Run Girl Run

Run, Girl, Run
She was just eleven, small and spry,
Her father said, "You're due, oh my..."
A spanking, harsh, the kind she knew,
But this time she thought, "Not today, not you."
He called her brothers, big and loud,
"Go catch your sister--make me proud!"
She took off running, barefoot and wild,
With twenty meters head start, a desperate child.
The boys gave chase, they huffed, they cried,
But with every step, she multiplied
The space between, she flew like wind--
The girl they thought was small and pinned.
Her father stood and scratched his head,
Watching the blur of her legs as she fled.
The next day came, he had a plan,
Took her to school, proud as a man.
"Test her," he said, "not with her age.
Put her with girls two years ahead on the stage.
She'll outrun them all, I swear she might--
But if she doesn't, she'll get it tonight."
They marked the track, a 1200-meter race,
She stepped on the line, fear in her face.
Not fear of losing or shoes that pinched--
But of that spanking if she flinched.
They said, "You'll get tired, slow it down."
But she didn't hear them, not a sound.
All she saw was a belt and a chair,
So she ran like her life depended on air.
She broke every record, flew past the pack,
Not once did she stumble, not once look back.
The coaches screamed, "She's one of a kind!
This girl's got fire, this girl can fly!"
Districts called, and her name was known,
For once, she felt like she'd found a home.
Her father smiled, stood proud in the sun,
For that whole season, she was someone.
He talked to her, coached her like gold,
Like all her worth was speed to behold.
Her mother frowned, her siblings hissed,
Jealous of the praise that she had missed.
The mother drove, but her smile was tight,
She kept the times but burned with spite.
Couldn't stand how the girl had shone,
Or how her father clapped her on.
Then the season ended--just like that--
No more tracks, no starting mats.
And just as quick, the warmth withdrew,
The house turned cold, and silence grew.
She was a ghost again in her own home,
A record-breaker left alone.
But deep inside, she still held tight
The memory of that run, that flight.




















































Backstory
I was eleven the day I ran for my life--literally.
It started like any other bad day in our house. I was "due" for a spanking--my father's words, not mine. I can't even remember what I did wrong. Sometimes just existing seemed to be enough. But that day, instead of waiting around for it, I bolted. My dad didn't like being defied, so he sent my two older brothers after me like I was some runaway goat from the yard.
He gave me a head start--twenty meters. Maybe he thought it'd make it more fun. But as I took off across the yard, something kicked in. Fear, adrenaline, maybe even a little defiance. I ran like the wind. Faster than I ever had in my life. And the strangest part? The further I ran, the more distance I put between me and my brothers. They were both years older, taller, stronger--but they couldn't catch me.
My dad stood there watching, arms folded, probably ready to yell. But I ran across the main road, through the school grounds, slipped through the fence into the mielie lands and stayed there until dark.
The next day, he took me to the school's athletic field. Said he wanted to "see what I could do." Told the teachers to put me with the older girls--two age groups up. "She'll outrun them all," he told them with this strange sense of pride I'd never seen before. Then he turned to me and said, "You better run like you did yesterday, or you're still getting that spanking."
So, I ran.
It was a 1200-meter trial. The other girls laughed at me; told me I'd burn out. "You will get tired," they said. But all I could think of was the belt hanging on the wall. I ran like my life depended on it, because in some way, it did.
I didn't just win--I broke every record for my age group and the ones above. The coaches were jumping and shouting, calling me a prodigy. They said I was going to the districts. That they'd never seen a kid like me. For the first time in my life, I wasn't invisible.
After that race, my father saw me. Really saw me. During athletics season, I was somebody. He came to competitions, shouted encouragement from the side, bragged to anyone who'd listen. My mom had to drive me to competitions, take times, fill out forms--none of it by choice. She hated it. Hated the way he looked at me with pride. Hated the way I suddenly had a place at the table.
My siblings weren't much better. They'd bully me when I came home with medals. I could feel their jealousy like thorns under my skin. My mother would say things under her breath, things I wasn't supposed to hear, but did. Things like, "Why her? Why not my boys?" And I think she hated me most of all because--for that one season--I made him proud. To know, even if just for a moment, that I was more than the thing they told me I was. I was fast. I was fierce. And for a short while, I was unstoppable.
But the season ended.
And just like that, so did my place in the family. The spotlight faded, and I was shoved back into the shadows. Back to being the girl no one noticed unless she was in trouble. The silence hurt more than the belt ever did. This cycle repeated every athletic season.