Mariya Putwa, Grade 11
UWCEA (Arusha)
When we learnt that our school- UWC East Africa, would close down, most of us couldn’t help the smiles that stretched across our faces. Exhausted with the same monotonous cycle that devoured our lives, we were ready for this unexpected break. However, as night fell, the joy that had previously buzzed through us began to die down rapidly. One by one, my friends began to receive calls from their families on the closure of their countries’ borders along with various other situations that would hinder them from flying back home. The bliss we felt as we laughed about the ensemble of ringtones swiftly evolved into disappointment. The air began to thicken as I watched the people I love choke back tears and put on a brave face. I silently watched as the lines in their faces deepened, in the span of a day they had aged years. Their eyes drooped, lashes clinging onto the tears, tears that had fallen that very afternoon as we laughed, clenching our stomachs over something stupid a classmate had said. I stared into the eyes of my roommate. She stared back, her empty gaze signifying the cruelty of the situation; my heart dropped.
We laid on the wet grass, staring up at the Arusha sky. The stars shone clearer than other days. I remember spotting two Scorpius constellations back to back. The deafening silence overwhelmed me; different thoughts raced through my head. I thought about what my friends were thinking about. I thought about my luck that I wish I could give to them. The silence and cold lulled us, my body relaxed into the earth, and I closed my eyes and embraced the land my school was built on, the land I made memories on.
As the night deepened, we sat together in a circle of comfort, laughter echoed through the Boma, our boarding house soaking up the last of our happiness. It was dark, I couldn’t see anyone’s faces, but I could feel their presence. That night we talked and did everything we wanted to, frantically trying to make the most of each other. The usual loud chirping of crickets dimmed down; I don’t remember what they sound like anymore. I remember running about rooms, hugging those I cared about tightly, wanting to preserve the feeling of them in my mind. As we stayed up till sunrise, I longingly looked around at those around me, at the place that I had just only begun to call home, snatched away from me too soon.
I think I smiled twice during my twelve-hour ride home, my mind filled with so many emotions. I felt helpless as nihilism and doubt clouded my rationality. I was so angry at the world. The very world that split my little family up left them stranded. I stared out of the window, mountains smoothed over with dense greenery zooming across my view. I was going too fast throughout my school year, and I realized that I’d give my all to go back. I struggle to hold onto memories that I wish were clearer.
A friend once told me that only when we experience real melancholy, is when we realize the emotional weight of happiness.
I can’t help but embrace the cliche of the situation. Confused teenagers, gathered together, forced to grow up too fast as a pandemic drowned our world. That night we had no one but each other, comforted by each other’s smiles and sweet nothings—our hearts filled with pain that only we could understand. Despite our diverse walks of lives, we shared the same pain, the same anger, our souls connected through our experiences. The night it all ended was warm, coloured a sunny yellow.
We laid on the wet grass, staring up at the Arusha sky. The stars shone clearer than other days. I remember spotting two Scorpius constellations back to back. The deafening silence overwhelmed me; different thoughts raced through my head. I thought about what my friends were thinking about. I thought about my luck that I wish I could give to them. The silence and cold lulled us, my body relaxed into the earth, and I closed my eyes and embraced the land my school was built on, the land I made memories on.
As the night deepened, we sat together in a circle of comfort, laughter echoed through the Boma, our boarding house soaking up the last of our happiness. It was dark, I couldn’t see anyone’s faces, but I could feel their presence. That night we talked and did everything we wanted to, frantically trying to make the most of each other. The usual loud chirping of crickets dimmed down; I don’t remember what they sound like anymore. I remember running about rooms, hugging those I cared about tightly, wanting to preserve the feeling of them in my mind. As we stayed up till sunrise, I longingly looked around at those around me, at the place that I had just only begun to call home, snatched away from me too soon.
I think I smiled twice during my twelve-hour ride home, my mind filled with so many emotions. I felt helpless as nihilism and doubt clouded my rationality. I was so angry at the world. The very world that split my little family up left them stranded. I stared out of the window, mountains smoothed over with dense greenery zooming across my view. I was going too fast throughout my school year, and I realized that I’d give my all to go back. I struggle to hold onto memories that I wish were clearer.
A friend once told me that only when we experience real melancholy, is when we realize the emotional weight of happiness.
I can’t help but embrace the cliche of the situation. Confused teenagers, gathered together, forced to grow up too fast as a pandemic drowned our world. That night we had no one but each other, comforted by each other’s smiles and sweet nothings—our hearts filled with pain that only we could understand. Despite our diverse walks of lives, we shared the same pain, the same anger, our souls connected through our experiences. The night it all ended was warm, coloured a sunny yellow.
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