Dear Future Me...

I have pigtails. It's seven o'clock in the morning, and I have pigtails. Currently, I'm gaping at my reflection through the foggy mirror, wondering what sort of fever dream this is.

Because I am one hundred and seventy-two per cent sure I was not seven years old when I went to bed last night. I know they say a lot about weird things happening to you when you're in your late teens, but I didn't think reverse puberty was one of them.

I have to stand on my tiptoes to see my whole face. I eventually give up and sink back down to the tiled apartment bathroom floor.

"Koffi!" cries a familiar voice from downstairs. One I haven't heard for almost ten years. Dad?

I sprint down the hallway as fast as my small legs will carry me.

And there he was, wearing the same amused expression and as he did only moments before his flight took off. And didn't return.

But he was here. And I was here.

Forgetting the weirdness for a moment, I squeeze my dad into a big bear hug.

"Wow, baby. You really missed me." he laughs into my shoulder. "It was only a one-day trip."

I did miss you, dad.

I breathe in the warming smell of fresh lemoncake. He laughs at my awe of the smell. "I made lemon cakes for lunch."

Before I can work out what was happening, I'm at school with a tiny belly full of a lemon cake my dad let me eat to "taste-test."

I haven't taken in everything yet. I think that's a side effect of seeing your missing father in the flesh.

But I'm at school. The old hunting ground full of relentless playground bullies and hawk-nosed teachers sniffing out prey. Sure, as my regular eighteen-year-old self would have scared the average elementary schooler away, but I was here. Back as the loner who lost her dad, the only caramel student in the class, the favourite recess target victim that was...is? worth the most points.

But I hadn't lost my dad.

And I grip his hand staring at the sliding doors of Indianapolis Elementry. He looks down at me with compassionate eyes. Dad used to have a gift for talking to people with mere facial expressions.

"Bye, Koffi." He squeezed my hand.

"The kids are mean," I sigh without thinking. I don't want to be away from my dad.

"I know, baby. But it's strong women like you that will-"

"-fix the world. I know."

"Good," he speaks softly. "Bye, Koffi."

"Bye, daddy." It's really hard not to cry, and my dad doesn't know half the real reason.

Now I'm in math class, examining the rest of the classmates while the teacher teaches us nine times tables. I remember some of them- the ones I really liked and really didn't. Zahra- the only other person from Kenya in my grade. She is really pretty, I note. But this is all before she dropped out of school to move to England with her boyfriend eight years later.

I spot Qi Sheng- sitting in front of me. He was the only other one from Indianapolis Elementary that moved to my high school. I ended up dating him for a while, God knows why, he was an absolute jerk. Not to mention he raped a different girl a year later and served two years in prison.

And Brody- No, Brandon, behind me. He's already whispered various sexist and racist comments behind me twice, the jarhead he is. He actually didn't turn out to be such a bad person, on the flipside. I lost contact with him after seventh grade, but he started going to church in fifth grade and decided to give his life up for Jesus. Not saying what he did was okay. I hated him for it, but everyone's redemption arcs have equal sides. He did more good than bad in the long run. So I ignored the attention-seeking younger version of him behind me.

The teacher clears her throat. I quickly scibble down some notes in my workbook. All the timetables I'd memorised in grades one and two. 9x4=36, 9x5= 45.

If the universe was going teleport me through time and make me stuck in my first-grade body, I might as well go along with it.

At recess, I go and talk to Zahra. It's honestly kind of weird to talk to the younger versions of your friends. I tell her that my dad made lemon cakes for me to take to lunch. I don't know what else we can have conversations about. This isn't the same Zahra that left her whole life for a boy she met a month ago.

I hear the boys chanting playground songs from the top of the climbing frame. Songs about wives in kitchens while men fight. Chants about kings versus the weaker queen.

I frown. I don't remember these chants being so awful. So sexist.

Okay. That's it.

I feel my face and hands heating up as I screech in return. I run over to the climbing frame, Zahra a few feet away, confused at my outrage.

I'm too busy screaming to remember that seven-year-old Koffi shouldn't know that many curse words.

The boys start laughing at me. I clench my teeth. Maybe I should go for a calmer approach. I took another deep breath.

"Don't say things about us just because you're threatened." I advise, climbing up the cold metal bars to join the "kings of the castle".

"You're one to talk, coffee." snorts one of them.

Such uncreative word play and insults, I note as I ignore them.

"Maybe it's just because you can't imagine equality. Maybe your little male minds are so underdeveloped that you can't imagine racial justice and feminism without thinking of a woman/people of colour supremacy. Isn't equality all we ask for?"

They look offended, despite the fact they barely understood half of my speech. Zahra looks impressed.

I hate school. I hate it. These invisible social ladders tattooed into young kid's brains, this common unfairness to everyone who wasn't a white male?

I want to go home. Now.