They Laughed at Me for Being the Poor Boy… Now They Queue Outside My Gate

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I was born into poverty so deep that even hope felt like a luxury we could not afford. My earliest memory is of my mother boiling water and pretending it was porridge so that my siblings and I could sleep without crying from hunger. We lived in a leaking mud hut, and every time it rained, we huddled in one corner to avoid the drops falling through the roof.

School was a dream far from reality. My father used to say, “Education is for the rich. People like us are born to suffer.” And he believed it. If it were not for a Catholic church in our village that noticed my determination, I would have remained uneducated. A missionary mzungu took pity on me and sponsored my education through the church. That was my lifeline, the one small miracle that allowed me to see a different world. But even continue reading