The invitation came unexpectedly. Jamila's teacher called her aside after class and handed her a printed notice. The school would be hosting a community education forum, bringing together parents, teachers, and local leaders to discuss challenges facing schools like theirs. A student speaker was needed.
"We thought of you," the teacher said.
Jamila's heart skipped. This was different from the interschool forum. These were adults—people who made decisions, people who carried authority. For a moment, she wanted to say no.
That evening, she told her parents. Her father listened carefully, his expression thoughtful. "If you speak," he said, "speak truth. Not what you think they want to hear."
At the forum, Jamila stood at the front of the hall, the microphone cold in her hand. She scanned the room—parents she recognized from her father's school, traders from the market, teachers who looked as tired as they were hopeful.
She began slowly.
She spoke about students who wanted to learn but were distracted by hunger, about teachers who stayed late without complaint, about schools that adapted because they had to. She spoke about her family—not by name, but by story—about a principal who chose integrity, a businesswoman who refused to quit, a sister who carried dreams across distance.
Her voice did not shake this time.
When she finished, the room was quiet. Then someone clapped. Another followed. The sound grew—not loud, but steady.
Afterward, a community leader approached her father. "Your daughter speaks with clarity," he said. "We need more voices like hers."
That night, Jamila lay awake, replaying the moment. She had not been fearless—but she had been present. She had stood in the open, without hiding.
Leadership, she realized, was not inherited.
It was practiced.
And somewhere between fear and courage, Jamila had stepped into a version of herself she no longer needed to imagine.
She was
becoming it.