Looking back, it’s hard to picture where I started. The only $5 left in the house, 154 school applications, and a fingerprint machine that refused to scan nearly stood between me and the biggest turning point of my life. But faith has a way of rewriting our stories.
A Year on Pause
In 2018, life in Zimbabwe felt like a horror movie, only I wasn’t the main character. I was the one being haunted. A national strike had shut down schools, gas stations, even grocery stores. The streets were quiet, but my mind was loud with questions: What am I going to do? How am I going to survive this country if nothing changes?
At the time, I had already spent nearly a year outside the classroom, at least to say not gaining any valuable knowledge. Each day that passed without school felt like my future was slipping right in front of me and I had no control over it, like watching the world race forward while I stayed stuck at the starting line.
To make matters worse, I had just turned down what many would consider a dream opportunity: a spot at the NBA Academy program in Senegal. I had earned the chance after an outstanding performance at Basketball Without Borders, a camp for the top 72 players across Africa where NBA coaches and players watch closely. It could have been a stepping stone to a professional basketball career.
But my parents, while supportive of my love for basketball, were hesitant. They worried about me being far from home in a program where academics would always come second. I did not understand their decision at the time. I felt they were cutting off my only path forward. My mother, though, kept repeating the same phrase: “Opportunities come and go, but not all of them are the right ones. The only thing you can do is stay prepared.”
I didn’t know it then, but her words were about to prove true.
The $5 Gamble
A few months later, one of my friends from Hoops 4 Hope, a nonprofit that teaches life skills through basketball, returned to Zimbabwe from the United States. It was his fourth time visiting, and this time, he arrived right when I needed direction th
I told him bluntly, “I haven’t been in school for a year. I need to find a way back into the system. My dream is to study in America.”
His advice was simple but powerful: “Work hard. Strategically apply to as many schools as possible. Someone will notice.”
That night, I borrowed the last $5 my mother had. This was all the money she had to take care of me and my sister, but instead, she handed it over without hesitation. With that $5, I bought Wi-Fi. It turned out to be the most important investment she has ever made in her life.
I began applying relentlessly — 154 high schools across New England and New York. I tracked every application on paper, drafted countless essays, prepared for interviews, and sent follow-ups even when I didn’t hear back. The process was exhausting and, at times, demoralizing. Out of 154 applications, only 12 schools responded. Of those 12, only four were willing to interview me. And in the end, just one accepted me: Marianapolis Preparatory School.
That acceptance felt like a miracle — and it truly was. Each step forward along the process, writing essays late into the night, answering tough interview questions, waiting for email responses — was like watching a door crack open just enough to let a little light through.
The process was not just roses; there were setbacks, too. At one point, during the biometric stage of the visa process — the final step before approval — the fingerprint machine refused to scan my prints. The thought that this little machine could make me lose everything over a glitch in the system was unbearable. I remember staring at my hands in disbelief, telling the guy at the desk to restart it for the sixth time, as if my own fingers were betraying me. Somehow, after several tense tries, the scan worked. The relief was overwhelming.
First Flight, First Shock
On February 17, 2019, I boarded my first long-haul flight. Twenty-three hours in the air, and I didn’t sleep once. I was too wired with adrenaline, disbelief, and excitement.
When I finally landed in America, I was greeted by something I had only ever seen in movies: snow. The trees were leafless, which bothered me so much, and the ground was covered in white. The first words out of my mouth to the family picking me up were: “Why are all the trees dead?”
It was winter and I had arrived at its peak.
Two days later, I was supposed to attend my first day of school, but classes were canceled due to a snowstorm that dropped twelve inches of snow. While other students seemed to have the time of their life outside throwing snowballs, I stayed wrapped in layers, bundled up like a burrito, refusing to even open the curtains. The cold was unbearable, unlike anything I had ever experienced back home.
That first week was overwhelming with new foods, different languages, and new routines. But underneath the shock and discomfort, there was also a steady undercurrent of gratitude. I had made it.
Faith in Timing
Looking back now, I understand what my mother meant about timing. I didn’t get the NBA Academy spot in Senegal. I didn’t get to ball like Kyrie Irving. I didn’t get into most of the schools I applied to. I didn’t breeze through the visa process without glitches. But each setback was preparation for my own buzzer beater — proof that the toughest moments can set you up for a game-winning shot. Those were just little obstacles, part of a bigger story.
The last $5 my mother handed me, the long hours spent applying, the fingerprint scare, the snowstorm — all tested my patience, my faith, and my resilience. And all of it prepared me for the opportunities I have now.
If I had gone to Senegal, who knows? Maybe I would have chased basketball without completing my education. If I had given up after the first few dozen rejections, I might still be at home, waiting for change that never came. If I had let fear of the unknown stop me, I might never have stepped off that plane into the freezing New England air.
Instead, I chose faith. I chose persistence. And I learned that timing is rarely ours to control — but it is always ours to trust.
Looking Back
Today, when I think about where I am and where I started, I return to the same line that opened my story:
“Looking back, it’s hard to picture where I started.”
Because the truth is, everything changed with a single decision to take a chance, to believe in something bigger than my setbacks, and to trust that the right opportunities arrive when we are prepared to meet them.
And when I measure the distance between that $5 Wi-Fi card in Zimbabwe and my first snow day in America, I see the same lesson everywhere: faith has a way of rewriting our stories.
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