The Miss Universe how was about to begin. I'd always loved that pageant, not just the crowns or the gowns, but the quiet magic that unfolded when women from every corner of the globe stepped into the same light. I admired how they carried themselves, like they belonged not just on that stage, but in the world. They walked with grace, as if every step had been rehearsed by destiny. Their diversity didn't divide them; it made them shimmer differently under the same spotlight. In that moment, no one cared where they came from, only how beautifully they could shine.
A few years before, my aunt had been crowned Miss Eswatini, and to me, that was the height of human achievement. She still lived with my grandmother then. Perhaps I should pause and explain who they were.
The Magagulas were relatives of my great-grandmother, my mother's grandmother. My great-grandmother had given birth to my grandfather, the one my mother lost when she was only ten, the eldest of four children who suddenly had to grow up faster than her age would allow. When she went to live with her grandmother, she met Mr. Magagula, a man she affectionately called Babe lomncane, the younger father. He wasn't much older than her, but he treated her like his own. He later married and had three children, though one drowned when he was only seven. His eldest, my aunt, was the kind of beautiful that didn't beg for attention; it simply commanded it.
When she turned twenty-one, she began modelling and joined the Miss Eswatini competition. In my thirteen-year-old mind, it wasn't even a competition. She wasn't just beautiful; she was dazzling, and I believed pageants were about more than looks. You needed grace, confidence, and a clever head. When she won, I felt as if the victory was partly mine too. That was the year I couldn't stop talking about her, my very own Miss Eswatini. I bragged at every chance, convinced that beauty somehow ran in our blood.
That was also the year I decided to bring back the Miss Mizpah competition.
I first heard of Miss Mizpah when I was in grade four. I was friends with the grade sevens, especially one who had taken me under her wing, my "play mommy." She treated me like her little doll. Every morning, she'd call me to her classroom, sit me down, and comb my hair with such care you'd think I was porcelain. She'd smooth down my baby hairs, dust a hint of her lip gloss on my lips, and tell me, "You're the most beautiful girl in this whole school."
I believed her, partly because I wanted to, and partly because she wasn't the only one who said it. My mom had told me the same thing for as long as I could remember. "You're such a beautiful girl," she'd say as she oiled my hair, or when I caught my reflection in the mirror before school. Even relatives would echo it during family gatherings, tilting my chin up, inspecting my face as if I were some precious heirloom.
"She's going to grow into such a beautiful woman," they'd say.
Those words nestled somewhere deep inside me. I didn't yet understand the weight of them, but I carried them like invisible jewellery.
When my play mommy asked if I wanted to join that year's Miss Mizpah pageant, I didn't even pretend to hesitate.
"You're a little young," she said, grinning. "But you're gorgeous. Who knows, you might just be the youngest Miss Mizpah ever."
That was all the convincing I needed.
The day of the Funday arrived, and the schoolyard felt electric. The older girls were in a frenzy, sharing mirrors, dusting powder, arguing over lip gloss shades. They wore short skirts and practiced their walks, hips swaying like they already knew they'd win.
I watched them quietly, clutching my favourite sundress, a soft, floral one with tiny pink petals that seemed to dance when the wind caught them. I didn't want to wear makeup. I didn't need to. My mother had told me I was beautiful enough, and besides, I knew I was little young for all that. I wanted to look elegant, not painted.
When my turn came, I stepped onto the stage with the certainty of someone who thought the world was already hers. I didn't see the crowd; I saw a spotlight, just like the one from Miss Universe. I walked with poise, my heart beating in rhythm with my steps.
Then came the question round.
"How many colors are on the national flag?" the judge asked.
"Six!" I answered, with a smile that could've powered the microphones. "Blue, red, yellow, black, white, and grey."
Confidence, that was my thing. I said it as if I'd designed the flag myself.
For the talent portion, I sang my favorite song, Baby by Justin Bieber, swaying offbeat, my voice trembling in parts, but my conviction unwavering.
I lost.
The crown went to a girl two years older than me, taller, and wearing more lip gloss than I'd ever seen on one face. But I didn't cry. In my heart, I knew I'd been robbed. The judges must've been jealous of my beauty, I told myself.
Looking back now, it's endearing how utterly sure I was of myself, that stubborn belief that I didn't just deserve beauty, I embodied it. But maybe that's what innocence is, an unshaken faith in the mirror before the world teaches you to doubt it.
The Miss Mizpah dream didn't end there. That same fire, the one that told me I was special, would follow me through every chapter that came after. And one day, I'd learn that beauty was more complicated than mirrors and crowns. It had a price, a story, and sometimes, a bruise beneath the sparkle.