From the moment Kachi stepped into his new class, the whispers began.

"Look at him—so tiny!"
"He’s like a baby in a uniform."
"Maybe he still sleeps with a teddy."

At just ten years old, Kachi was the youngest in his class. He had skipped a grade due to his intelligence, but that didn’t impress his classmates—especially the girls. To them, he was just small.

At first, it was teasing. They’d ruffle his hair like he was a toddler, giggle when he tried to answer questions, and mimic his voice in high-pitched tones. Then came the pranks. His books would vanish, only to be found stuffed inside trash cans. Someone once replaced his lunch with a baby’s feeding bottle. Laughter followed him wherever he went.

He tried to ignore it. But ignoring didn’t stop the humiliation.

During Physical Education, the girls would deliberately choose him last for team games, rolling their eyes as if his presence was a burden. “You’re too small to play,” they’d say. “Maybe you should sit on the sidelines and watch.”

One day, a girl named Amaka shoved him aside while entering the classroom. “Move, shorty.” He stumbled, knocking over a stack of books. The class burst into laughter. His face burned with shame, but he bit his lip and picked up the books without a word.

At home, he sat in front of the mirror, standing on his toes, willing himself to grow.

“Do they hit you?” his sister asked one evening.
“No,” Kachi muttered.
“Then fight back.”
“With what?” he scoffed. “My size?”

His mother told him to ignore them. His father said, “One day, Kachi, they’ll wish they hadn’t underestimated you.”

But he didn’t want to wait for one day.

So, he worked harder. He studied late into the night, practiced speaking in front of a mirror, and when the school announced a debate competition, he entered.

The same girls who mocked him rolled their eyes. “What’s he going to do? Talk like a baby?”

On the day of the competition, Kachi stepped onto the stage. His heart pounded, but he steadied himself. He spoke with confidence, his voice clear and firm. His arguments were sharp, his delivery powerful.

The laughter stopped. The whispers faded.

When he won, the same girls who once called him small looked at him with wide eyes. Amaka, the worst of them, muttered, “I didn’t know he was that smart.”

Kachi smiled to himself. From that day on, he walked taller—not because he had grown, but because he finally realized size had nothing to do with strength.