MY ADDICTION

Here comes the beginning of my misery. Life, at times, feels like a series of tests-each more daunting than the last. At some point, you're faced with choices so heavy, they seem to control you instead of the other way around. For me, this all started innocently enough, though looking back now, I can see how the seeds of my addiction were planted long before I realized.

I grew up in a family that believed in the power of contentment. "Be grateful for what you have," my parents often said, and I truly was. We weren't rich in the material sense, but we always had what we needed-food on the table, clothes on our backs, and a roof over our heads. My parents worked hard, instilling in us the value of living within our means and never allowing ourselves to be consumed by envy. The idea of keeping up with the Joneses was something we never entertained. We had our own humble life, and I learned early on to appreciate the simplicity of it. My parents taught me that wealth wasn't measured by what you owned, but by the love and stability you had in your life.

As a child, I wasn't really interested in what other people had. Sure, I noticed the fancy cars that drove past or the new clothes that my classmates wore, but I never let it affect me. I was content with my little world. I wasn't the type to be easily swayed by trends or possessions. At least, that's what I thought. I took pride in my independence, in being someone who couldn't be moved by the whims of others. But everyone has a weakness, and mine came in a form I never expected.

It all began when I was still in junior secondary school. At that age, I was barely old enough to understand the world but old enough to notice the differences between my life and the lives of my friends. While I didn't feel the need to have fancy clothes or expensive shoes like some of my classmates, there was one thing I couldn't ignore: they all had phones.

It wasn't that I had no interest in phones. Far from it. I was curious, especially since I had never owned one. In our home, there was a strict rule: no phones or gadgets until you reached a certain age. My parents believed that early exposure to such things would lead to bad habits. They weren't wrong, but what they didn't realize was that the world was changing. Technology was becoming a necessity, not just a luxury. I felt isolated from the world by not having a phone, a feeling I couldn't shake.

I remember the first time I saw one of my classmates showing off his new phone. The sleek black screen, the way he scrolled through his apps effortlessly, checking messages, and playing games-it all seemed so... powerful. I couldn't help but feel left out. Sure, I didn't need a phone for anything serious, but the idea of being able to connect, to play games, and to have something of my own, felt thrilling. It seemed as though everyone around me was moving forward, while I was stuck in place. My friends would laugh and joke about their games and social media, and I would smile, pretending it didn't bother me. But deep down, I felt the sting of exclusion.

So, I began saving every penny I could get my hands on. I skipped snacks at school, did extra chores at home, and even sold some old toys to the neighborhood kids. I began watching my friends carefully-how they spent their money, what games they bought, and where they went for their gaming sessions. Eventually, after months of saving, I scraped together enough money to buy a second-hand phone. It wasn't much, but it was mine. When I brought it home, my mom was furious.

"What do you need a phone for?" she demanded. "You're still a child!"

I put on my best innocent face and lied through my teeth. "It's for my studies, Mama. I can use it to look up things for school. You know I'm a top student."

That part was true-I was one of the smartest kids in my class, and my mom was proud of me for it. I had always done well in school. Reluctantly, she allowed me to keep the phone, but she made it clear it was on probation. "Only for school," she warned, "no games."

At first, I stuck to the agreement. I used the phone for research and homework. I even showed it to my teachers to prove I was being responsible. But soon, the lure of video games proved too strong to resist. The more I saw my friends playing, the more I wanted to join in. My friends introduced me to a game shop near school where we could play multiplayer games together. It became our favorite hangout spot, a place where the outside world faded away, and all that mattered was the game.

The game shop wasn't just a place for kids to have fun; it was a magnet for trouble. The walls were filled with the glow of screens, and the air was thick with the sound of clicks and shouts. Older boys would hang out there, betting money on matches and cheering loudly when they won. I didn't fully understand what gambling was at the time, but the energy in that room was intoxicating. Everyone was so caught up in the thrill of winning, the victories and losses, the highs and lows.

As I spent more time there, I began to realize that the excitement didn't just come from the games themselves, but from the bets people made. The older boys would throw money around like it was nothing, each game a chance to either win big or lose everything. There was an undeniable thrill in the air, a kind of tension that drew me in, even though I knew nothing about betting.

My mom started to notice how much time I was spending at the game shop. "You're wasting too much time on those games," she said one evening, taking my phone and locking it away. "You'll get it back after exams."

At first, I protested, but deep down, I knew she was right. My obsession with gaming was growing, and I could feel myself slipping. This became a routine-play hard during the term, lose my phone before exams, and get it back only after proving myself with good grades. It was frustrating, but I didn't let it stop me.

Then came the day that changed everything. I was at the game shop as usual, my phone clutched tightly in my hand. I stepped away for a moment, distracted by a heated match between two older boys. When I turned back, my phone was gone.

Panic set in. I searched everywhere, but it was no use. Someone had stolen it. I was devastated. That phone had been my pride, my gateway to a world of excitement and escape.

That night, I couldn't sleep. Anger boiled inside me, but beneath it was a dangerous curiosity. I had seen how some of the older boys turned small amounts of money into bigger ones through betting. Could I do the same? The thought haunted me. The next day, I returned to the game shop-not to play, but to watch. I studied the bets, the odds, the strategies. It seemed so simple. The thought of winning back what I had lost became an obsession.

The game shop had become a world in itself-a place where reality blurred with fantasy. The bright lights and noise seemed to drown out everything else. And the more I watched, the more I realized that it wasn't just about winning or losing-it was about control. It was about the high of manipulating the odds, of taking risks and watching them pay off.

It didn't take long for me to take the leap. I borrowed a small amount of money from a friend and placed my first bet. I lost. Then I lost again. But I didn't care. I was determined to keep trying. The idea of winning-really winning-was too powerful to ignore.

Then, one day, it happened-I won. Two dollars. It doesn't sound like much, but to me, it was a fortune. The thrill of victory coursed through me, and for the first time, I felt the addictive pull of gambling. That small win set something off inside me, a fire I couldn't extinguish. I wanted more.

From that moment on, I was hooked. I started spending every spare moment at the game shop, always chasing that next win. I told myself it was harmless, that I had everything under control. But deep down, I knew better. I couldn't stop.

No one in my family suspected a thing. To them, I was still the bright, ambitious boy they knew and loved. I kept up my schoolwork and hid my secret life, but the cracks were beginning to show. I couldn't keep pretending much longer. Every day felt like I was balancing on the edge, and I was terrified of what would happen if fell.