They say time heals. But I've learned it doesn't simply cover wounds—it transforms them. Time, when given to God, becomes a chisel in His hands. It sculpts pain into purpose. It turns shame into strength.
I never thought I'd write a book. For years, I told myself my story was better left buried — a mess of shame, bad choices, and tears that stained more pillows than pages. But God had other plans.
And today, as I sit at my writing desk, a cup of hibiscus tea at my side and the early light spilling through my window, I begin the final pages of my book: Rejected Corner Brick.
It began with a question.
We had just finished a community women's workshop. I was packing away some lesson materials when a young mother approached me. She looked tired, her baby tied to her back and a toddler tugging at her skirt.
"Mama Neema," she said shyly, "how did you... survive? I mean, how did you go from... that life to this one?"
I looked into her eyes and saw what I had seen in the mirror years ago — fear, hunger for hope, and a silent plea to believe it's not too late. I sat her down and told her everything. Not the polite version. The truth. My pride. My fall. My loss. My redemption.
When I finished, she held my hands, her eyes wet. "You should write this. Some of us need to read it."
I laughed at first. "Me? Write? I barely made it through school with passing grades."
But the idea lingered.
I started scribbling during the quiet afternoons, after the children had left and the compound was still. My thoughts poured out like water breaking through a dam. Page after page, I relived my journey — the girl desperate to be loved, the woman who mistook attention for worth, the wife who broke her own home, and the mother who was humbled by grace.
I called it Rejected Corner Brick.
The title came to me one Sabbath afternoon, while reading Psalm 118:22: "The stone which the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone."
That verse was me. I had been discarded — by society, by friends, by myself. But God had found a purpose for even the brokenness.
For years, I ran from my past, afraid that if anyone knew who I had been, they would scorn the woman I had become. But now, I see it differently. My past is not a shadow to flee—it is the proof of God's mercy. And this book, my story, is not about glorifying my pain. It is about magnifying the One who redeemed me through it.
When I first started jotting my story down in an old notebook, I never thought it would become something greater. It began as a quiet confession—a way to unburden myself before the Lord. But as word spread among the women at church, and they encouraged me to keep writing, something within me stirred. Perhaps my story wasn't just for me. Perhaps it was for every woman who had been deceived by pride, seduced by beauty, or broken by choices she regretted but could not undo.
I wrote slowly, carefully. Sometimes I wept between paragraphs. Sometimes I prayed after every sentence. Other times, I stared out the window, remembering moments I wished I could forget: Yona's gentle voice calling my name, the way Subira used to sob in her sleep, the night I first signed the divorce papers… and the silence that followed.
But the more I wrote, the more I felt free.
I didn't have a publisher. I typed it all on an old second-hand laptop gifted by a retired missionary.
One afternoon, I visited a small publishing house in Dar es Salaam. I walked in, manuscript trembling in my hands, half-expecting to be laughed out. But the editor, a soft-spoken woman with kind eyes and greying braids, read my first ten pages while I waited. Then she looked up and said, "There's truth here. We need this."
The book was published six months later. We launched it in the church hall, where I once shared my first broken testimony. Women from every corner came—some in tears, some in silence. Many had no words, but their embrace said enough.
Even my children—grown now, strong and tender in ways I never taught them—stood beside me. Subira gave a short speech. Her voice trembled, but her words were steady: "This book is more than a story. It is our mother's life—and it is also our healing."
At first, it was just a few women at church. Then one of them gave a copy to her niece, a teacher in Maputo. Then a local radio presenter asked to interview me. Slowly, my story spread.
People began writing to me. Some wrote to criticise — "You should have hidden those things!" But most wrote to thank me. "Your story saved my marriage," one woman shared. "I gave up alcohol after reading your chapter on Yona," a man confessed.
The impact shocked me. But I remained grounded. It was never about fame. It was about dignity — not the one the world gives, but the one God restores.
My children read the book. Subira cried for a whole day. "I never knew... all of it. I just saw your strength."
Zawadi hugged me tightly. "I'm proud to be your daughter."
Even Amani, now taller than me, said, "Mama, this book will outlive us."
The book didn't erase my past. It redeemfreedo
Later that evening, I sat alone, watching the last guests drift into the night. I whispered a prayer, thanking God not just for what He had done—but for what He had allowed. For the trials that shaped me. For the silence that made me listen. For the wilderness that taught me to walk by faith.
And now, as the years have gone by, my name has changed in the minds of many. Where once I was mocked and pitied, I am now called Mama Neema. People come to me not with judgement, but with questions, seeking wisdom, hope, direction. I don't pretend to have all the answers. I only point them to the One who found me when I had lost everything.
Dignity was never mine to earn. It was God's gift to restore.
This house, these walls, this community school—none of it was built from perfection. It was born from repentance, faith, and obedience. It was born from ashes, rebuilt with grace.
And as I sign the final page of my book, I see it clearly now: I was never rejected by God. I was never a worthless brick. I was the corner brick—misunderstood, misplaced, but chosen by the Master Builder for something lasting.
One afternoon, I stood outside The Olive Leaf, watching the children play. A soft wind brushed through the trees, and I whispered a quiet prayer.
"Lord, thank You. You took the ashes of my life and turned them into something beautiful. I am no longer the woman who was once admired but empty. I am Yours. Whole. Dignified. Restored."
It's been many years since I last wore high heels, perfume thick enough to choke the air, or bright lipstick that tried to mask the sadness in my soul. These days, my feet are more accustomed to the red dust of schoolyards and my hands to turning pages of Scripture rather than holding wine glasses at social events.
I am older now — not just in years, but in grace, in peace, in truth. My children are grown. Subira teaches in a local school and often reminds me of Yona's calm spirit. Zawadi has her father's laugh and my stubbornness, and Amani is studying theology, determined to preach the gospel that once rescued his mother from ruin.
Sometimes, I walk past the old apartment where my life began to unravel. The walls are still cracked. The stairway still creaks. But I no longer feel the sting of shame. I feel gratitude — for the fall that led to my kneeling, for the kneeling that led to my rising.
They called me foolish. They called me proud. They called me fallen. But God called me Redeemed.
There is a small plaque outside the school now. It reads:
"Rejected Corner Brick: Where broken women become builders of hope."
When I sit with the younger women, I no longer speak as one above them, but beside them. I know what it means to feel unwanted, to be used, to chase vanity and lose everything. And I know what it means to be found again — by mercy.
If Yona were alive, I often wonder what he would say. I think of him when I hear Subira sing, or when the smell of maize porridge drifts from the kitchen. I think of him when I light the Sabbath candles. And I know — somehow, somewhere — God sees. He forgave me long before I forgave myself.
To my precious daughters,
Subira, Zawadi, and Amani—
If ever you feel forgotten, or if the world tells you that your worth is tied to your status, your beauty, or your success, remember this: your value was never in what you owned or achieved. It was always in who you are, and whose you are.
You watched me fall. You cried in rooms I could not reach. You carried wounds I caused without meaning to. And yet, by grace, you also witnessed my return—not to riches, but to truth.
Subira, your silence held strength I misunderstood. Thank you for standing firm when I wavered.
Zawadi, your laughter—though once forced—taught me that healing can find us even in the ruins.
And Amani, my late-born light, your eyes mirrored questions I was too broken to answer, but your hugs healed more than you will ever know.
I pray this story teaches you not only what to avoid, but what to cling to. God. Integrity. Compassion. And forgiveness—most of all, forgiveness.
To every woman who reads this, may you never forget that even a shattered life, when surrendered, can be made into something beautiful. You are not your worst mistake. You are not defined by what others abandoned. You are God's beloved. Even if the world casts you aside, He never will.
I am no longer ashamed. I am no longer bitter.
I am restored. I am forgiven.
And I am finally home.
With love that now knows no fear,
Neema.
Now, as I close this story, I do not close my journey. For every sunrise still whispers, "Grace is new." I am not perfect. I stumble. I ache. I remember. But I do not live in shame. I live in freedom.
My name is Neema. Once rejected. Now restored. The stone once discarded has become a cornerstone — not of fame or fortune — but of faith.
And this is my testimony.