At just four months old, rejection defined my existence. My young mother, chasing love and a fresh start, left me at my grandmother’s rural home. She married another man, hiding me like a shameful secret, erasing my place in her life. I grew up without a mother’s embrace. My frail, elderly grandmother became my everything, raising me on her modest shamba earnings. School was a battleground—classmates mocked my tattered uniforms and parentless life, while teachers’ questions about my absent mother cut deep, reopening wounds.
Poverty gripped us tightly. Some nights, hunger kept us awake; other nights, I heard my grandmother’s quiet sobs. By the time I finished high school, poverty’s weight was suffocating—no connections, no support, no inheritance. I fought on, taking gruelling jobs—washing clothes, hauling bricks, hawking in matatus—to afford books and rent. Yet, every effort met dead ends. Job applications were rejected, and interviews ended with hollow promises. Eventually, I began to wonder: was I cursed to fail? To read more, click here.
