That evening during the TILL Investiture is something I don’t think I’ll forget easily.

The girls’ section backyard looked completely different that day. It was dressed up with handmade decorations in blue, soft shades of purple, and touches of gold. Right in front of us, the golden letters spelling TILL Investiture caught the light beautifully. Above it all, the mango tree stood quietly, its branches swaying as leaves fell gently in front of the backdrop, almost as if nature itself was part of the ceremony.

The seating was simple but thoughtful. Brown chairs were lined up neatly, mothers on one side, fathers on the other. Seeing our parents seated there, waiting, watching, made everything feel more real. More serious.

The TILL members from the boys’ section walked in first, all dressed smartly in black suits with purple ties. Then we followed, the girls in black skirts, white shirts, purple hijabs, and black blazers with the school logo embroidered on the right side. Each of us held a purple helium balloon. As we walked in, we tied our balloons to our chairs and took our seats. The balloons hovered gently above us, bright and hopeful.

Then came the moment of receiving our badges. As each of us was called forward, our sectional head read out a short description of our qualities. Simple words, but powerful. Hearing someone describe who you are, your strengths, your character, felt incredibly affirming. At the same time, it stirred a quiet responsibility in my heart. A real awareness that now, I had to live up to those words. It reminded me how well our teachers truly know us, and how intentionally they chose this moment to tell us.

When my badge was pinned onto my blazer, it didn’t feel like an achievement. It felt like a beginning.

The evening breeze was cool, calming our nerves just a little. After Asr prayers, the sun dipped lower, and its rays streamed straight into our eyes as we stood together to take the leadership oath. We said the words out loud, with passion and promise. Some of us stuttered. Some of us stumbled over a few lines, not because we hadn’t memorised them, but because we were standing there, looking at our teachers and parents, all watching us with pride and expectation. It was overwhelming. I think many of us faltered simply because meeting their eyes in that moment felt harder than saying the words themselves.

One moment that stayed with me deeply was when our Head of School, Rukshana Mualima, took a pair of scissors and gently cut the string of one of the helium balloons. We watched as it floated up, slipping through the branches of the mango tree and disappearing into the sky. Without many words, the message was clear: leadership can make you rise, but if you’re not grounded, you can drift away just as easily.

Afterwards, everything softened into joy. We took group photos. We took selfies, with each other, with our teachers, with our parents. Laughter replaced nerves. Pride replaced fear. These were moments we knew we’d want to remember.

That evening taught me that leadership isn’t loud. It isn’t about authority or titles. It’s about responsibility, grounding, and service. It’s about knowing that this role is an amanah,from our school, yes, but ultimately from Allah.

And standing there, under a mango tree, with purple balloons, gentle wind, warm sunlight, and the people who shaped us watching on, I felt truly celebrated. And deeply accountable.