When I was in Grade 5, I liked this girl.
Big eyes, long hair, skin dark like a model, and a smile that could melt even the grumpiest person’s mood.
Her name was Gcina.
I’d write her surname too, but I’ll leave it out… just in case she ever stumbles on this one day.
Looking back, she was probably my first real crush.
To say I liked her would be an understatement… I stalked her.
We were in the same grade, but she was in 5A and I was in 5B.
In my primary school, teachers had this strange habit of putting the “smart” kids in the A classes and the rest of us – like me – in the B classes.
I’d be lying if I said I remember anything about her marks.
She was probably smart… but honestly, I didn’t care about that.
All I saw when I looked at her was my future wife.
When my friends and I were kicking each other around, pretending to be karate masters, I’d kick harder if I saw her watching – just to impress her, I guess.
She and her older sister used to wait for their mom near the spot where we waited for our transport.
I liked her so much, but I was too scared to ever tell her.
I told everyone else – even some people in her class – but I never found the courage to say it to her.
Part of me feels like she knew.
Sometimes, she’d look at me, then look away and smile. And that would literally make my day.
I’d rush to tell my friends:
“Umbonile? Undincumele la mntana. Uyandithanda.”
Did you see that? She smiled at me. She really likes me.
At some point, my friends got tired of me yapping about her.
“Yiya kuye kaloku, sungxolela thina!” they said.
Go to her. Stop telling us.
They tried dragging me over, but I shook them off, angry and terrified of how she might react.
Long story short, I never told her how I felt.
Then one day, she changed schools… And I never saw her again.
The following year, my friends wouldn’t let it go.
They kept teasing me about how I let a good girl go without ever saying anything, and how she had probably found someone new at her new school.
I’d laugh and act like I didn’t care…
But the truth is, I did care.
I hated the idea that someone else might get to call her theirs.
After all, her name was Gcina – which means to keep.
Maybe she really was a keeper.
But poor me… it was too late to find out.
I admitted to my friends that I was shy and scared of her, and they seemed to understand.
After all, I was only 10 years old.
Or maybe that was just how I comforted myself, because some of my friends were already asking girls out and even had girlfriends.
Anyway, they understood.
Years later, in Grade 11…
We had a prayer service for the Grade 12s before they wrote their final exams.
I had written a speech – even though I wasn’t on the programme – and I was keen to share it.
I told Mbasa, who was the MC and my classmate, that I’d prepared something but was too shy to go up and speak.
I said, “Never mind,” and left it there.
I still don’t know whether to thank or hate him for what he did next.
Just before closing the programme, he said:
“Lastly, before we close, Phumzile has prepared something for the Grade 12s that he’d like to share. Give it up for him!”
The whole school hall erupted in cheers.
My friends were hyped: “Let’s gooo!”
This guy had thrown me under the bus, fully aware that I was too shy to do it.
I reached into the inside pocket of my blazer, pulled out the folded piece of paper, and walked up to the podium.
Hands shaking, heart pounding, I read my speech to the whole school.
All I remember were the last two sentences:
“God bless you all. Thank you.”
And then… absolute pandemonium.
The hall exploded.
People were screaming.
Teachers were on their feet.
My friends nearly lifted me up as I walked back to my seat.
Some people recorded it, but this was before everyone had phones – so I never got a copy.
But there I was – facing my fear, confronting my shyness.
And just like that, my stock at school went up.
I remember the prayer was on a Friday. By Monday, everything had changed.
People I didn’t even know were congratulating me.
Girls I’d never spoken to were suddenly greeting me – and I won’t lie, I kinda liked that.
I’d never been popular – but that day, something shifted.
Looking back, I realise that when you’re a kid, people are quick to excuse your shyness. They say, “He’s just shy,” and leave it at that.
But as you get older, people stop accepting that excuse.
Suddenly, people expect you to speak up, to lead, to put yourself out there – whether you’re ready or not.
“I’m shy” stops being an acceptable excuse; instead, it starts sounding like you’re not competent. It’s almost as if shyness is something you’re supposed to outgrow.
Last year, one of my former teachers invited me to give a speech at my high school’s matric ball.
I made excuses about the cost of flying from Cape Town to East London – they said they’d cover it.
I made excuses about work – they said, “Give me your manager’s number. I’ll talk to them.”
Feeling cornered, I finally admitted, “I’m shy.”
There was a five-second silence.
Then he said, “What do you mean you’re shy? Remind me, how old are you?”
I don’t think he meant to embarrass me – maybe he just didn’t expect that answer from someone my age.
He moved on, explaining why I needed to share my story with those kids.
After that call, I had an introspective moment and even wrote in my journal:
“Haibo… am I too old to be shy?”
I just wanted to understand how “I’m shy” had turned into something people found childish.
It’s happened at work too. Sometimes I’ll say I’m too shy to run a workshop or lead something new.
And people look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Maybe there’s nothing wrong with feeling that way, but admitting it out loud feels like you’re losing people’s faith in you. Like you’re saying something you’re too old to be saying.
At some point, no one wants to hear that you’re shy. They just expect you to do the thing anyway.
Maybe it’s just something I’ve noticed – not a universal truth – but even now, as reserved as I still am, I often make up another excuse instead of admitting I’m shy.
“Come on… how long are you going to say that?”
I ask myself that often.
I used to think I sucked at making friends because I was shy.
But more often than not, people have their own awkwardness.
They just want to genuinely connect, and they really don’t care that you’re shy.
That doesn’t mean some things won’t be scary.
They will.
And they’ll require preparation.
But still – no one really cares that you’re shy.
Just do what you have to do.
Shy or not, wing it.
Maybe you blow your chance at something great by admitting you’re shy and never acting on it. Maybe that’s what happened with my childhood crush.
But I’ve learnt that part of who you are – and who you can become – is revealed when you confront your shyness.
Maybe shyness never fully goes away.
But it’s a feeling you don’t have to obey.
© Phumzile