The Day I Almost Gave Up: A True Story of Survival in a Kenyan Boarding School
At just 15, I was thrown into a world of hunger, humiliation, and fear. What they called “tradition” almost broke me. This is the story I’ve never told — until now.
I was only 15. My first time away from home. Packed into a dormitory with 76 other boys. Scared, excited, and full of hope — I had finally joined high school.
But what I didn’t know was that I wasn’t there to learn right away. I was there to suffer.
In our school, like in many others in Kenya, Form 1 students are called “Monos.” And being a Mono meant one thing: you were at the bottom. And everything — your dignity, your freedom, your comfort — was fair game.
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A System of Silent Violence
Form 4s ruled over us like kings. We weren’t just students — we were servants, errand boys, entertainment.
We polished their shoes. Washed their clothes. Gave up our shopping — bread, sugar, Blue Band, toilet paper, even blankets and mattresses. They raided our boxes like supermarkets.
One senior refused to call us by name. I was Number 3 — not James, not Chege. Just a number.
One day, a Form 4 walked over, pulled a toilet paper roll from a Mono’s box, held it up and said, “Don’t touch it. Just roll it.” He ordered the boy to roll the toilet paper — 30 meters to the bathroom — without breaking it.
Another Mono was forced to eat an entire orange with the peel still on — just because he “looked soft.”
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Debt, Rent, and Fear
There was a rent collector. He kept a debt book. If we didn’t give part of our pocket money, our names went into it. And the only way to repay was to fetch water, scrub uniforms, or shine shoes.
On Saturdays, Form 4s would hang their laundry. Our job? Sit and watch it dry, like unpaid security guards.
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The Classroom Escape Plan
Entertainment time in the school hall was no better. We were forced to sit at the very back — and anyone seen there became a target.
So instead, we hid behind our classrooms, just talking, afraid. We even moved our personal belongings to class — it was safer than storing them in the dorm.
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The Head Boy, the Belt, and the Slaps
This wasn’t just seniors. The violence came from authority too.
One evening during dinner, I was slapped — hard — by the school head boy for “line skipping.” Another time, the games captain came to the dorms at night and beat us with a belt because we didn’t change into our games clothes.
During games time, we ran to the field as fast as we could, because staying behind meant a Form 4 might see you and claim you as a personal slave for the next hour.
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The Night That Broke Something In Me
But nothing could prepare us for Tuesday night — the night I will never forget.
It was past midnight. We were all sleeping on the top bunks, because in our school, Form 1s were forced to sleep on top — “like birds,” they said.
A Form 4 barged in. He carried a rope tied in a huge knot.
He went from bed to bed, hitting each of us with the knot in the dark and asking, “What does it smell like?”
He didn’t want an honest answer. He wanted one answer: “Sheep” — Kondoo in Swahili.
The first few boys didn’t know what to say. He hit them again and again, then gave them the answer.
I was in bunk number 3. And by the time he got to me, I knew what was coming. He hit me, and through pain and panic I shouted, “Kondoo!”
He moved on. Like a ghost. A violent ghost.
That boy was expelled the next day. But the fear? It never left.
That night still haunts me. Sleeping after that became a nightmare. Even today, I sometimes wake up sweating, heart racing, remembering.
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The Hunger, the Silence
We were also hungry. Always hungry.
The food was the same almost every day:
• Monday, Tuesday, Friday, Saturday lunches: Githeri — boiled hard corn with beans, often with weevils (mbusha, in our mother tongue).
• Wednesdays were slightly better — rice with beans.
• Supper every night: Ugali and kale.
• Breakfast at 6:30 AM: Watery porridge.
• Lunch at 1:05 PM. Supper at 5:45 PM.
There were no snacks. Nothing in between. And the portions were never enough.
Some of us searched for wild berries just to fill our stomachs.
And every day, I asked myself the same questions:
What is this place? Where am I? Will I survive this?
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No One to Turn To
And what about reporting? Sure. We tried that.
One Form 1 reported a senior. The boy was suspended — for just two weeks. But when he came back, the rest of the Form 4s made the reporter’s life a living hell.
He was isolated, harassed, targeted. The message was clear: “If you speak, you suffer.”
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And Still... I Stayed
I don’t know what kept me going. Maybe it was my mother’s voice in my head. Maybe it was the quiet bond among us Monos — broken boys pretending to be brave.
That first year broke something in me. And somehow — I didn’t break.
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Why I’m Telling You This
Because someone, somewhere, is going through this right now.
Because what some call “tradition” is really just trauma passed down and normalized.
No child should fear school.
No student should come home with scars — emotional or physical.
If you’ve been through this…
You’re not weak.
You’re not alone.
You survived something you never should’ve had to.
And I see you.
About the Creator
James C.
I faced Valley Fever, came close to losing everything, and found strength in family and faith. I share real, raw stories of survival, healing, and parenting — to inspire anyone going through tough seasons. You’re not alone.
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“He Kept Going When No One Was Watching — And That Changed Everything”
No one ever noticed the days he almost gave up. There were no messages asking if he was okay. No one wondered why he became quieter. No one asked how much effort it took just to keep going. To the world, he was just another ordinary man. His name was Ayaan. Ayaan’s life didn’t collapse in one dramatic moment. It slowly faded. Missed opportunities. Rejected ideas. Silent disappointments. Every failure was small, but together they became heavy. He had dreams once. Big ones. Dreams that kept him awake at night, imagining a future where his hard work would finally matter. But over time, those dreams began to feel unrealistic—almost embarrassing. People around him seemed to move forward effortlessly. They celebrated promotions, achievements, and milestones. Ayaan watched from the side, smiling politely while feeling invisible. At work, his efforts were ignored. Among friends, his voice faded. At home, expectations weighed heavily on him. Slowly, a dangerous thought settled into his mind: “Maybe I’m not good enough.” That thought followed him everywhere. It followed him on crowded buses. It followed him into sleepless nights. It followed him every time he tried again and failed. One night, after scrolling through endless success stories online, Ayaan closed his phone and stared at the dark ceiling. His chest felt tight, not because of pain—but because of exhaustion. He whispered quietly, “How long do I keep trying?” There was no answer. But that night, Ayaan made a decision—not a loud one, not a confident one. A tired decision. He decided to keep going, even if nothing changed. The next morning felt the same. The same routine. The same doubts. The same fear of wasting his life. But Ayaan showed up anyway. He worked when no one praised him. He studied when no one guided him. He practiced when no one believed in him. Some days, motivation disappeared completely. On those days, discipline took over. He reminded himself: “I don’t need applause. I need progress.” Weeks passed. Nothing dramatic happened. No sudden success. No recognition. No miracle. But something subtle began to shift. Ayaan became calmer under pressure. He learned to sit with discomfort instead of running from it. He stopped comparing his journey to others. The silence that once scared him now became his training ground. Months later, a serious problem appeared at his workplace. It was complicated, risky, and easy to blame on someone else. Most people avoided it. Some pretended it wasn’t their responsibility. Ayaan didn’t announce himself. He didn’t seek attention. He simply started working. Late nights. Mistakes. Corrections. Learning. There were moments he wanted to quit. Moments when fear whispered, “You’re not ready.” But he answered back, “I’ll learn.” Slowly, the problem began to disappear. Not perfectly—but steadily. People noticed, quietly. One afternoon, his manager called him into the office. Ayaan expected criticism. Instead, he heard a question that stunned him: “Where did you learn all this?” Ayaan paused. How could he explain years of silent effort? How could he explain working when no one cared? He simply replied, “I kept going.” That moment didn’t change his life overnight. He didn’t become famous. He didn’t suddenly become successful. But it changed something far more important. His belief in himself. For the first time, Ayaan understood that life doesn’t always reward effort immediately. Sometimes, it watches. It watches who continues without praise. Who improves without recognition. Who grows in silence. Years later, Ayaan looked back at the version of himself who almost quit. The man who felt invisible. The man who thought no one was watching. And he smiled. Because he finally understood the truth: Life was always watching. Not to judge. Not to rush. But to see if he would keep going when it was hardest. The world doesn’t reward those who only work when they’re seen. It rewards those who build strength in silence. And sometimes, the moment that changes everything doesn’t come with applause. It comes quietly. After patience. After effort. After consistency. That is when everything finally begins to change. Final Message Keep going—even when no one is watching. Especially then.
By Inayat khan3 days ago in Motivation
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