The little lies we tell ourselves

In 2016, my mom's search for the right school for us in Windhoek continued. She was determined to find a better future for me and my brother, but the reality was harsher than we anticipated. We spent the holidays in the city, hoping for a miracle. She almost managed to enroll us, but it was too late—schools were full, and we were left out, stranded.

But by then, my heart was already somewhere else. I had a new boyfriend. A guy who, unlike the one in the village, was charming, spoke English fluently, and was part of my best friend's family. His attraction to me was based on the idea that I was leaving the village for Windhoek, that I was going to a new life, and he wanted to be a part of that. But when I didn't leave, when I stayed in the village, everything changed.

He turned cold, bitter. I could feel it, but I couldn't let go. I clung to him, loved him with a desperation that I now see was unhealthy. More than I loved my first boyfriend, I loved this one. His words, his presence, his indifference—it all wrapped around me, pulling me into a web of self-doubt and low self-worth.

As if that wasn't enough, my grades began to drop. I had always been a good student, but now, I was distracted. My heart was preoccupied with love and my head was filled with thoughts of him, thoughts of whether he cared, whether he even wanted me. By the end of the semester, I came second in class—an embarrassing drop from the first-place title I'd once worn proudly.

But the truth was, I hadn't read. I hadn't studied. I was too busy playing, being wrapped up in love, and being foolish. When I had to explain myself to my family, I lied. I told them one of my exam papers had been lost. I couldn't admit the truth—that I had been neglecting my studies for something as fleeting and empty as a boy's affection.

And then, the humiliation hit. He told me, right in front of my friends, to erase his name from my shoes. He didn't want anything to do with me anymore. That was it. The betrayal, the shame, the embarrassment—I could feel my cheeks burn. My friends laughed, some of them out of sympathy, others out of spite. It felt like the world had collapsed around me. My heart, so full of love and hope, was shattered by the very person I thought I could trust.

But I didn't stop. I kept pretending. I kept telling myself the lies. That it was all just a phase. That I would get over it. But deep down, I knew I was drowning in my own self-deception.