BETWEEN FLOODS AND FAITH

Chapter 8:Hope

The first day I joined secondary school, I wore my uniform with pride — even though it was slightly oversized and the shoes were borrowed.

Mama stood at the gate, watching me walk away.

Her eyes were shining, not with tears, but with faith.

“Make me proud, my daughter,” she said.

And I promised I would.

The school wasn’t fancy — no big buildings or shiny dormitories — but to me, it was a new world.

A place where maybe, just maybe, I could start again.

But it didn’t take long before reality found me there too.

Some students came from well-off families.

They had new uniforms, packed lunch, and pocket money.

I had faith, hunger, and a dream.

During lunch breaks, I’d sit under a tree with my bottle of water and pretend I wasn’t hungry.

Sometimes a classmate would ask,

“You’re not eating today?”

I’d smile and say,

“I’m not hungry,”

even though my stomach told another story.

Fees were still a problem.

Every few weeks, the bursar would call out names — those who hadn’t paid.

When mine was called, I’d pack my bag quietly, heart pounding.

Sometimes, I’d walk home crying.

Other times, I’d beg the teachers to let me stay a few more days until Mama found the money.

Some agreed. Others didn’t.

I remember one teacher, Mr. Ouma, who looked at me one afternoon and said,

“Judith, your story doesn’t end here. Don’t let poverty convince you that you’re not meant for more.”

That day, I walked home barefoot after my worn-out shoes tore on the way — but I was smiling.

Because someone believed in me.

At home, Mama was doing everything she could.

She sold soap, washed clothes, and sometimes skipped meals so I could eat.

When I told her about being sent home again, she sighed and said,

“Even if it takes my last breath, you will finish school.”

Those words became my heartbeat.

Secondary school taught me more than just books.

It taught me silence — how to hide pain behind smiles.

It taught me hunger — the kind that lives both in the stomach and the soul.

And it taught me strength — the kind that no one sees until life forces it out of you.

At night, I’d study under a flickering candle, my eyes burning but my heart steady.

I’d whisper to myself,

“One day, all this will make sense.”

And deep down, I believed it.

When I finally sat for my exams, I didn’t know if I’d make it.

But I remembered every tear, every step, every prayer my mother whispered when she thought I was asleep.

So I wrote with everything I had — not just ink and pen, but pain, love, and hope.

When results came, I didn’t even care about the grade.

What mattered was that I made it through.

I didn’t drop out.

I didn’t give up.

And for a girl who had walked through storms barefoot — that was enough.

I was still standing.

Tired, yes.

Bruised, yes.

But alive — and dreaming.