Growing up was a jagged path, one where I often felt like a stranger in my own life, out of place in my family, at school, everywhere. I’ll admit, I was a stubborn, troublesome kid. I made my mum and grandma cry more times than I can count, and the weight of those tears still lingers in my chest. People often ask what drove me to act the way I did, and I wish I had a clear answer. Back then, I didn’t know how to untangle the knot of emotions inside me. Even now, I still struggle to articulate my feelings effectively, though I’ve come a long way.

One thing I despised more than anything was school beatings. In Kenyan schools, when I was growing up, caning was the norm, a cruel ritual that seemed to feed the anger of some teachers. I remember one time, a kid at the back of the class cracked a joke, and we all burst out laughing, unable to stop ourselves. The teacher’s response? She caned the entire class, each strike landing like a betrayal. Other times, after exams, teachers would line up students who’d dropped marks from the previous test, even if their grades were still decent, and cane them without mercy. Some teachers had a particularly vicious habit: they’d cane us based on how many questions we got wrong. Each wrong answer meant another lash. It terrified me, a fear so deep it churned my stomach and made my legs feel like lead. School became a place I dreaded, so I started dodging.

I’d wake up, put on my school uniform like I was headed to class, and slip away to the video shows. In Kenya, back then, video shows were a thriving escape for people like me, cheap theaters where you could watch a movie for five shillings. If you timed it right, arriving when one movie was halfway done, you’d catch the end of it and the next one for the same price. I got good at stretching my time there, losing myself in the flickering screen. For many, it was cheaper than owning a TV, a VCR, or later, a CD player. When I didn’t have the five shillings, I’d show up early and offer to clean the place for a free movie. Sometimes it worked; other times, I’d sneak in, hiding under the seats in the dim light. Back then, I was small and quick, slipping into the shadows before they collected the entrance fee. I’d wait until the lights went out completely, then pop up to watch. That trick wouldn’t work now, I’m too big, too heavy, too slow.

The caning got worse in classes 7 and 8, and so did my rebellion. I’d openly refuse to be caned, staring down teachers with a defiance that felt like fire in my veins. Suspensions piled up, and my mum was at her wit’s end. Sometimes she’d punish me with her own beatings; other times, she’d just cry, overwhelmed. Seeing her tears was like a knife twisting in my heart. I transferred from Muonyweni to Mitaboni Primary, but things only got worse. The headteacher at Mitaboni was stricter, especially as my Kiswahili teacher in class 8. He’d make us lay our hands flat on the desk, then strike our knuckles with the sharp edge of a 30-cm ruler. The pain was searing. My anxiety skyrocketed, and I ditched school more often, sometimes not even bothering to hide it.

One time, after I refused to be caned, the headteacher sent me home to fetch my mum. I didn’t go home. I didn’t tell her. For three days, I roamed free, waking up each morning, dressing in my school uniform, then hiding my bag in a bush after swapping into home clothes. On the fourth day, a family friend spotted me sneaking into a video show. My mum, uncle, and his friend stormed in, dragging me out with a fury that shook me. They even threatened to report the video show owner to the police if he ever let me back into his video show. That night, my uncle and his friend tied my hands and legs, and my mum beat me until she was too exhausted to continue. The next day, I ran away from home. For two days, I slept outside, hiding from everyone. Eventually, someone who knew me tipped off my family. My uncle and his friend found me, and this time, my mum decided to involve the police to scare me straight. I ended up in a holding cell for three days. I was about 16.

Those three days in jail were a cold, lonely blur. I slept on the bare floor, curling up tight, tucking my hands between my legs for warmth. I refused to speak to anyone, police, family, anyone. They eventually released me because I was still a minor and their threats weren’t working. When I got out, my mum made me promise to go back to school. But the headteacher at Mitaboni wasn’t done with me. That first morning back, after a few sharp canes, something in me snapped. During the morning parade, with the whole school watching, I stood up, bolted for the door, and ran. I tore through the school gate and kept going, my heart pounding, my legs carrying me as far as they could. I swore I’d never return to that school.

Soon after, I hatched a plan to go to Nairobi, about 76 kilometers away, to find work. I had no money for transport, so I decided to walk. I didn’t know where to start, but I figured I’d sort it out when I got there, even if it meant living on the streets. My cousins in Nairobi had mentioned making money by collecting scrap metal and plastics from garbage heaps, so I had a fallback. I’d covered about 12 kilometers when my mum, by chance, spotted me from a matatu she was taking to Nairobi for unrelated reasons. She begged the conductor to stop, and when I climbed in, I saw her, tears welling in her eyes. I wanted to bolt, but the conductor blocked the door. We didn’t speak much until we reached Nairobi. There, she asked about my plan. I told her I wanted work, but when she pressed for specifics, I had nothing to say. She suggested I go to Kajiado to stay with my aunt, someone I’d always been close to, having grown up together at my grandma’s. I agreed, and she paid my fare.

In Kajiado, my aunt welcomed me, though I could tell I wasn’t part of her plans. She’d just started a demanding job as a waitress, and I was another burden. Still, her kindness gave me a flicker of relief, the first I’d felt in a while. I was still lost, unsure of what I wanted, but certain I wouldn’t go back to school. The problem was, no one would hire a minor, not even for grueling construction jobs that required nothing but muscle and endurance. This was March 2009, just months after starting class 8 at Mitaboni, right after registering for the KCPE exam, where I was index number one.

After a month, my aunt’s patience wore thin. Feeding me on her meager pay was tough, and sharing her one-room home wasn’t easy for either of us. I wasn’t much of a talker, so her attempts to understand my plans fell flat. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how hard it was to find work, how every rejection chipped away at my confidence until I stopped trying altogether. My timid nature didn’t help when I faced potential employers. Eventually, she decided it was time for me to go home. She took me to the matatu stage, paid the conductor, and told him to make sure I got to Nairobi safely. She gave me fare for the next matatu home after I arrived in Nairobi. But the moment I arrived in Nairobi, I hopped on another matatu back to Kajiado. I wasn’t going home.

When I returned, my aunt was furious, understandably so. She told me I was beyond help. That night, I slept in a shared bathroom, waiting until 11 p.m. when no one would use it. I started collecting scrap metal and plastics, scavenging through garbage heaps to make enough for food. I didn’t care much about where I’d sleep, any corner would do. I carried a small bag with two T-shirts, two pairs of trousers, a sweater, and slippers. Some days, I’d eat expired bread from the trash when hunger clawed too hard. Most days, though, I’d earn 50 to 80 shillings, enough for two meals at a small kibanda, mandazi and tea for breakfast (20 shillings), and githeri or ugali with sukuma wiki for lunch or supper (20-30 shillings). Once, I made 120 shillings, a small victory. I’d spend any extra on video shows, though they cost 10 shillings a movie in Kajiado. My clothes were always filthy, and kids would call me “Chokoraa,” a word that stung like a slap. To get into video shows I needed decent clothes. So I’d wash one T-shirt and a pair of light trousers in a seasonal river. When the river was dry I’d use a 5-liter jerrican of water I bought for 5 shillings. I’d wear these “clean” clothes for movies and meals, saving my dirty ones for scavenging.

I “worked” from 6 a.m. to 4 or 5 p.m., sold my haul, changed into cleaner clothes, ate, and watched movies until 11 p.m. Then I’d sleep in a closed kibanda, wrapping myself in sacks left by the owner for warmth. I’d wake at 5 a.m., tidy the sacks, put them as she had left them, and slip away before anyone noticed. This was my life for about a year. I’d dodge my aunt when I saw her, running and hiding like a ghost.

Then, one day, my aunt found and told me the headteacher at Mitaboni wanted me to return for my KCPE exams, which were a month away. I cleaned up and went home, only to learn it was a lie, he’d even canceled my registration. I felt cheated. But my mum spoke to me gently, and I agreed to repeat class 8. Mitaboni’s headteacher refused to let me back, so I enrolled at Kalikya Primary. The headteacher there was different, kind, understanding. My mum had explained my history, my defiance, and she still gave me a chance. She checked on me, made sure I had what I needed, and even let me live with her family as we prepared for the KCPE. She rekindled my love for school. I finished class 8, passed my exams, and went on to high school and university, thanks to her belief in me.

I owe everything to my mum, who never gave up on me, even when I pushed her to the brink, even when her tears were all she had left. And to that headteacher at Kalikya, who saw something in me worth saving, I’m forever indebted. They fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself, and their faith carried me through a darkness I thought would never end.