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MidReal Story
From Senete to Success
Scenario:Title: "From Senete to Success: A Pharmacy Technician's Journey"
Acknowledgments
In the creation of "From Senete to Success: A Pharmacy Technician's Journey," we express our deep gratitude to the individuals whose contributions and support have made this narrative possible.
To Austin Maleko's family, your unwavering belief in the power of education and dreams has been a guiding light throughout this journey. The sacrifices and encouragement you provided have enriched the narrative with depth and purpose.
To Mma and Rra Maleko, Austin's grandparents, your love and wisdom have resonated through the pages of this story, shaping the protagonist's character and inspiring readers. Your legacy is a testament to the importance of familial support.
To Sarona Kemong, Austin's beloved, your role in providing support, healing, and motivation has added layers of emotion and depth to this narrative. Your presence in Austin's life is a poignant reminder of the transformative power of love.
Our sincere appreciation goes to the faculty and mentors at Boitekanelo College. Your expertise, guidance, and encouragement have shaped Austin's academic journey and enriched the narrative with authenticity.
To Austin's colleagues and friends, your camaraderie and support have lent authenticity to the storytelling, portraying the importance of relationships in the pursuit of success.
To the city of Gaborone, your embrace of Austin as a professional has infused the narrative with the spirit of community and belonging. The city itself becomes a character, reflecting the protagonist's growth and achievements.
To the younger generations inspired by Austin's journey, may this narrative serve as a beacon of hope and motivation. May it remind you that dreams are attainable with determination, perseverance, and a supportive community.
Finally, we extend our gratitude to the creative team behind this narrative. Your dedication to storytelling has brought "From Senete to Success: A Pharmacy Technician's Journey" to life, capturing the essence of Austin's inspiring odyssey.
This narrative is a tribute to the resilience of the human spirit, the transformative power of education, and the enduring support of loved ones. It stands as a testament to the belief that, with the right foundation and unwavering determination, one can turn dreams into reality.
Create my version of this story
Austin Maleko
and proud. Austin's journey begins with humble beginnings, facing challenges such as poverty and limited resources. With the support of his grandparents, he pursues education, defying odds and turning his life around. His love story with Sarona Kemong and his success are testaments to his unwavering spirit and dreams achieved through perseverance.
Austin's Grandparents' Cow
its presence encouraging Austin to find creative solutions for his financial struggles and contributing significantly to his personal growth.
Mma Maleko
and resilient. Mma raises Austin after his parents left him orphaned, instilling values of hard work and tradition. Her unconditional love and cooking of moloko (milk) from a cow she owns are pivotal in Austin's development, providing him with emotional stability and strength. Her legacy influences Austin's character and serves as a source of inspiration for him as he navigates life.
I was raised by my grandparents in Senete, a village in the southern part of Botswana.
My parents left me when I was too young to remember them.
I do not know why they abandoned me, but I have heard stories that my grandmother, Mma Maleko, tells of how she had to raise me because I was left all alone.
I do not blame my parents for leaving me; instead, I blame them for leaving me with grandparents who taught me to be a dreamer.
They were both from the Kalanga tribe, which is known for being traditional and having strong beliefs in their ancestors.
My grandfather, Rra Maleko, was a strict man who always believed in one doing things the right way.
He was a farmer and taught me to respect my elders and to never take life for granted.
He would say, "Austin, you are what you want to be," and I knew exactly what he meant.
He taught me to be a hard worker and to never give up on my dreams.
My grandmother was the complete opposite of my grandfather.
She was loving and always believed in me, even when I knew I had failed her.
She would say, "Austin, you will never amount to anything in life," but I knew that deep down she believed in me.
I find Mma Maleko in her favorite spot on the veranda, where the afternoon sun casts long shadows across the floor.
She's shelling beans, her weathered hands moving with practiced efficiency as she sorts them into a bowl.
I pull up a wooden stool beside her and sit down, my heart pounding in my chest as I gather the courage to ask her about my parents.
Mma Maleko looks up at me, her eyes squinting against the sunlight.
"What is it, Austin?" she asks, her voice gentle but curious.
"I was wondering if you could tell me about my parents," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mma Maleko pauses in her work, setting the bowl of beans aside.
She takes a deep breath and looks out at the horizon, as if searching for something in the distance.
"It was during the rainy season," she begins, her voice low and contemplative.
"Your parents brought you to us one evening, just before sunset. They said they were going to Gaborone to look for work and that they would be back soon."
I watch as Mma Maleko's eyes grow distant, lost in memories of that day.
"They left you with us and promised to return," she continues.
"But they never did." I can see the sadness in Mma Maleko's eyes as she speaks.
She reaches out and takes my hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I'm sorry, Austin," she says softly.
"I wish I could tell you more about your parents, but I don't know much."
I nod silently, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside of me.
I'm grateful for Mma Maleko's honesty, but I can't help feeling disappointed that she doesn't know more about my parents.
I look down at our joined hands and notice how wrinkled and weathered Mma Maleko's skin is compared to mine.
It's a reminder of the many years she has spent working hard to raise me and provide for our family.
I feel a surge of love and appreciation for her and know that no matter what happens, I will always be grateful for the sacrifices she has made for me. "Thank you for telling me," I say finally, looking up at Mma Maleko with tears in my eyes.
"I know it can't be easy for you to talk about it."
Mma Maleko smiles weakly and nods her head.
"It's okay, Austin," she says softly.
Dark clouds gather overhead, casting a shadow over the veranda.
The wind picks up, rustling the leaves of the nearby trees and sending loose bean pods scattering across the floor.
I help Mma Maleko collect the remaining beans in her bowl while keeping an eye on the approaching storm.
In the distance, I can see a wall of rain moving towards us, its leading edge shimmering like a veil of silver.
Thunder rumbles through the air, causing Mma Maleko to look up from her work with concern etched on her face.
"Quick, help me with these chairs," she says, already standing up and reaching for the nearest one.
I follow her lead, grabbing another chair and carrying it inside just as a bright flash illuminates the sky.
The boom that follows is so close it makes my ears ring. I look up to see Mma Maleko standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with fear.
I grab her arm and guide her inside just as the first heavy drops begin to fall.
Inside the dim house, I pace between the windows while thunder continues to shake the walls.
The storm's intensity matches the turmoil brewing inside of me as I try to process everything Mma Maleko has told me about my parents' disappearance.
Rain lashes against the tin roof in deafening waves, threatening to drown out any other sound.
I watch as Mma Maleko lights a candle, her hands trembling slightly as she places it on the table.
The flickering flame casts eerie shadows on the walls, making it seem like ghosts are dancing around us.
When lightning illuminates the room, I catch glimpses of old family photos hanging on the wall - faces I barely recognize yet share blood with.
My chest tightens as I realize how little I know about my own history. I grip the windowsill hard, trying to steady myself as another thunderclap makes the house shudder.
Outside, the rain shows no signs of letting up, drumming against the roof and walls like a relentless drumbeat.
The storm's fury begins to ease, leaving only a gentle patter of rain.
In the candlelight, I notice Mma Maleko's hands have stopped trembling.
She gets up from her chair and walks over to the bed, bending down to reach underneath it.
She pulls out an old tin box and opens it, revealing a faded photograph.
I recognize my younger self sitting on her lap, both of us smiling at the camera.
"This was taken the day I decided you would be my son, not just my grandson," she says softly, looking up at me with warmth in her eyes.
I move closer to her chair, drawn by the love shining in her gaze.
Our eyes meet, and I see in them the same love captured in that weathered photograph.
I sit beside her on the creaking wooden chair, the tin box still open in her lap.
She pulls out another photo - one of my first day of school, and another of me helping with the cow.
My throat tightens as I realize Mma Maleko has been there for every important moment in my life, while my birth parents remain faceless strangers.
The worn edges of the photos feel smooth against my fingertips as I trace the outlines of our shared memories.
When Mma Maleko covers my hand with hers, her familiar touch unleashes the tears I've been holding back.
"I'm sorry I never told you more about them," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.
"Why didn't you?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the rain.
"I was afraid you'd leave to find them and never come back," she admits, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
I reach across the scattered photos to brush away her tears with my thumb.
Her weathered cheeks feel damp beneath my touch as she tries to compose herself.
The tin box sits heavy in her lap, filled with proof of our shared life together.
Lightning flashes outside, illuminating more photos that have spilled onto the floor - my graduation, birthdays, daily moments that built our bond.
My throat tightens as I gather the precious memories, carefully returning each one to the box.
As I close the lid, I realize that this is where I belong.
I lean back in my chair, the tin box of photos still resting in my lap.
The last raindrops tap gently against our windows, creating a soothing melody.
In the kitchen, Mma Maleko is preparing dinner, the familiar scent of her cooking wafting through our small house.
She hums an old Kalanga song as she stirs the pot, the sound of her wooden spoon clinking against the metal mingling with her gentle voice.
My fingers trace the dented edges of the tin box, remembering how she'd bring it out on special occasions.
As I close my eyes, memories flood back - countless evenings just like this one, filled with love and warmth.
"Mpho," Mma Maleko calls out softly, breaking the spell of nostalgia.
"Come help me set the table."
I rise from the chair, placing the tin box carefully on the shelf.
As I enter the kitchen, I ask, "Mma, do you think they ever looked for me?"
She pauses, her back to me, and replies, "I don't know, but I do know that we found each other."
I move to the wooden cabinet where we keep our dishes, my fingers tracing the scratches on its surface.
The plates clink together as I carefully pull out two - the blue ones Mma Maleko saves for special occasions.
In the drawer, I find our mismatched forks and spoons, worn smooth from years of use.
The metal feels cool in my palm as I arrange them beside each plate.
Mma Maleko stands in the doorway of my bedroom, watching as I pack my small suitcase.
She hands me folded clothes and supplies for Boitekanelo College, insisting on including her hand-knitted sweater despite the Gaborone heat.
My acceptance letter sits on the bed, already worn from frequent reading.
When I reach for my father's old watch from the dresser, Mma Maleko touches my arm and reveals it was actually Rra Maleko's gift to me.
"He wanted you to have it, Mpho," she says softly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
I look at her, surprised, and ask, "Why didn't you tell me before?"
She smiles gently and replies, "Because I wanted you to know that love isn't always about blood, but about the bonds we choose to create."
I watch her walk to her bedroom, the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet.
She moves slowly, her steps deliberate.
A few moments later, she returns, an envelope clutched tightly in her hands.
It's old and worn, its edges softened from years of hiding in a secret place.
I recognize the envelope as the one she keeps in a box beneath her bed - a place where she stores her most precious possessions.
As she extends it towards me, her hands tremble slightly.
The envelope feels heavy with years of savings as I take it from her.
The money inside smells of age and sacrifice - the result of selling milk from our cow and working tirelessly on our small farm.
I open my mouth to protest, but she presses the envelope firmly into my palm.
Her weathered fingers wrap around mine, holding them there until I stop resisting.
I stand in our small living room, the envelope pressed between us as I pull Mma Maleko into an embrace.
Her thin frame feels fragile against my chest, yet her arms hold me with surprising strength.
The familiar scent of her cotton dress mixed with cooking spices fills my nose.
When I try to speak, my voice catches.
I manage to whisper "Ke a leboga, Mma" - thank you, mother.
She pats my back gently, the way she did when I was small.
I stand at the doorway of our house at dawn.
The sky is a mix of pink and orange, signaling a new day.
My packed suitcase sits heavily beside me.
Mma Maleko adjusts my shirt collar one last time.
Her fingers tremble slightly as they touch my face.
I load my belongings onto Rra Pitse's old truck, which will take me to the bus station.
As we drive away, I look back through the rear window.
Our small house becomes smaller in the distance, the tin roof catching the early morning sunlight.
Mma Maleko stands there, a silhouette against the dawn light.
Her hand is raised in a farewell gesture as we bump along the dirt road towards the main highway.
The truck rattles as we hit a pothole, and Rra Pitse glances over at me.
"You're going to make us proud, Mpho," he says with a nod, his voice gruff but warm.
I swallow hard, looking straight ahead, and reply, "I hope so, Rra Pitse; I really hope so."
I lean forward, my hands gripping the worn leather of the seat.
The familiar landscape of Senete passes by - dry grass fields, scattered acacia trees, and the red dirt roads that lead to our village.
Each bump makes the truck creak, and my suitcase slides a little in the back.
Through the dusty windshield, I see the landmarks of my childhood: the old baobab tree that stands like a sentinel at the edge of the village, Rra Moeti's shop with its faded sign, and the primary school's rusty gate that I passed through every day.
When we drive past the village cattle post, my throat tightens.
Rra Pitse breaks the silence, his eyes still on the road.
"You know, your father would have been here if he could," he says, his voice low and steady.
I nod, my voice barely above a whisper, "I know, but I can feel him with us, guiding me."
I grip the seat tighter as we approach the bus station's dirt parking lot.
The morning sun casts long shadows across the ground, and dust swirls behind us.
My acceptance letter crinkles in my pocket when I shift.
Through the windshield, I see the old blue and white bus that will take me to Gaborone.
Other passengers mill around, loading luggage and saying goodbyes.
Rra Pitse parks near the station's concrete building.
He turns to me, his eyes searching mine.
"Remember what your father always said about new beginnings?" he asks, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
I nod, recalling the words that have been my guiding star, "He said they're like planting seeds; you never know what will grow."
I step out of the truck, the dry earth crunching beneath my feet.
I set my suitcase on the ground and look up at the bus's open door.
The driver, a man with a kind face, leans out and calls, "All aboard! We're leaving in ten minutes."
I take a deep breath, feeling a mix of excitement and uncertainty.
The bus's interior is simple - rows of worn seats and the smell of diesel fuel.
I find a seat near the back, placing my suitcase in the overhead rack.
As the bus rumbles to life, I glance out the window at Rra Pitse, who stands there with a steady gaze.
He raises a hand in farewell as the bus pulls away.
Through the rear window, I watch him grow smaller and smaller until he's just a figure in the distance.
The bus picks up speed as we leave Senete behind, heading towards the bustling city of Gaborone. The drive takes hours, the landscape changing from open fields to buildings and streets.
My thoughts drift between memories of home and the unknown ahead.
Finally, we reach Boitekanelo College's campus - a sprawling collection of buildings with students rushing to and fro.
I gather my belongings and step off the bus into a new chapter of my life.
The dormitory building looms before me - a three-story structure with rows of windows that reflect the afternoon sun.
I make my way inside, my footsteps echoing down the hallway as I search for room 12B.
When I find it, I pause at the doorway, taking a deep breath before stepping inside.
The room is small but cozy - white walls, a metal bed frame with a bare mattress on each side, and a simple desk by the window that looks out over the campus grounds.
My roommate hasn't arrived yet.
I set my suitcase on one of the beds and begin unpacking - placing Mma Maleko's knitted sweater in the narrow closet and arranging my textbooks on the desk.
The envelope containing my savings stays hidden beneath my clothes in the suitcase. As I unpack, I hear voices outside - students chatting and laughing as they carry boxes and bags into their rooms.
Their conversations drift through my open window like snippets of lives intersecting.
A knock on the door startles me, and I turn to see a tall, lanky guy with a friendly smile standing in the doorway.
"Hey there, you must be Mpho," he says, extending a hand. "I'm Thabo, your roommate; hope you don't mind sharing the space with a bit of chaos."
I shake his hand, trying to match his easygoing demeanor. "Nice to meet you, Thabo. Chaos sounds like just what I need to keep things interesting."
I set down my bags and move to help him with the heavy cardboard boxes piled outside our door.
He grins and hands me a box labeled "BOOKS" in thick black marker.
I take it, my arms straining slightly under its weight.
We maneuver around the cramped space, bumping elbows as we stack his belongings against the wall.
When I accidentally knock over his soccer trophy, we both dive to catch it, colliding heads with a thud.
Instead of getting angry, Thabo bursts out laughing, rubbing his forehead.
"Welcome to college life," he chuckles, and in that moment, I know I've found a friend.
I sit at my desk, trying to focus on the pharmacy textbook in front of me.
The words blur together as my mind drifts to the upcoming exams.
My phone suddenly rings, shrill in the quiet room.
I glance at the screen, seeing Rra Pitse's name flash on the display.
A knot forms in my stomach as I answer, "Hello?"
His voice sounds heavy, like he's carrying a weight.
"Mpho, it's Mma Maleko," he says, his words slow and deliberate.
"She collapsed in her garden this morning."
My hands shake as I grip the phone tighter.
"What happened?"
I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Rra Pitse sighs, his breath audible over the line.
"They couldn't revive her. The doctor said it was her heart."
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I listen to his words.
He talks about funeral arrangements and how they'll need me back in Senete soon.
I nod, even though he can't see me, unable to form any coherent response.
As we hang up, I drop my pen onto the desk, watching it roll across my notes about drug interactions and dosages.
Thabo enters our room just then, his usual smile faltering when he sees my face.
He crosses the room and sits beside me on the bed without a word. My gaze drifts to the photo of Mma Maleko on my desk - taken the day I left for college.
She's standing in her garden, surrounded by vibrant flowers and a warm smile on her face.
I sit on my bed, clutching Mma Maleko's photo in my hands.
Thabo paces around our dorm room, his phone in hand.
He mentions the campus counseling center, saying they helped his sister after their father passed away.
At first, I shake my head, but when he tells me how talking to someone helped her cope, I pause.
My fingers trace Mma Maleko's face in the photograph as tears drop onto the glass.
Thabo sits beside me and gently takes out his phone.
With trembling hands, I nod, and he dials the counselor's number.