It Started as a Game — a Way to Belong in a Place Where Belonging Meant Everything: Alan’s Story

My name is Alan (not his real name), and I am sixteen years old. I am sitting in this room, waiting for my parents, as it is a typical family visiting day. I have disappointed them more times than I can count, but they are coming. They always come.

I live in an area where the concrete walls of our blocks are like pages in a book nobody wants to read, scribbled with faded graffiti and shadows. I started reading those shadows when I was twelve — that was when the older boys, with money in their pockets that looked like freedom, first called me over. It began with skipping school, then shoplifting snacks and bicycles for the thrill. It was a game, a way to belong to something in a place where belonging meant everything. I was small for my age, but with them, I felt big.

School was a silent battle I kept losing. The words in the textbooks jumbled in my mind, and the numbers on the page might as well have been in another language. My parents, with tired eyes from long shifts — Mum cleaning offices, Dad driving a delivery van — would sit with me at night, their patience a thin blanket over my frustration. I felt stupid. At the neighbourhood block, nobody called you stupid. They called you brother. So, I went there more, and my grades dropped even further. I was held back in Secondary Two. Then, I was held back again. At sixteen, I should be in Secondary 4 or 5, dreaming of getting into polytechnic or a job. Instead, I am the oldest boy in my Secondary 3 class — a giant reminder of my own failures.

The petty offences stopped feeling like games. They became a habit, a language I knew how to speak. And then, a few months ago, that language grew darker. It wasn't just cigarettes anymore. It was a small, wrapped package, handed to me by a friend. "Keep this for me, brother. Just for an hour." That hour became a day, then a pattern. Fear tightened into a knot in my stomach, but untying it felt even scarier. It meant admitting I was in over my head. It meant being nobody again.

Two weeks ago, the knot snapped. The police found the package in my schoolbag during a random check. The look on the principal’s face wasn't anger; it was a deep, weary sadness. The worst part was the call home. My mother’s voice, after a sharp gasp, didn't shout. It just broke into a quiet, "Alan...oh." That silence after she hung up was louder than any scream.

I have had many long nights since then, staring at the stained ceiling of the cell. I looked back and see a road paved with every bad choice, every time I chose the easy wrong over the hard right. I see the two years I threw away.

I see the boy who thought being tough was more important than being smart, who thought loyalty to a crew was better than loyalty to my family and to myself.

I think of all the times my parents came to school, heads bowed, listening to another teacher list my faults.

But here is the thing that breaks my heart and puts it back together at the same time: they never left. Through every suspension, every report card dripping in red, every late-night call from a police post — they came. They scolded, they cried, but they never once said, "You are not my son." Their love became this steady, stubborn light in my darkness. I kept trying to blow it out, but it wouldn't go away.

Sitting here today, waiting for them to visit me with yet another chance from the authorities, something is different. The regret isn't just a feeling; it's a reminder of my mistakes. I am tired of being the cautionary tale in my class. I am tired of my own story.

So, I am restarting. Again. But this time, it’s not just school. It’s my life. I am sixteen, in Secondary 3, with a record I hate and a past that weighs a ton. But I have these two people, my parents, who look at me and still see a son, not just a screw-up.

Because they never gave up on me, I finally can’t give up on myself.

The time arrives. It’s them. My mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, my father’s shoulders are slumped with a fresh weariness. But in their faces, I don’t see defeat. I see a love that has endured every storm I created. I stand up, my heart pounding not with fear, but with a fierce, new determination.

I will walk out of this place. I will sit in the front row of that remedial class and ask every single question I have. I will do it, not because it’s easy, but because it is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I will do it for the two people who, against all odds, still believe my story can have a better chapter.

I will do it for me. Because I am not a lost cause. I am Alan, and my story is changing. Now.