I remember the scent of fried plantains wafting through our tiny apartment, a familiar comfort that somehow always seemed to chase away the cold South African mornings. It was a blend of nostalgia and home, a connection to the life we left behind in Nigeria.

 As I stood at the window, looking out over the sprawling Johannesburg skyline, the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the bustling streets below. Each car, each pedestrian, each fleeting moment of life was a testament to our journey as immigrants.

My name is Chukwudi, and I am the eldest of two brothers. I was born in Lagos, but Johannesburg is where I came to know the meaning of survival, ambition, and, most importantly, identity. My brother, Ifeanyi, and I arrived here when we were still children, chasing dreams our parents had whispered to us on warm, starlit nights.

While I excelled in school, studying late into the night, Ifeanyi found solace in the streets, where his laughter echoed among friends and his defiance drew attention.

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