Chapter 7: Leaving High School

 

The year finally came to an end. Final exams were written, papers collected, and just like that it was over. The long days of school, the early mornings, the strict teachers, and the endless homework were now part of the past. School uniforms were folded and packed away for good, no longer needed, no longer a part of their daily routine. For most, it was a time of joy. Relief. A moment to breathe after years of pressure and stress.

The girls Lulu, Zinhle, Amogelang, Kea, and Bonolo they had done it. They finished matric. They passed well, meeting expectations, and in some cases, exceeding them. They were proud of themselves, and everyone else was proud too. Their families beamed with happiness, teachers smiled with approval, and friends cheered them on. The girls walked with a new kind of confidence, the kind that came from success. They were glowing with confidence, loud with laughter, and surrounded by love. Wherever they went, they were admired.

Their parents threw garden parties with white marquees set up on perfectly cut lawns, creating picture-perfect scenes. Live DJs played music that had the crowd dancing until the sun went down. Sushi platters were arranged on mirrored tables, neatly rolled and garnished. Luxury cars lined up outside the venues BMWs, Audis, and Mercedes-Benzes polished until they shone. There were catered meals served by waiters in black and white, and Instagram photoshoots staged in every corner. No moment was left undocumented.

Champagne toasts were made for teens who weren’t even legal yet, but no one seemed to mind. Gowns were tailored to perfection, hugging every curve and sparkling under the lights. Nails were done with intricate designs, and makeup artists were booked weeks in advance to give them the soft-glam finish they wanted. Professional photographers took high-quality shots beneath fairy lights and flower walls, capturing every twirl, every pose, every smile.

Social media exploded with captions like, “University loading…” and “Boss babe in the making.” The girls posted boomerangs of themselves sipping drinks, slow-motion videos of their entrance, and collages of group photos with matching hashtags. They danced in heels that cost more than most people’s rent, moving like queens on a stage built just for them. They popped bottles like they were born to win like the world belonged to them and only them. They were rich, beautiful, and on top of the world. Everything around them sparkled their dresses, their futures, their dreams. They were the picture of success, and in that moment, nothing could touch them.