At fifteen, I wasn’t sure about what I wanted in life. In the last exam, I had managed to score a C. that was the best I could produce. I was comfortable. Besides, I wasn’t the last one in the class and I was smart. I had managed to score 334 marks out of 500 in the Kenya Certificate for Primary Education (KCPE). Most of the people I was in high school with hadn’t achieved that much. I was part of the ‘elite’, or so I thought.
I joined camp a little bullied girl. I was
bullied for all reasons varying from my weight, or my stand at refusing to join
the Christian Union when everyone was a fanatic and was being attacked by ‘evil
spirits’ in school. At some point, I was even branded as a follower of the
‘illuminati’ or whatever that was. Being in a catholic school, this was a very
serious issue. It didn’t matter whether it was a stupid rumour. Whatever was
being whispered in regards to this following was the truth. My classmates would
threaten me by saying they would report me to the principal. That would have been
the end of my high-school life. I would remember how my mum worked hard to
provide for me and my siblings. How she would cross Kenyatta highway with two
small buckets of water to water the plants to sell, how at some instances, she
was almost hit by cars and the drivers would haul insults at her for being
careless while crossing the road and I would feel so low. I tolerated how they
treated me because I didn’t want to see my mother’s efforts go to waste.
Besides, we had been through enough with my mum through primary school. I
remember how she would wake up at four in the morning, prepare and take me to
school. When it rained, she would walk through stagnant water with me on her
back since we lived in a swampy area. We would get to town at around five thirty
and she would go to her garden then, to water her plants. The thought of these
tough times made me not wish to bother her with what I was going through in
school.
I started the mentoring camps a beaten
girl. Broken. I would share my story with my sisters during the evening
sessions. No matter how small it seemed then, sharing eased the pain a little
bit. The support system was amazing. We would spend the whole night encouraging
each other to be strong and to remember what kept us going for so long.
During one of the sessions, I shared my
grades. The facilitator looked at me then and told me I could do better. She
even promised a prize to anyone who improved their grades. She later on asked
me what I wanted to do with my life and I told her I wanted to be a doctor. She
looked at me straight in the eye and told me that I wouldn’t be one if I
continued scoring those poor grades. She later asked me what motivated me and
what set my soul on fire when doing things. I told her my mum’s story and how I
wanted to get her out of that job. She told me to always think of her whenever
I felt like giving up.
I didn’t become a doctor but I am very
happy where I am now and am glad to say that Resource Center gave birth to the
person I am now. I came to realize afterwards that I didn’t want to be a doctor
after all. I wanted to pursue social work and do amazing things and change
people’s lives like how RCWG did to mine.
For that, I am truly grateful.
Article
by
Esther
Wambui
Mentoring
and Empowerment Camps Alumni
Group
of 2015
