The Monday after the retreat, I walked into the small community clinic where I had recently started volunteering.
The building was modest — peeling paint on the walls, metal benches outside filled with coughing, waiting patients.
Yet inside, there was an energy of hope, the kind that comes when people refuse to give up despite limited means.
I had been helping with administrative tasks — scheduling appointments, comforting mothers with sick babies, sometimes even sweeping the dusty floors when needed.
It wasn't glamorous work.
But it mattered.
Today, as I arrived, I noticed a commotion near the front desk.
A new volunteer stood awkwardly, clutching a stack of papers, her face flushed with frustration.
Papers had fallen everywhere, and an impatient line of patients tapped their feet, muttering under their breaths.
The girl — no, she was hardly older than Subira — looked completely overwhelmed.
"Move aside if you don't know what you're doing," a man barked.
Her hands trembled as she tried to gather the papers, her eyes wide with panic.
I felt a flicker of irritation rise in me.
How could they send someone so inexperienced? Don't they know we're already short-staffed?
For a moment, I stood frozen, judgement rising like smoke in my chest.
But then — like a gentle whisper — came the memory of myself, fumbling through my first days at work so long ago.
Hungry for approval, terrified of failure, desperately wanting to prove I was good enough.
Hadn't I made mistakes?
Hadn't I needed mercy?
Shame flooded me.
I crossed the room, knelt beside her, and began helping her gather the papers without a word.
Her wide brown eyes met mine — gratitude mixed with embarrassment.
"It's okay," I said softly. "We all have first days."
Later, during our break, I sat with her under the jacaranda tree behind the clinic.
We shared a bottle of warm soda, the air thick with the scent of blooming purple flowers.
"I'm Aisha," she said shyly.
"Neema."
"I'm sorry about earlier," she blurted. "I'm not usually this clumsy. I just — I want to do it right. I need this job. My mother's sick and..."
Her voice trailed off.
I reached out and squeezed her hand.
"You're doing well, Aisha. Better than you think."
Tears welled up in her eyes.
"No one has said that to me in a long time."
Over the next few weeks, I made it my mission to encourage her.
I taught her how to organise patient files, how to stay calm when lines grew long, how to smile even when tempers flared.
Each small success lit up her face.
And each time, I felt my own heart soften a little more.
One afternoon, after a particularly hard shift, I found Aisha crying behind the clinic.
"What's wrong?" I asked, sitting beside her on the cracked stone bench.
"I messed up again," she said bitterly. "I forgot to call the doctor for an emergency case. The supervisor yelled at me."
Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
I hesitated — then wrapped my arm around her.
"You made a mistake," I said gently. "But a mistake doesn't make you a failure."
She sniffled.
"But I can't afford to fail. Not with everything depending on me."
I leaned back, looking up at the dusty blue sky.
"I once thought the same," I admitted. "That my worth depended on being perfect. That if I messed up, I would lose everything."
Aisha looked at me, curiosity flickering through her tears.
"But it's not true," I continued. "We are loved — even when we stumble. Especially when we stumble."
For a long moment, we sat there, the only sound the wind rustling through the jacaranda branches.
Finally, she spoke.
"I want to believe that."
"You will," I smiled. "One day, you will."
That night, I reflected on how easily pride sneaks in — even into a heart redeemed by grace.
How easy it was to forget where I came from.
To judge others by standards I myself once failed to meet.
Humility, I realised, was not something achieved once and for all.
It had to be chosen, day after day, moment after moment.
"Lord," I prayed before sleep, "teach me to walk humbly. To remember the pit You rescued me from. And to extend the same mercy You gave me — over and over again."
Weeks turned into months.
Aisha grew more confident.
She laughed more.
She began mentoring newer volunteers herself.
And each time I saw her patiently guiding someone through a new task, my heart swelled with gratitude.
Not for my own role — but for God's mercy, weaving redemption into brokenness, again and again.
One evening, after a long day, I was locking up the clinic when Aisha approached me.
"I have something for you," she said shyly.
She handed me a small handmade card.
Inside, written in careful, looping handwriting, were the words:
"Thank you for seeing me when I felt invisible. Thank you for believing I could be more. Thank you for reminding me that God isn't finished with me yet."
Tears blurred my vision as I hugged her.
In her gratitude, I saw God's own grace reflected back at me.
And once again, I realised:
The greatest lessons are often learned not in triumph — but in quiet, humbling moments of love.
As the rainy season crept over Dar es Salaam, the days at the clinic became even harder.
Flooded roads, sick children, impatient crowds.
Every shift felt like a marathon.
One evening, exhausted and aching from standing all day, I spotted Aisha struggling again — this time with an elderly patient who was upset because he didn't understand the new procedures.
The old man raised his voice, waving his walking stick.
Other patients turned to watch.
I noticed the way Aisha's hands fluttered nervously, how her cheeks flushed red.
Part of me wanted to look away — to let her handle it alone.
She must learn, the old Neema whispered inside me.
But the new Neema — the one God was still patiently shaping — stepped forward.
I walked calmly to her side and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Let's help him together," I said, smiling at the man.
Bit by bit, we calmed him down.
Explained the forms slowly.
Listened to his fears about being forgotten and lost in the system.
It wasn't about the forms, I realised.
It was about dignity.
Later, as we walked back to the supply room to restock, Aisha turned to me.
"How do you stay so patient?" she asked.
I laughed softly, brushing a stray hair from my face.
"I don't," I admitted. "At least not on my own. If you had met me a few years ago... you wouldn't have liked me much."
She raised an eyebrow, half-smiling.
"I find that hard to believe."
"It's true," I said. "I was proud, impatient, quick to judge. I thought success and appearance were everything."
We stopped by the storeroom door.
"I had to lose everything," I whispered, "to learn what really matters."
Aisha was silent for a moment, absorbing my words.
Finally, she said, "Maybe losing everything isn't the worst thing... if it helps you find the truth."
I smiled, blinking back sudden tears.
"You're wiser than you know."
As the months passed, my bond with Aisha deepened.
We weren't just colleagues — we were sisters on the same rocky path toward grace.
Watching her grow reminded me daily of the second chances I had been given — and how those chances were not meant to be hoarded, but shared.
One Friday afternoon, as the golden light slanted through the dusty windows, our supervisor called a meeting.
I sat with the other volunteers, Aisha fidgeting beside me.
The supervisor — a stern woman not easily impressed — cleared her throat.
"I want to recognise two people today," she said. "One for exceptional growth. And one for consistent humility and leadership."
I tensed, surprised when she looked directly at me.
"Neema," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Your patience, your willingness to lift others, your kindness — they do not go unnoticed."
A ripple of applause filled the small room.
My cheeks burned.
I wasn't used to praise anymore.
Not since everything had crumbled years ago.
I bowed my head, blinking fast.
Not from pride — but from awe at how God had brought me full circle.
Not to the heights of worldly success.
But to the humble places where love matters most.
That night, sitting under my small porch as rain drummed steadily on the roof, I opened my Bible.
The pages fell open to Micah 6:8:
"He has shown you, O man, what is good.
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly, and to love mercy,
and to walk humbly with your God."
Tears spilled freely down my cheeks.
I had spent years chasing beauty, approval, wealth — and lost my soul along the way.
Now, here in this simple life, with no crowds cheering, no glamour, no applause — I had found the only approval that mattered.
God's.