The heat of Lusaka hung heavy, a suffocating blanket that pressed down on the tin roof of your childhood home. You remember the afternoons, the sun blazing like a furnace, your younger brother, Ben, sprawled on the worn-out rug, eyes glazed over, mimicking your own listlessness. He was too young to understand the weight of your bad behavior, but you knew, deep down, that you were setting a bad example.
It started with small things, a stolen biscuit from the kitchen, a lie to your mother about your chores. But as you grew older, the transgressions grew bolder. You skipped school, loitered with the wrong crowd, and came home with stories that made your mother's face pale. Ben, watching with wide, innocent eyes, absorbed it all. He mirrored your actions, mimicking your swagger with a seriousness that was both unsettling and heartbreaking.
One afternoon, you found Ben and your younger sister, Grace, outside the house, playing ‘shop’ with a pile of broken toys. Ben, playing the role of the shopkeeper, was bargaining with Grace, his face contorted in a grimace that mirrored your own when you were trying to con someone out of their money. He was just a child, mimicking a behavior he had seen you display countless times.
'Just a penny, madam, just a penny for this fine piece of merchandise,' he said, holding out a broken toy truck.
Grace, mimicking your mother’s sternness, retorted, 'Don’t try to cheat me, boy! I know I can get this for a better price at the market.'
You stood there, a wave of shame washing over you. You had no money, no job, no prospects, and your actions had shaped your siblings into miniature versions of yourself, devoid of innocence, but filled with a cynicism that was far too young for them.
One day, your mother found Ben hiding a stolen sweet in his pocket. He knew he was caught and his eyes welled up with tears as he tried to explain that he just wanted to 'feel big like you.' He didn't know what that meant, but he knew it was something you did.
That night, your mother sat you down. Her eyes, usually so warm and welcoming, were filled with a pain that you'd never seen before. Her voice, usually filled with laughter and stories, was a low, steady tremor. 'You have to stop,' she said. 'You're not just hurting yourself, you're hurting them too.'
Her words pierced through you like a sharp blade. You had become a walking, breathing example of everything bad, and your younger siblings were learning from you. You saw the fear in Ben's eyes, the confusion in Grace's. You were the older brother, the one they looked up to, and you had failed them.
A deep sense of responsibility settled over you. You knew you needed to change. It wasn't easy, but you started small. You picked up your chores, went back to school, and began to spend more time with your siblings, trying to show them a different version of yourself.
The journey was long and arduous. You stumbled, you fell, but you kept trying. You learned that change begins with one step, one act, one good decision at a time. You had to learn to be a better brother, a better person, and show your siblings that they deserved more than the cynical shadow you had cast.
The heat of Lusaka remained, but the suffocating blanket felt lighter. You still had a lot of work to do, but you were finally on the right path. The children in your home were no longer mimicking your bad behavior, but were discovering their own paths, their own dreams, and their own innocence.
And as you watched Ben and Grace laugh and play, a flicker of hope ignited within you. You had a chance to rewrite the story, to be the role model they needed, to be the brother they deserved. The path ahead was uncertain, but the future, at last, felt a little less heavy, a little less burdened by the weight of your past.
