What remains of a life is just a collection of first times.

Because they are the ones who give meaning to everything else.

They are the ones that give you the strength to start something new.

To change direction.

To leave the past behind.

A small past or a large past, it makes no difference.

The first kiss.

The first day.

The first punch.

The first memory I have it’s me hiding behind the trees, and made myself small, following my brother's steps throughout the city.

Because I wanted to be like him.

I wanted to play with him and with his friends.

I wanted to play sports as a boy.

I was the only girl among many boys, always dirty with dust or mud.

Always ready to chase a ball, kick it, throw it far away.

It wasn't an easy childhood.

Africa can be a difficult place, when it wants to be.

We were raised by our mother, a single mom, who worked different jobs.

Lots of different jobs.

She raised us making enormous sacrifices, in particular sacrificing her time, because she had the dream of offering us a better future.

Better food.

Better schools.

Better careers.

As soon as we were able to do so, we started contributing to the family budget.

Small jobs.

Poorly paid, sure.

But that made us feel like grown ups.

Important.

Yet, even in the best moments, the desire for something more always came back knocking on our door. With insistence.

And through the lenses of what you don't have, even what you don't know quickly becomes a lack.

I came to Britain when I was just 11, and have now spent more years here than I have in Cameroon.

At first I was overwhelmed by everything.

The lifestyle was completely different from what I was used to.

It was all exciting and fast.

Even too fast.

I struggled to learn English, and was often bullied at school for my heavy accent. I was just a little girl, but I remember every little detail.

Every word.

Every offense.

As cliché as it may be, they have made me countless times stronger.
Taking me apart every day, and forcing me to rebuild myself every night.

Thicker.

Harder.

More Cindy.

Then time passes, the bullies are left alone and they suffer more than the bullied, and life continues, putting you in front of a new selection of first times.

Like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates.

Sometimes beautiful and sometimes ugly.

All to remember.

Like the first time I spent the night in prison.

They took me to a detention center, together with my brother Kennet.

They had taken us directly from the immigration office, where we went every week to sign the presence sheet.

I spent the night with the prospect of being taken back against my will to a country where homosexuality is illegal, and where I would end up in prison for who I am.

Or like the first time I put on gloves.

When I was 15, I weighed almost 110 kilos, and to lose weight I decided to start playing football.

It was too light for me.

Little adrenaline.

Little contact.

Not strong enough.

So, one day, while walking around the city, I came across a small dusty and smelly gym, from which continuous loud noises came out: “boom! boom!"

It could have been the door to hell, but for me it was the entrance to paradise.

It was the first time they had seen a girl come in.

I dutifully lined up, and began the warm-up along with everyone else.
The rope.

The skip.

The sit-ups.

Then the coach said to put on gloves, but when I approached to get a pair, he stopped me: “no. You do the skip."

I skipped for 90 minutes.

And I did it again the next day.

And the one after that.

Supported only by the hope that if I had done everything that was asked of me, sooner or later, I too would have started punching the bag.

For a year I did nothing else.

Nothing else.

When I got down to 90kg they gave me the gloves and we started working on footwork. Me and Coach Dave.

Months of shadow boxing.

Months of technique.

Months of study.

I also remember the feeling of the first blow I took in the face, for real, sparring in the ring, with a boy.

I ran to the bathroom to cry in pain.

But I didn't stop.

And Dave never stopped being hard on me, because that's always what I need to get better.

For many years I have tried to become a British citizen.

To represent the Federation that had welcomed and protected me when I needed it most. Without success.
And so when they asked me to join the IOC Refugee Team, again thanks to the support of the Federation, I said yes, with pride.

I said yes, even though the first time they called me a "refugee" I felt deeply embarrassed, because I felt helpless, defenseless.

Alone.

For the first time in my life.

Now I have embraced the meaning of this opportunity.

Now I understand its value.

Its meaning.

Today I know that this team represents millions of people, many of whom will not even have the chance to watch the Games during Paris 2024.

People on the run.

People who take risks just to be themselves.

And people who will all be enclosed inside my gloves.

It will be the first time for a boxer, and I will make them all proud of me.