Intelligence is supposed to be a shield, a weapon, a bright sword to cut through the thorns of life. He had it intelligence, bravery, curiosity. As a boy, he often amazed his teachers with sharp answers, quick thinking, and a mind that absorbed knowledge like dry soil drinking rain. But intelligence alone could not hide the evidence of lack that clung to him like a second skin. Poverty was not just his background; it was his shadow, trailing him everywhere, whispering at every step that no matter how bright his mind shone, the world would always see the holes in his sandals before the spark in his eyes.
He could not forget the sting of one memory, one that etched itself into the fragile layers of his young confidence. He was in primary school, brimming with brilliance, competing with his peers for the post of Head Prefect. It was a moment that should have been defined by merit by leadership qualities, intelligence, and determination. Yet, when the teacher looked at him, she did not see potential. She saw poverty written on his worn-out uniform, his sandals that had long lost their dignity, his bag that sagged like an old rag. Without mercy, the teacher demoted him, not because he was unworthy, but because lack had made him unfit for the image of leadership.
That day, something inside him broke. He realized that the world was not fair; it did not always reward brilliance, it rewarded appearances. And appearances were what poverty had stolen from him.
Every morning was a battle before the lessons even began. He trekked miles to school, dust rising to coat his legs and sweat staining his shirt. By the time he arrived, often late, fatigue already tugged at his young bones. Hunger gnawed at his stomach like a cruel enemy; food was never enough, and even when there was something, it rarely carried the nutrients his body craved. To this day, the effects followed him his body never learned to fully embrace fruits, vitamins, or nourishing meals, for they had been strangers during his formative years.
From childhood, he knew what it meant to wrestle with life for the simplest needs feeding, shelter, dignity. The fear of the unknown settled into him like an unwanted tenant. He feared failure before he even truly tasted success, for failure seemed closer, more familiar, more likely. Poverty had not only starved his body but had also tried to suffocate his confidence. Yet, deep within, there was a fire that would not be extinguished the desire for greatness.
It was a strange contradiction: he carried the trauma of lack, yet within that trauma burned a restless hunger to rise above it. He tried many paths to rewrite his destiny. He gave his life to Christ, not once, but on different occasions, desperate to anchor his future to something larger than himself. And while he found peace in the promise of salvation, he wrestled with the bitter thought that Christ could save his soul from the pit of hell, but not from the poverty into which he was born. His faith was real, but his questions were louder.
"What is my calling? What is my niche? Will I ever be rich? How can I know my destiny? Should I accept my fate, or is life simply testing my resilience?" These were the daily questions that plagued him like shadows at dusk always there, never fully answered.
He pushed forward anyway. Hard labor became his companion. He worked jobs that bent his back and blistered his palms, just to scrape together money for his education. He saved what he could, sometimes dreaming of starting a business, sometimes daring to believe a small venture might grow into something big. But time and again, his efforts collapsed like houses built on sand. Businesses failed. Attempts crumbled. And each failure carved another scar into his resolve.
The only success that survived the storm was his education. He fought for it with everything he had. He sacrificed meals, endured exhaustion, stretched his body thin, and risked malnourishment all to cling to the fragile hope that education would be his ladder out of poverty. It was the one victory poverty could not snatch from him, though it left him battered in body and weary in spirit.
Yet, even after gaining that education, the haunting truth remained: the world does not hand success to the poor simply because they suffered for it. He was educated, yes, but still broke, still fighting, still searching for a way to translate his resilience into reward. Poverty had been his first teacher, trauma his first textbook, but the lessons were cruel and unending.
And so he carried on, a broke perfectionist not by choice but by circumstance. His heart still longed for greatness, his soul still burned for impact. But every day was a wrestling match between the scars of his past and the dreams of his future. The trauma of lack was deep but deeper still was the stubborn fire that refused to die.