Kenya, Aug. 31 -- 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.
Published by HT Digital Content Services with permission from Bana Kenya.