You know, they didn’t even bother hiding it. Right there in the middle of Kanyadhiang’ shopping centre in Siaya County, guys would chuckle as I walked by. Ladies murmured behind their brightly coloured lesos, and even little kids parroted what they’d heard at home: “That boy’s never going to make it.” I’m Otieno, the youngest of five in a family that had next to nothing. My mum, Mama Achieng’, a widow, brought us up in a simple mud house with a roof that leaked whenever it rained. Every single morning, I’d pass those same faces on my way to school, clutching my ragged notebook and holding onto dreams nobody else thought were worth anything.
Things were tough, no sugar-coating it. After secondary school, university was out of the question—we just couldn’t afford it. I bounced between odd jobs: burning charcoal till my hands blistered, hauling stones on building sites, and hawking vegetables by the roadside. Nothing stuck. Every setback gave the village more gossip material. My old friend Jared started pretending he didn’t see me. Uncle Onyango told my mum to quit “wasting prayers” on a lost cause. Even my girlfriend, Atieno, walked away, saying she needed someone “going somewhere.” Nights were the worst—lying there listening to the wind rattle our corrugated roof, wondering if everyone was right about me.
One evening, after getting chased off a site for demanding the money they owed me, I just sat outside and broke down. Mum came and sat beside me, quiet for ages. Then she said softly, “Son, not everybody laughing today will be laughing tomorrow.” Those words stuck, but the heaviness in my chest didn’t budge. I felt trapped, like some unseen force kept pulling me back no matter how hard I pushed. Everything changed when our neighbour, Mama Ruth, spotted how low I was. She pulled me aside one day and said, “Otieno, sometimes effort alone isn’t enough—you need proper guidance.” Read more https://drbokko.com/?p=35369
