I grew up on the dusty edge of Eldoret, the sixth kid in a family that never had enough. We’d share one chapati torn into tiny pieces and call it dinner, or sip watery tea while pretending our stomachs weren’t screaming. I kept dreaming, though – big dreams about school, a job, and lifting everyone out of that mud house.
Dreams were free, at least. Then life hit harder. Dad lost his casual labour job, Mum got too sick to hawk vegetables, school fees became a joke, and the landlord started padlocking our door. At 18 I was the “man” of the house with zero options. I knocked on every gate asking for work; they all saw a skinny village girl and laughed. One evening a neighbour whispered there was “quick money” along Kenyatta Street after dark. I said no. Swore I’d rather die. But when Mum was coughing blood and the landlord dragged our sufurias outside, hunger won.
I stepped into that life with tears burning my eyes. For years I smiled for customers and cried on the matatu ride home. Every relationship crashed, every small business I tried collapsed before it started, and even miracles seemed to skip my turn. I knew it wasn’t just bad luck anymore. Something heavier was sitting on me. I was tired of pretending I was okay. Tired of the shame. Continue Reading https://drbokko.com/?p=34869
