It was around 4:30 to 5 p.m. when I was at a local spot with my friends, playing and showing off a new skirt my dad had bought for me. I was 12 or 13 at the time, carefree and laughing, until my aunt started calling my name in a panic. 

“Faida! Faida!” 

I knew something was wrong when I saw her face, flushed and red as though she had been crying. 

She screamed at me, “WHAT KIND OF DAUGHTER ARE YOU?”

Confused and nervous, I asked what she meant, but before I could understand, someone else yelled that my dad was dying. 

My heart dropped, and a wave of panic hit me. 

For some reason, my first thought was that my mom had died. I ran in a daze until I found myself at the hospital. My dad was lying there, looking strangely taller than usual. I refused to go in, unable to see him that way. 

It wasn’t until my mom called to reassure me that he wasn’t dead that I felt a flicker of relief, but I still cried, overwhelmed by fear and confusion.

Months later, in July 2018, a woman came to our door, asking where my mom was. 

I told her she was at work, and the woman seemed shocked. She then told me that my mom had lost her husband in Congo. 

He had been poisoned days before and went to a hospital in Congo, a couple hours away from their Burundi home, for treatment. But they were unable to treat him. 

I froze in disbelief. 

I had just spoken to my dad days earlier, and he had seemed fine. I ran to my mom’s workplace, but she wasn’t there. 

When I finally found her, she was crying, and at that moment, I instantly knew what had happened. 

My dad had died, and it felt like the ground beneath me had disappeared.

When I arrived at my aunt’s house, still in denial, she showed me a picture of my dad in a casket. 

My world shattered. 

I broke down, not knowing how to process the loss of the only friend I had ever known. I couldn’t believe it—I didn’t want to believe it. Even though we tried to attend the funeral, delays meant we missed it. I felt like I was living in a nightmare, desperately hoping I would wake up.

By the time we arrived in Congo, I still clung to the hope that it wasn’t true. But when I saw my dad’s picture hanging on a mango tree, surrounded by mourners, my heart sank. 

I broke down in tears, feeling like my entire world had fallen apart. My dad was gone, and I didn’t know how to cope. He had been my only friend, the one person who truly cared for me. 

I felt lost, numb, and empty. 

My uI broke down, not knowing how to process the loss of the only friend I had ever known. ncle tried to comfort me, repeating that it was okay, that my dad might be gone, but he was there for me. 

Yet, I couldn’t hear him.

After the funeral, everything changed. My mom, now a single mother of seven, was left to raise us without help. Moving to the U.S. seemed like the fresh start we needed, but the challenges of adjusting were overwhelming. 

Learning a new language and meeting new people was difficult, yet at the same time, it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. The first couple of weeks here, I felt homesick. I wanted to go back because this place felt very strange. I didn’t know how to feel. I was excited, but also uncertain. 

One time, my mom sent me to a store to get something for her. At first, I refused because I don’t speak the language. 

“How am I supposed to ask the cashier?” I thought. 

My mom responded, “How are you supposed to learn the language if you don’t talk to people?” 

She had a point, so I went to the store. Just as I feared, an employee asked if I needed help. I was nervous and said, “No English.” However, the employee was really nice and didn’t mind. I don’t remember what else she said to me, but somehow she managed to help me. 

Asked about the move five years ago, my mother said, “I’m glad we came. I don’t know how I could’ve done it back home because I did not have any support.”

Looking back, I’m glad we moved here too. Because of this opportunity, I am now in university—something I don’t think I could have accomplished if I had stayed back home.