Johannesburg - I sometimes wonder what a tree would say about its journey growing through concrete.
Is that not a child leading a child-headed household and passing matric?
Is she not a seed trapped in a prison of grey and stone?
All of the worst case scenarios are already stacked up against her, a seed, laying dormant, but still it dreamed of sun and heat, of growing tall and stretching bone.
It pushed against the hard, cold ground, and screamed in pain as it broke through.
It never brings school home, there are too many moving parts in being a homemaker.
And as the seed broke through, the concrete scraped against her skin, leaving deep wounds, yet she pushed on, through the desert sand, where the sun beat down with merciless rays in a one room shack.
And the dry air parched her fragile leaves, but still she pushed on, through the endless days and the Ekom induced dark nights.
She pushed on with a handful of hungry bellies under candle light.
But then the rains came, and the earth softened and gave the seed a home to grow and thrive, a place to flourish and come alive amidst the dust and the heat.
Where hope and dreams are hard to meet.
Where shacks made of tin and wood, stand tall, but barely hold.
Families cramped in, as they should, with their lives on the edge of a fold.
Children play in the streets, laughter mixed with tears.
A testament to the lack in these desperate lands.
Their only refuge from the heat are the shadows cast with their hands.
The streets are dusty and worn, trampled by the feet of many children playing amidst the debris.
The smell of smoke is a reminder of the ashes here, in this harsh and unforgiving place.
Their future's uncertain, incomplete. Their childhoods filled with fears.
The smell of cooking fires fills the air in this place of struggle, a place of pain and strife.
But also a place of love, and the will to stay alive.
So the seed took root and grew and bloomed, a beauty in the desert. In the squatter camp.
For even in the harshest places, life finds a way to take hold.
Even if in the halls of learning, where knowledge is the key, and children of privilege look down on you.
They judge you by your clothes and sneer at your worn shoes, but little do they know the strength and will you choose.
With your siblings as your children, let them scoff and sneer, you have already lived many lifetimes, you are a soul leading children to hope and aim;
A seed pushing through concrete, and make its way through deserts.
And though it screams in pain and struggle,
It knows that growth is worth the fight.
For in the end, it will stand tall, a symbol of resilience and might.
Goodspeed class of 2023.