm invisible. But the words stay stuck in my throat. So I do what I've learned to do best. I stay quiet. I swallow the pain. And I let them believe the worst of me. Mom: Don't just stand there, go! Wash the dishes. Part 2: The Room That Knew Everything The door closed behind me with a soft click, but it felt louder than all their voices combined. I leaned my back against it for a second, breathing as I had just run a race I never signed up for. My room was small, but it was the only place where I was allowed to exist without explaining myself. I dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. "So I'm the problem," I muttered to myself, my voice barely louder than a thought. "Always the problem." The walls didn't answer, but they listened. They always did. I replayed their words over and over—my mom's sharp disappointment, my uncle's commanding tone, his wife's certainty, as she had already decided who I was and sealed it in stone. None of them asked why. None of them wondered if I was tired, or overwhelmed, or just... human. I clenched my fists. "They think I don't care," I said, swallowing hard. "They think I'm better than they." A bitter laugh escaped me. "If only they knew how small I feel." I sat up, elbows on my knees, head hanging low. My thoughts were louder than the shouting outside. I wanted to scream that I wasn't lazy—that sometimes getting out of bed already felt like a chore. That my mind was always somewhere else, fighting battles no one could see. "But you can't say that, can you?" I whispered to myself. "Because then you're 'dramatic'. Or 'disrespectful'. Or 'playing victim'." I lay back again and pressed my forearm over my eyes. Why was it so easy for them to believe the worst about me? I thought about how often I tried to disappear—staying quiet, staying in my room, staying out of the way—yet somehow that still made me guilty. Existing felt like a mistake; I kept apologizing for it without ever apologizing out loud. "Maybe I really am selfish," I said, then shook my head slowly. "No... I'm just tired of proving my worth." The room felt heavy, like it was holding my breath with me. Somewhere outside, life continued—voices, footsteps, laughter—but here, time slowed down. It was just me and the truth I never said to anyone. I wasn't trying to be the most important one. I was just trying not to disappear. I lay on my bed, and scratched the pillow, Then, my phone buzzed. Once. Then stopped. I ignored it at first, staring at the wall like it had answers I was too afraid to ask. Phones usually meant more instructions. More complaints. More reminders of what I hadn't done. Then it buzzed again. I sighed and reached for it, barely looking at the screen. Unknown number. "Great," I muttered. "What now?" I answered without greeting. "Hello?" For a second, there was only breathing on the other side. Slow. Careful. Like, whoever it was, didn't want to scare me away. Then a voice—quiet, but steady. "Hlomla," it said. My chest tightened. "Who is this?" A pause. Then the words came. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just... real. "You're not alone." Three words. That was it. I didn't speak. I couldn't. My throat closed up like it had been waiting for those exact words to arrive before giving up. The voice continued, softer now. "I don't know everything you're carrying. I don't know what they said to you. But I know what it feels like to sit in a room and think nobody sees you." My grip on the phone tightened. "I see you," the voice said. "Even if you don't see yourself right now." Something inside me cracked—not loudly, not all at once—but enough for a tear to slip down the side of my face. I wiped it away quickly, like I was afraid someone might catch me being human. "... Why are you calling me?" I finally whispered. Another pause. Then: "Because silence can be dangerous," the voice replied. "And because sometimes all a person needs is to hear that they still matter." I leaned back against the wall, the phone pressed into my ear, heart beating like it was trying to remember how to live. For the first time that night, the room didn't feel so heavy. For the first time, I didn't feel invisible. Three words. And somehow, they were enough to keep me here. TO BE CONTINUED