Later That Night

The faint buzz of a nearby generator hummed through the walls of the apartment, a constant presence in Wuye, where power came and went like a distant memory. The air was thick with the heat of the dry season, making the small room feel even more cramped than usual.

Kyon sat on the edge of the worn mattress that doubled as a couch and bed, his phone screen still cracked, though the notification ping that had changed his life earlier that day still rang in his ears. Amina sat on the only chair in the room, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.

The apartment, barely large enough to fit both of them, had walls peeling from years of neglect, a few bare shelves leaning to one side, and a small cooking area crammed into a corner. The smell of leftover rice mixed with the faint odor of dampness, lingering from the last rain. The only window, barely wide enough for a man’s shoulder, gave a view of the dust-choked street outside. No curtains, no luxuries, just the basics.

But this was home.

Kyon cleared his throat, trying to calm the nerves that had been gnawing at him all day. “Auntie Amina... you saw the email? The scholarship.”

Amina leaned forward slightly, her hands still tightly gripped together, as if holding onto the moment, and her voice was steady, even though her heart was not. “I saw it, Kyon. I saw the scholarship. University of Sharman, in Catalania... fully paid.” Her voice faltered for just a moment. “This is a big deal, boy. This is everything we’ve worked for.”

Kyon nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the words sink in. “It doesn’t feel real... like... it’s too big for me.” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t deserve this. I’m just a kid from Wuye. I’m not... I’m not like them.”

“Ain’t no one like them,” Amina replied, a small but reassuring smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “But there’s no one like you either. You’ve got gifts, Kyon. That’s more than anyone can say. You’ve worked hard for this. You’ve got brains, you’ve got strength... you’ve got purpose. That’s why you’re leaving, to see the world and show them what you’ve got.”

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Kyon hesitated, still unsure. The scholarship had come like a wave crashing over him. One minute, he was checking his Gmail, and the next, his future was laid out before him like a road that stretched miles into the unknown. He had always dreamed of something bigger, but leaving Wuye, leaving Amina—it made his heart ache.

“I’ve never been anywhere, Auntie Amina. I’ve only ever known this neighborhood, these streets,” Kyon murmured, his voice almost lost in the shadows. “I’ve never been a "scholar". I’m just... the boy who boxes in the street, the one who lifts ice blocks. What if I don’t fit in?”

Amina’s eyes softened as she reached out, gently placing her hand on his arm. “You were born to fit in, Kyon. But remember, fitting in doesn’t mean you gotta lose yourself. Don’t try to be them. Don’t try to pretend. You are already enough. You’ve got more than enough. The whole world’s out there waiting for you.”

Her voice was full of strength, but Kyon could see the sadness behind her eyes. She was proud, but scared. Proud that he had reached a place she never could have imagined for herself, but scared of letting him go.

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly. “Since your mama passed... it’s been me and you. You’re my son now, Kyon. And I’m giving you away, not because I want to, but because I love you enough to let you go. Go and make something of yourself. Don’t forget where you come from, and don’t forget me.”

Kyon swallowed hard, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that. He looked around at the small room—at the place that had been his whole world—and realized that even though he was leaving, it would always be with him.

A Few Days Later

The day Kyon was set to leave, the air felt different. The heat of the dry season lingered in the streets of Wuye, the neighborhood buzzing with life as people hustled to make a living. Amina stood by the side of the road, a worried frown on her face as she held Kyon’s duffel bag. She was already dressed in her best outfit—a simple but clean dress—and she held Kyon’s hands tightly in hers, as if she didn’t want to let go.

The tricycle carrying the ice blocks had just driven off, and the streets were quieter now, the usual hum of activity replaced by the soft sounds of Kyon’s departure.

Amina looked up at him, her eyes moist, and smiled. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

Kyon gave a slight nod. “I’ll be back. I promise. But this is... it’s the beginning, Amina. I have to go.”

“I know,” she said softly, her voice filled with a quiet pride. “And I know you’re going to make it. Just don’t forget where you come from. Don’t forget me.”

Kyon smiled, squeezing her hand tightly. “I won’t forget. Ever.”

With one last look at the neighborhood, Kyon felt a tightness in his chest. The road ahead was uncertain, but Amina’s strength filled him with a sense of purpose. He was leaving, but he wasn’t alone. Not really.