I had no grand plans to start a school.
It began, like most things in my renewed life, with a prayer and a burden. One afternoon, I saw a young girl sitting outside my gate, barefoot, with her uniform in tatters and eyes full of questions. She asked if I had bread. I gave her some, and we spoke. Her name was Ruth. Her father had died, and her mother sold tomatoes by the roadside. She hadn't been to school in three days because she couldn't pay the small fee.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about Ruth. And about how many little Ruths I had walked past during my busy, selfish years, blind to their struggles. Now I saw them — truly saw them. I prayed and asked the Lord to show me how I could help, even in a small way.
And that is how the idea came. Not from ambition, but from compassion.
I spoke to the pastor. Then to a friend at the council office. Then to a local elder who offered a small unused hall behind the church. Within weeks, I had gathered a few children — most of them from poor or broken homes — and started teaching them basic literacy, Bible stories, and songs. I used my savings to buy slates and chalk. My children helped. Subira taught English; Zawadi handled music; even Amani helped with games and fetching water.
We named it The Olive Leaf School — a symbol of peace, hope, and new beginnings.
It was not easy. The roof leaked during heavy rains. We lacked chairs and proper books. There were times we didn't have enough food for the children's porridge. But somehow, every time the need arose, help came. Sometimes it was from the church; other times, a neighbour brought rice or soap. Once, a stranger dropped off boxes of textbooks after hearing about us.
I began to understand something powerful — when God gives you a calling, He also sends the provision. Not all at once, but just enough to teach you to trust.
The children flourished. Some had never held a pencil before. Others, though older, couldn't read or write. But with patience, they began to bloom. And so did I.
Teaching them wasn't merely about letters and numbers — it was about healing wounds. I saw myself in some of those girls — ashamed, unsure, trying to find worth in a world that often ignores the poor. I spoke to them, heart to heart, not just as a teacher, but as someone who had once been lost too.
One day, Ruth — the same girl who first knocked at my gate — brought her mother to meet me. The woman wept and said, "You gave my daughter back her future." I held her hands and whispered, "It's not me. It's the Lord who gave her that."
We began offering sewing classes to the older girls, Bible studies on Fridays, and storytelling hours every Sabbath afternoon. Slowly, The Olive Leaf became more than a school. It became a sanctuary.
My name began to spread — but this time not for beauty or wealth or scandal. It was for service. People began to associate me with hope, with change. I would walk through the market and hear someone whisper, "That's Mama Neema — the one who helps the little ones."
At first, it embarrassed me. But I've come to accept that when God redeems a life, He does so publicly — not to shame, but to shine a light for others.
I often remind my children that this school is not ours — it's a ministry. A trust. A chance to love in action. They've taken it to heart. Zawadi now dreams of becoming a social worker. Subira has applied for a teaching scholarship. Amani wants to be a pastor — or a footballer, depending on the day.
And I… I simply want to remain faithful.
There is a quiet joy in sweeping the dusty classroom each morning, in praying over each desk, in hearing the laughter of children who now have hope. My days are full — but not in the way they used to be. This is not the exhaustion of endless striving. It is the peace of a life poured out with purpose.
I may never be wealthy again. My face may never grace a magazine or turn heads as it once did. But I have found something deeper. A joy that no mirror can reflect. A beauty not worn, but lived.
And if this is how I will spend the rest of my days — serving the small, the forgotten, the little ones who remind me of where I once was — then I am rich beyond measure.
Some evenings, after the children had gone home and the sun dipped behind the hills, I would sit alone under the old guava tree beside the school building. The soft rustle of leaves and the fading golden light gave me time to reflect. Sometimes, I would write notes in my worn-out notebook — ideas for lessons, prayers, or even fragments of songs the children had sung that day. But often, I would simply sit there in silence, soaking in the quiet presence of God.
It was during those moments that I felt closest to Him.
One particular evening stands out. I had just finished wiping the blackboard, and my back ached from bending all day. I sat beneath the tree, eyes closed, when I heard footsteps. It was Mama Ruth again — this time, she brought a woven basket filled with cassava and two papayas. "For you, Mama Neema," she said shyly. "You've done more than teach my child… you've brought peace to our home."
I stood and embraced her. We didn't need many words. Her gesture reminded me of how the smallest acts — kindness, listening, simply showing up — could sow seeds of dignity and hope.
Word of The Olive Leaf spread further than I ever imagined. A young woman from church who had studied education joined me voluntarily. A local carpenter offered to repair the broken benches without charge. Some Sundays, a few elderly men from the community came to clean the compound. It felt as though the Spirit was knitting together hearts, using broken threads like mine to weave something beautiful.
One day, while reviewing the children's drawings, I found one that made my heart stop. A child had drawn a woman in a red dress, holding hands with children of all colours, with a sun above and a church in the background. At the bottom was scribbled: "Mum Neema makes us feel like heaven is here."
I cried.
Not from pride. But from the overwhelming awareness that God had taken someone like me — once proud, shallow, and lost — and made me part of something sacred. Not in a pulpit. Not on a stage. But on dusty floors, beneath leaking roofs, in the laughter of children whose names the world would never know.
The joy was real. But so were the trials.
There were weeks we ran out of porridge. Some parents accused me of favouring certain children. The government inspector came once and threatened to close us down for lacking proper registration. I wept that night, kneeling beside my bed. "Lord, I didn't ask for this. You brought me here. So please… carry it."
The next morning, I found an envelope at my door — no name, no note — with just enough money to sort the papers.
Coincidence? No. I don't believe in such things anymore.
Another time, a young girl named Stella was brought to us. Her mother had died, and her stepfather refused to care for her. She barely spoke for days. Thin, withdrawn, haunted by things no child should experience. I prayed with her, gently encouraged her to draw, to sing, to play with the others. Months passed, and slowly, she began to smile. The day she called me "Mama Neema" was the day I knew — love, consistent and patient, can heal even the deepest wounds.
And in their healing, I was healing too.
This ministry wasn't just for the children — it was for me. God knew I needed it. I was still rebuilding my dignity. Still learning to live without pretense. Still discovering that worth is not in being desired, but in being useful to the Kingdom.
One Sabbath afternoon, I was invited to share my testimony at a women's meeting. I trembled at first. But when I spoke — of pride, of shame, of grace — I saw tears fall. Not pitying tears. Tears of understanding. Many women later approached me and whispered, "Your story is my story, too."
That's when I realised: my past was no longer a prison. It had become a platform.
The Olive Leaf grew to 45 children. Then 60. Then 80. We rented the neighbouring plot and turned it into a vegetable garden. The children took turns watering the plants and harvesting greens. It wasn't much, but it fed us. It taught responsibility. And it reminded them that life, like farming, requires patience and prayer.
I gave up many comforts along the way. No more salon trips. No new shoes. I gave away much of my wardrobe. But I never lacked. Somehow, there was always enough.
People sometimes asked why I smiled so often now. And I would answer, "Because I no longer chase things that cannot fill the soul."
True joy had replaced empty laughter. Purpose had replaced performance. Love — not desire — now defined my days.
And at night, as I tucked in Amani or whispered a prayer over Subira and Zawadi, I felt a warmth I had never known before. Not the warmth of attention or applause. But the warmth of quiet obedience.
I was not perfect. I still had moments of doubt, of fear, of weariness. But I no longer walked alone. I walked with the One who had restored my name, my peace, and my identity.
Yes — I, Neema, once the scorned woman, now lived a life of service.
And in serving others, I had finally found myself.
The following weeks were a mosaic of grace and grit. Every day, I would wake before the sun, kneel by the wooden frame of my narrow bed, and whisper, "Lord, take my hands again today." Then I'd dress in my faded chitenge, gather lesson plans, and walk to The Olive Leaf before the morning dew had lifted from the ground.
There was no salary. No clocking in. No one applauding. But my heart was full.
I began keeping a little journal, a habit I had long abandoned when my life unravelled. In it, I recorded the little miracles — a child who finally pronounced a word correctly, a neighbour who offered firewood without being asked, a bag of maize left at the gate by someone unknown. Each entry was like a stone on an altar of remembrance, proof that I was not forgotten.
One rainy Thursday, I was walking home with Amani when we slipped in the mud. We laughed, soaked and covered in clay. A passerby might have seen a poor mother and her son, struggling. But I knew better — we were rich in joy, in simplicity, in peace. The kind of wealth I had never known when I was adored but empty.
Still, the enemy did not sleep.
There were whispers in the market. "She used to dress like a model, now look at her," some would murmur. A former colleague from the ministry walked by one day, saw me sweeping the school compound and laughed. "Neema! Is this really how you've ended up? A village nanny?"
I smiled. "Yes. And I've never been more content."
But later that night, as I lay in bed, their voices echoed. Old insecurities tried to creep back in, whispering lies — that I had wasted my potential, that I had been forgotten by the world. I cried quietly into my pillow, asking God for reassurance.
And the next morning, it came. In the most unexpected way.
Stella, the once-silent girl, ran up to me before class and slipped something into my hand. It was a crumpled piece of paper with a shaky drawing: me, standing beside a large heart, with the words "You make me safe."
That was it. My answer.
I knelt right there on the dirt floor, holding that scrap of paper like a treasure. God had spoken — not through thunder, not through visions — but through the crayon-stained hand of a little girl.
And I knew then, without doubt, that my calling was not lesser. It was holy.