The harmattan came with dry winds curling around sleeves, dust rising from the school field like it, too, anticipated Omega High’s inter-house sports. The school buzzed. Every corner became a rehearsal ground scrabble games under trees, football on the dusty pitch. Every house had something to prove.

Shamah House, royalty in purple, stood proud. Chairs scraped across corridors for meetings, captains barked orders, ropes were tested, chants rehearsed. This wasn’t just about winning it was legacy.

In all that chaos, I was just another student unsure of her place until Mr. Kwekyes saw something in me.

He was my teacher, but more than that, a mirror of potential. One evening at march past practice, he said, “Delight, you have rhythm. You can command.”

“You’ll lead Shamah House,” he added, smiling like he already saw it.

But he didn’t know my history.

In primary school, my mom a former Girls’ Brigade officer had tried to teach me to march. I stumbled, she scolded, but then she trained me. She drilled me until marching felt like mine.

Now, years later, I was handed a chance to lead again—not just for fun, but for my house, in front of the whole school. I practiced hard.

Then, two days to the event, Mr. Kwekyes came again. “Delight, we need someone to run the 400 meters. I believe you can do it.”

I panicked. Marching was precision. Running was endurance. Still, his belief pulled a yes from me. I practiced. I tried. I struggled.

The inter-house day came in a flurry. Canopies flapped. The field swelled with students, parents, teachers. My parents sat in the crowd my mother watching the field like she was replaying old march past memories.

Then the whistle blew.

We marched like warriors bold, loud, in sync. I led with every ounce of discipline and pride. When we won, the trophy in my hand felt like solid joy.

Then came the 400 meters.

I stood at the track, heart thudding. The race began. The others surged. I followed. But by the second curve, my legs faltered. Dust rose behind them. The commentator shouted, “Delight is not giving up! She’s pushing through!”

People clapped. Some laughed. Some cheered.

But I felt shame.

I finished last.

Someone gave me glucose. My parents clapped gently. My housemates said nothing. Shamah came last overall our only win was march past.

That day haunted me.

But time revealed something deeper. I gave my best where I was trainedand succeeded. I stumbled where I was unprepared and learned.

Failure, I realized, isn’t just about coming last. Sometimes it’s about stepping out. Trying. Learning. Staying true to yourself and your process.

Even now, my dad still tells the story of “the day Delight ran last but led with pride.” And I smile, because I now know: I wasn’t just the girl who finished last I was the one who showed up, marched strong, and discovered strength through failure.