Lusaka. The air was thick with the scent of dust and roasted maize, a symphony of honking taxis and the guttural calls of street vendors. It was a far cry from the serenity I craved, especially in the claustrophobic confines of Lusaka High. But that's where I was, on the receiving end of yet another undeserved punishment.
'Go and stand in the corner, Emmanuel!' Mrs. Chibwe barked, her voice like nails on a chalkboard.
My name is Emmanuel, but I was often mistaken for my brother, Enock, a veritable whirlwind of mischief who seemed to possess an innate talent for causing chaos. This particular incident involved a rogue water balloon launched across the classroom, a direct hit on the principal's pristine, white shoes. Unfortunately for me, I happened to be sitting in the same row as Enock, and sharing a rather unfortunate resemblance with him, which included a mop of unruly hair and a tendency to laugh at the silliest things.
'See, I told you it was Emmanuel!' Enock, who had been hiding behind a bookshelf, cackled, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
Mrs. Chibwe, oblivious to Enock's gleeful confession, glared at me. 'I know who you are, Emmanuel. You think you're clever, always causing trouble.'
I slumped against the rough brick wall, the injustice of it all settling in my stomach like a brick. It wasn't about cleverness, it was about being perpetually stuck in Enock's shadow, a silent victim of his antics. Every prank, every mischievous act was attributed to me, even when I swore I was merely an innocent bystander.
This wasn't a new experience. It started in primary school, with a harmless chalk-drawing on the chalkboard (my fault? Not really) and escalated to accusations of stealing sweets from the canteen (Enock's fault, I swear). I was a perpetual scapegoat, the silent, suffering twin.
One day, during a particularly intense punishment session, I had enough. Enock was suspended for a week, for orchestrating a 'bomb' made out of firecrackers that sent the entire school into a frenzy. While he was off gallivanting around town, I was forced to stay in school, doing extra cleaning duty.
'No fair!' I cried out, a desperate plea for justice echoing in the empty classroom. 'It was Enock, I didn't do anything!'
Mrs. Chibwe, who was sweeping the classroom with a scowl etched on her face, stopped and turned to me. 'Emmanuel,' she said, her voice surprisingly calm. 'I know you're a good boy. But sometimes, you have to learn to take responsibility for your own actions.'
I was dumbfounded. Was she actually questioning my innocence? I opened my mouth to protest, but the words wouldn't come out.
'If you truly didn't do it,' she continued, 'then tell me. What was Enock doing while you were in class?'
I paused, a new thought forming in my mind. I had never actually thought about Enock's whereabouts during these incidents. 'I don't know, Mrs. Chibwe,' I admitted, feeling a flicker of doubt.
'That's right,' she said, her voice softening. 'Because you were focused on your own work, weren't you?'
I swallowed, the sudden shift in the atmosphere heavy with unspoken truths. Perhaps, just perhaps, I was too quick to assume that Enock was always the culprit. Maybe, just maybe, I was letting his mischievous shadow obscure my own actions.
It was a revelation. I wasn't just a victim of circumstances, a silent observer to Enock's escapades. I was complicit, allowing his behavior to define me, to overshadow my own identity.
From that day onwards, I started to pay more attention. I observed Enock's actions, his sly smiles, his uncanny ability to disappear at the most opportune moments. And it was during one of these observation sessions that I finally caught him red-handed – literally, smearing red paint on the school's newly painted wall.
This time, I didn't hesitate. I marched over to the Principal's office, my heart pounding with newfound confidence. 'It was Enock, sir,' I declared, holding up a paint-stained finger.
For the first time, I wasn't the scapegoat, but the whistleblower. The truth, I realized, was a powerful weapon. And while I knew that Enock and his antics would continue, I was determined to find my own identity, to carve my own path, out of his shadow and into the bright sunlight of Lusaka. Because even amidst the chaos and injustice, even in the heart of this dusty, bustling city, I could finally be myself, Emmanuel, the twin who was no longer defined by his mischievous brother.
