Last year, I was expelled from school after I stole and leaked the final Grade 11 exam. I’m not even sure why I did it.

 

Once upon a time, I loved school.

 

When I was a kid, school was the best place on earth. All I did was play, eat, and sleep. Those were the days.

 

Then something bad happened to me, and everything changed.

 

You see, I lost someone very important. Nobody told me that death could do that, steal the light from all your happiest places.

 

It wasn’t long before I hated everything and everyone, especially the people who tried their hardest to help me.

 

Over the years, my behaviour worsened. It started with pranks in primary school, but I became a real problem as a teenager.

 

“At-risk”, “uncooperative”, and “challenging” are some of the nicer words teachers used to describe me towards the end, just before they wrote me off for good.

 

Out of options, my mother sent me to a school at the end of a long winding road, at the very top of a mountain overlooking Cape Town. This school was a last resort for kids like me, who didn’t fit anywhere else.

 

And it was at this school that I rediscovered some of the light that had been stolen from my life.

 

***

 

It’s a half-day hike along a steep, narrow path to get to the school.

 

Every student must embark on this treacherous trek, carrying their suitcase, school bag, and all their textbooks. Pausing for more than five minutes is unwise, as the dense mist cloaking the area quickly obscures the path, making it easy to get lost in the enveloping fog.

 

By the time I reach the top, it’s nearing nightfall. The biology teacher should be here to guide me through the most dangerous stretch of the path, but there’s no sign of her. For a brief moment, I wonder if this is how I die — on a mountain, alone, with nothing but my textbooks to keep me company in my final hours.

 

Just as the thought sinks in, there’s a rustle in the trees — a faint, unsettling sound that makes me flinch. I step back, heart in my throat, when suddenly Mrs Lunga emerges from the shadows astride a massive black horse. The moonlight glints off its sleek coat. As it walks forward, I step back, tripping over a root.

 

Mrs Lunga laughs, the sound of her voice deep and warm, like an aunt you haven’t seen in years but who always offered you a handful of sweets when you visited.

 

“This is Starburst,” she says, her voice piercing the quiet. “He’s here to take you up the final stretch. He’s been walking these hills for years.” The mix of pride and warmth in her words lets me know this beast is more than just a horse — he’s an honoured member of the Academy.

 

“Mrs Lunga, I c-can walk the rest of the way.”

 

Mrs Lunga swings down from the horse with practised grace, her feet landing softly on the ground. She gathers the reins and leads Starburst closer to me, the horse’s hooves crunching dry leaves.

 

“Come now, dear,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’ll help you up.”

 

I hesitate, but she grips my arm firmly and guides me into the stirrup, lifting me with surprising strength until I’m seated on Starburst’s back. The horse shifts slightly beneath my weight, and for a moment, I freeze, afraid of slipping off.

 

“Mrs Lunga—”

 

She drapes a light plastic coat over my shoulders and tsks, tilting her head to the grey clouds. “There’ll be a downpour tonight. We’d better hurry.” Then she smiles and points towards dense woodland up ahead.

 

“It’s through there,” she says, and I wonder if she’s speaking to me or the horse.

 

I grip the reins tightly, feeling the gentle, rhythmic motion of the horse’s muscles as he stands still, waiting.

 

Mrs Lunga pats his neck again, then takes hold of the reins, leading him forward by clicking her tongue.

 

She wears heavy boots and a woollen skirt to shield her from the tiny branches that scrape my bare legs — wearing shorts was a dumb idea.

 

She chats happily before handing the reins back to me and disappearing into the thicket with my suitcase, leaving me alone with Starburst, who’s come to a standstill as if waiting for further instructions.

 

I’m tired, sore, and sweaty, with legs crisscrossed in bloody scratches, but the horse beneath me — solid, warm, and strong — brings me some relief.

 

I grip the reins even tighter, still afraid I might slip and tumble down the steep, unforgiving mountain slope. The height makes my stomach twist; Starburst stands so tall that I can’t even glance down without feeling sick.

 

“Starburst,” I whisper. “Can we go a bit slower, please? I can’t die on the first day of school.”

 

Did I just speak to a horse? If I wasn’t so terrified, I’d laugh at myself.

 

In the darkness, I see the horse’s ears flicker and he snorts. The sound cuts through the stillness like a sudden gust of wind, sharp and unexpected.

 

Then I drop the reins, slipping forward until I’m pressed against the beast’s thick neck. I cling tightly, my hands gripping its mane as if my life depended on it — and, in a way, it does. Beneath me, Starburst stays steady, his breathing a comfort in the stillness.

 

“Katlego!” My name echoes off the mountains. “Kat!”

 

“Coming!” I shout back.

 

Starburst trots forward, then stops, tilting his head, waiting.

 

“I’m OK. You can go.”

 

When the horse moves forward, his pace steady but slower than before, my heart starts pounding.

 

Did I just…talk to a horse? And did it just…understand?

 

I find Mrs Lunga standing patiently before a grand black gate adorned with intricate patterns. In the shadowy light, her silhouette looks regal, her head crowned with an impressive pile of dreadlocks.

 

I’m out of breath and nursing a side stitch, but I stand upright like an athlete who could have hiked two more mountains tonight. She smiles at the sight of Starburst, clicking her tongue for him to approach the gate.

 

Mrs Lunga strokes his neck, then gives him a gentle pat. “He usually doesn’t slow down at night. He knows—” she looks up, as if searching for something in the trees that tower above us, “—there are dark things in these woods. But he must like you. He must really not want you to slip off if he’s walking so slowly.”

 

I gulp, feeling the old fear creeping under my skin. “R-right.”

 

Then, in a cheerful voice, Mrs Lunga says, “You ready, young man?”

 

Before I can lie and say that I am, Mrs Lunga gently pulls me back from the gate. It does not swing open with the anticipated creak. Instead, she makes a few swift sweeps with her arm, and the shimmering metal lets out a hiss. Next, the gate’s swirling patterns come alive, hundreds of interlocked snakes quietly separating, slithering off to the sides as the gate opens, revealing the path beyond.

 

Tell us: Have you ever gone through a time when something you used to love became hard to enjoy? What changed for you, and how did you handle it?