Growing up in a cosy little spot in Western Kenya felt like living in a big family—folks knew your every move, and envy could zip around quicker than a matatu on market day. As a kid, I had these wild dreams of busting out of our tight-knit poverty, chasing something grander. But around there, letting your hopes show? That’s like waving a red flag at a bull.
Nobody cheers when you aim high; they just pull you back down. Fresh out of college, I headed home, eyes wide for a break. Instead, I got side-eyes and hushed giggles. “That one’s showing off,” they’d mutter in Swahili. “He’ll crawl back broke like the rest of us.” Ouch, those jabs stung worse than thorns. Even kinfolk started dodging me like I carried bad juju. I’d kick off a side hustle, and poof, it’d flop for no good reason. Land a job chat? Bam, last-second snag.
It was like misfortune had my number on speed dial. I brushed it off as life’s grind at first. Then came the day my phone vanished right after a dream call about work. Nope, not random. This felt like invisible hands yanking my chain, something otherworldly, cooked up by sour souls who couldn’t stand me soaring. The village chatter turned brutal. Continue Reading https://drbokko.com/?shorts=they-said-i-would-never-make-it-now-they-whisper-my-name-in-fear
