Cassandra The African Girl (COMPLETE) (EDITED)

Chapter 2

Kgosi's invitation echoed in my mind, drowning out the noise of the bus as I journeyed home. Excitement mingled with nerves, creating a whirlwind of emotions that left me both elated and anxious.

"Hey, honey, how was school?" Dad's voice broke through my thoughts as I entered the house.

"It was magical," I replied, my words tinged with a strange, theatrical tone that even I found odd.

"Okay?" Dad's confusion was evident, but I brushed past him, eager to retreat to the sanctuary of my room.

As I set my bag down, a nagging feeling tugged at the corners of my mind. Something was off—dad's early arrival was out of the ordinary. He never came home before nine or ten, so his presence at this hour sparked a sense of unease.

Descending the stairs once more, I sought answers from Dad, my heart pounding with apprehension.

"Dad, why are you home so early?" I asked, the worry evident in my voice. "Is everything okay?"

For a moment, Dad stood in silence, his expression heavy with sorrow and regret. It was as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, burdened by news he struggled to convey.

"I didn't want to break it to you like this, honey, but... well, we're moving," he finally admitted.

The words hit me like a ton of bricks, leaving me reeling in disbelief. "What do you mean we're moving? How? And to where?"

Dad's revelation shattered the fragile illusion of stability I had clung to, leaving me feeling adrift in a sea of uncertainty. He had promised we wouldn't move again, that South Africa would be our forever home.

"We're moving to the United States," Dad revealed, his voice tinged with resignation.

"No, no, no! Dad, we can't move. You promised," I protested, tears streaming down my cheeks. "How could you?"

Dad's attempts to reassure me fell on deaf ears as I railed against the injustice of it all. America held no appeal for me—it was just another stop on our never-ending journey, another chapter in a life defined by transience.

"Sweetie, I understand you're upset, but this wasn't my choice," Dad pleaded, his voice laced with desperation.

"Then whose choice was it? Mine?" I retorted bitterly, my anger bubbling to the surface.

Before Dad could respond, I stormed off to my room, slamming the door shut behind me. The words spilled from my lips like venom, fueled by a sense of betrayal that threatened to consume me.

"I hate you! I wish you and Mom had never met!" I cried out, the words hanging heavy in the air.

With a heavy heart, I sank onto my bed, consumed by a sense of despair. This wasn't the first time we had uprooted our lives, but each move brought with it a fresh wave of pain and loneliness.

As I grappled with my emotions, memories of our previous relocations flooded my mind. Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania—each country held its own horrors, leaving scars that refused to fade.

And now, America loomed on the horizon, promising a future fraught with uncertainty and upheaval. I had no desire to embark on yet another adventure, no wish to leave behind the only stability I had ever known.

Dad's gentle knock on the door interrupted my thoughts, but I remained silent, unwilling to engage in conversation. What could I possibly say to him that would make any difference?

Reluctantly, I emerged from my room and followed Dad to the living room, my heart heavy with the weight of impending change. But as he attempted to bridge the divide between us, I found myself at a loss for words, my emotions too tangled to unravel.