How i became sponsor at Campus, later dropped out of school

Kenya, May 30 -- My name is Brian Otieno. I used to be a campus sponsor, but now I'm fully better and a motivational speaker. I didn't choose this path; it came from heartbreak.

I graduated from Kenyatta University, Parklands Law Campus. It's a place where dreams face many challenges like poverty, peer pressure, and bad relationship choices.

I lived on free Wi-Fi, cheap snacks, and a little bit of help from above. I want to help you avoid some of the pain I went through.

Let me share my story about my first week on campus. I had just moved in with my box of clothes, some snacks for the road, big dreams, and a nice new haircut.

On the second day, I met her. Let's call her Esther. She had beautiful long eyelashes and wore perfume that was so strong it made me forget everything else.

She smiled slowly and confidently, ready to charm me. Her teeth shone like fresh corn in the sun, and in that moment, I lost all my senses. Years of discipline from high school vanished.

My mother's advice about being careful with Nairobi women faded away. I could only see a future with her, imagining that we'd own a law firm together.

Before I knew it, I was buying lunch for her, paying for her phone data even though I used a different service, and even paying for group photos in class that I wasn't part of. I even bought her a ring from a street vendor-a promise ring.

I made promises I really couldn't keep. I said I'd buy her a fancy phone after I finished school and that we'd go to Dubai for our honeymoon, even though I had never really been to Nairobi at night.

I even told her I'd build a house for her mother while my own mother still cooked over firewood with no real hope of change. I was making promises my bank account couldn't support.

Then I got a loan for my studies, and my common sense disappeared. In just ten days, I was out of money. I started going to classes early-not to learn, but to borrow notes before others copied them.

But when I finally asked her if she could buy lunch just once, she smiled and said, "Babe, you're the man. That's your job."

I accepted this role foolishly. I became her sponsor. My money was spent on her hairstyles, matatu fares to pretend "group discussions," and fancy lip gloss that could shine in the dark.

My loan became our money. My parents were now "our parents." The money my mother worked hard for to send me to school became part of our "easy life" budget.

But easy life doesn't last when you're living off borrowed money. Then my mother came to visit unexpectedly, bringing food and love, but also anger. A girl I had dated before, and who I left for Esther, told her what was happening.

My mother wanted to see my exam results, but I lied and said the system was down. When she asked about my classes, I told her they were now online. But she went to the school office and found out I hadn't registered for any classes in two semesters.

Her face fell. She didn't cry, but her silence hurt me more than any teacher's punishment. When I went to Esther hoping for support, I wanted us to figure things out together. Instead, she looked at me differently. I had gone from "babe" to "burden" overnight.

She told me I had changed-I was no longer fun and useful. Just like that, she found someone else, a hospitality student who drove a nice car and had a good job.

I went back home to Homa Bay, and it was silent. Nobody celebrated my return. My cousins asked what happened to "the future lawyer," and I had no answer.

I stayed home, broke and heartbroken. In my desperation, I joined a church for help. They prayed for me. I cried. But deep down, I was still checking if Esther had updated her WhatsApp status.

Eventually, I picked myself up and faked my way into a job at Stima Sacco in Nakuru, saying I was waiting to graduate. Really, I was just waiting for my heart to heal.

I worked hard for two years-no girlfriends, no fun-just focused on working. I saved money, prayed, and kept my goals close. I went back to university and studied very hard. I graduated with a law degree.

Now, I speak from my experiences. I'm not bitter; I'm better. So, listen closely:

You can live without a girlfriend, but if you have one who sees you as a bank account, you're in trouble. Choose your partner wisely. If her financial needs are more than what your parents can give, my brother. it's time to run.

Avoid women who think you're the solution to their financial problems. If she believes you'll finish school and suddenly become rich, please run! If she calls you "babe" and then sends you a long shopping list, be careful.

Published by HT Digital Content Services with permission from Bana Kenya.