From Doubt to Brown
“The school gave you more than an education; it gave you a future. Now, you wish the same fate for other precious girl, that they may come to Gashora and watch their dreams take flight. “
Gashora: The Dream.
At fifteen, you sit at the family dinner table, the middle sibling, the quiet observer. The unspoken truth hums beneath every conversation: You are the one expected to rise.
You don’t resent it. You’ve seen the sacrifices; your father breaking his schedule to meet your teachers, your mother’s shoulders tensing when school fees are due. You apply to Gashora Girls Academy of Science and Technology, you pour yourself into the application. You MUST get in.
Then, the moment. Your father calls you into his room and turns his phone toward you. The screen glows: "Congratulations." Your hands fly to your mouth. Gashora. The school where Rwandan girls become engineers, doctors, and astronauts. Where "impossible" doesn’t exist.
That night, you lie awake imagining labs, libraries, and what is ahead.
Gashora: The Storm.
Your first month is a whirlwind. You choose PCB—Physics, Chemistry, Biology with a Math minor; the notorious "killer combination." Seniors smirk when they see your schedule: "You’ll beg to switch by November."
But you endure. You wake at 4 a.m. to recite Newton’s laws, linger after Biology to discuss anatomy, and some nights, you’re the last in the lab, mixing acids.
Yet Gashora isn’t just academics; it’s where you learn to live. You dance down pathways spontaneously, quoting Teacher Anasthase’s "Don’t call it a day until it’s a day" just to make your friends laugh. Your favorite place becomes the dorm, where you trade stories until curfew.
You sign up for five clubs: Gavel Club, Zone Française, Patriots Club, Science Club, and Peace and Love Proclaimers.
You find all of them so exhilarating that you’re elected to four committees.
Gashora: The BREAKING POINT.
Then Grade Eleven arrives, and with it, a surprise: you’re elected Welfare Prefect, responsible for 300 girls. Overnight, you’re mediating dining hall disputes at dawn and delivering meals to the infirmary. Then the cultural dance troupe, Inkumburwa, votes for you to become president.
One rainy Tuesday, Mr. Jean Pierre stops you after Biology. "Kenza," he says, "now that you’re a leader, don’t forget your academics." Before you can protest, he adds, "But leadership starts with leading yourself first."
He’s right. Your grades are slipping. PCB is relentless. But Gashora has already taught you: Leadership isn’t about having time—it’s about making it.
You adapt. You drop two clubs, create a shift system with your assistant prefects, and learn prioritization.
Gashora: The Springboard
Before application season, you’ve researched universities, but one stands out: Brown. Its open curriculum, collaborative spirit, and Providence’s cobblestone streets call to you. When Miss Alida, your college counselor, suggests you start writing your essay, you panic.
But Miss Alida just smiles. "Tell me about your background," she says.
You recount nights listening to your sick father, your mother soothing him, until the day you made a home remedy from a plant you’d studied.
"That’s your essay," she says. "Not the sickness. The girl who wouldn’t quit."
You write and rewrite for weeks, intern at a polyclinic, and polish every word. By November, your application is submitted.
December 13, 2024
You’re walking to your dorm when chaos erupts; screaming, sprinting footsteps. You know what that means, so you frantically ask, to no one in particular, “Who got admitted?” Then Darcy bolts from the library, shrieking: "KENZA! IT’S YOU!"
The world blurs. Someone hugs you so hard that you stumble. Anitha shakes your shoulders, yelling, "You’re going to Brown!"
You call your mother. Her voice cracks: "Finally, our dream came true."
Gashora: Home of Precious Girls
At prom, in a burgundy corseted bodice dress, you watch your classmates dance to Amapiano under twinkling lights, each headed to a future that once seemed impossible.
You realize then: Talent is universal. Opportunity is not.
Your name is Ineza Kenza Leslie Davina, but you go by Kenza; "precious girl."
You ARE Precious. So are the other girls, top scorers without college counseling, coders without laptops, who could cure diseases if only they had a lab.
Without Gashora’s financial aid and support, you find it hard to see how any of this would’ve been possible.
The school gave you more than an education; it gave you a future. Now, you wish the same fate for other precious girl, that they may come to Gashora and watch their dreams take flight.
