My Mum Called Church Elders on Me at 16.

I didn’t even have bundles, just daily 20bob for 200 sms. Still, my mum gathered church elders like I was operating a whole “Nightshift” from a kaduda that only had Snake and torchlight.

I grew up Adventist. When we couldn't make it to church on Saturday, we had a session at home. My dad even bought a piano when I was only 9. My sister (7) would play My Hope Is Built on Nothing Less while the rest of us sang the hymn, then we'd take turns and I'd play Great Is Thy Faithfulness. My dad annotated the piano with the d, r, m, f, s, l, t, d, and all we had to do was master the notes on the hymnals. By 11, I had already finished reading the Old Testament.

We weren't hyper‑religious though. We'd cook on Saturdays, wear trousers, eat meat. We were in a Catholic school too and started boarding later on in upper primary school. I eventually learnt how to pray with the rosary and would participate during mass, sing in the choir and dance too.

In high school I got to learn about the Protestant way of worship, and it was quite different from the Adventist and Catholic way. Every weekend challenge was a discovery, from anointing oil to people speaking in tongues, to miracles and driving out demons. I used to wonder if there was something wrong with me because I never felt the fire people talked about, or the wind gushing (Holy Spirit). I just kept praying that I wouldn't fall because who knew if I had something in me.

I was 15 when I jokingly took a step back from the church. I wasn't really debunking or deconstructing anything. I just stopped going because it was all confusing; I could never quite understand why we had factions in Christianity. My Adventist friends would make jokes about me backsliding, and I honestly never cared. I knew I hadn't wronged anyone. I always did right by the Ten Commandments except “keeping the Sabbath holy.”

When I turned 16, I created a Facebook account. All my classmates were talking about it and I was having FOMO. Facebook could work on any phone, so it was easy to get in, I just needed a phone number. I started posting short poems and then rap verses that I came up with. This person then texted me, all sly, admiring my work and telling me about cyphers and rap competitions on Facebook. I fell for it.

At first I thought it was just that, but looking back I know I was being groomed. I was the perfect candidate.I couldn't even tell. All I knew was I had someone to chat with, someone outside my three sisters. I felt normal.

December holiday was long. My mother noticed that I was using the phone a lot in the evenings. I used to say I was revising my French, but I was on Facebook, writing poems and cyphers. Eventually she banned me from using the phone, and I'd only use it when she wasn't watching and late at night. I went from being trained to win rap cyphers to being asked what I was wearing.

This was after weeks of chatting, moving from Facebook to texts in case I was offline.

Eventually my behaviour got me into so much trouble with mum, and it felt like we were always fighting over something. I'm not one to talk back; I'd just act stubborn and be incompetent when cooking or doing house chores. One time we had friends over for tuition. In my defence, the ugali was big, so I had trouble making all the flour disappear into the mix. When it was ready she laughed, then said, “Leo rafiki yenu amewatengenezea ugali ya kimataifa.” Your friend has prepared for you an international ugali. It was humiliating. I couldn't understand why she couldn't help with lunch given I had to continue discussions with my friends.

Then came the day she had always been waiting for. We had argued the previous night so badly, and she had said she would report me to my dad when he came back. I knew we were supposed to go out the next day, but I was so sad and wanted to be left alone. If I had been left home alone that day, I would have probably done something awful.

We woke up in the morning, and mum told me to dress up because we were all going thrifting. We left the house and went about the day. My mum explicitly told me to leave the phone at home, but why would I listen? I carried it with me and made sure I always hid it well. Except one time I forgot and put it in my pocket, and it got picked. “Nimeibiwa simu.”

My mum laughed… first she said “tick,” like yes, kidole sambusa. Then she went on to say I'd hear from my dad. I've never been scared of my dad; I just felt like a disappointment.

We went home. I was so ‘addicted’ to chatting with the man from Facebook that I made up a lie to borrow my mum's phone. I told my mum I was just sending poems to a friend from school for a competition. In truth, that's what I did, I sent three poems, but the content was what I would have said in a text; Rants, things that happened to me during the day, nothing crazy. I sent a final one and told the guy not to reply because it was my mum's phone number and I was giving it back.

This mofo replied: “I love you.”

My younger sisters came downstairs to tell me. “Wah, someone has texted ‘I love you’ to mum's phone.” Mum said she'd show it to everyone. “Kwisha wewe!” . Woe unto you.

A week later, two days before Christmas I took advantage of a moment and sneaked off to a friend's house to ask her to send a text to my “boyfriend” and tell him I have no phone. It took max 10 minutes and she probably never sent the message anyway. I came back to an angry mother. She asked me where I had been. I lied. I said I had gone to my friend's to consult about a chemistry equation. She asked me where's the book I said I'll go get it in the house, but she wasn't buying it. She followed me indoors with the irrigation hose she used for her kitchen garden “wewe mtoto nitakuchapa leo”. She beat me as I argued, giving excuses, I was used to being beaten so it took a minute before the pain kicked in and I started wailing and apologising, she got tired and stopped. I sprained my ankle. Merry Christmas to me.

Afterwards when I'd report to school, she made sure my dad took me to the bus stop and didn't leave until he saw the bus leave. I was sort of in a probation period with my mum. My pocket money was rationed now more than ever and my shopping list was carefully marked. I could only pick what was necessary. So I stopped making a shopping list all together. I was public enemy number 1.

In the months that followed, my mum and the fool engaged each other in insults and arguments. I don't know what happened, but most of my relatives think I'm a bad girl till today, so you can take a guess. Nilichoma picha.

When I came back home for April holidays, I had no phone and my grades had also gone down. To make matters worse, I went to shagz and lost my report card after giving it to my uncle and aunt. Word went around that my results were so bad that I intentionally lost them, not true! I had just dropped out the top 10.

My dad gave me another katululu phone and told me to be careful. But my mum is an award winning detective, so she found out. That night, we had a really long argument about everything ; my results, my behaviour, the phone, my laziness, my mischief, my hatred …

She kept telling me to give her the phone so she could see who I was talking to. I kept hesitating. I was caught unawares and hadn't deleted contacts. I quickly got the chance to delete them and then passed the phone to her. She opened it and couldn't find what she was looking for. She sent the phone flying to the wall; luckily it didn't shatter. What followed is a bit hazy, maybe even painful.

I ended up sleeping alone in the children's room while all my siblings went to comfort my mum. In that moment I uttered a silent prayer, hoping one day I'll be able to leave home for some far away land.

The next morning was Saturday. We went to church. I was numb, eyes swollen. After church we went to a birthday party, and my dad decided to give me driving lessons on the way; maybe in an effort to distract me. Schools were opening in four days. I hadn't even enjoyed the holidays and I was going back to my bully teachers.

Sunday morning, when we were preparing to leave, we suddenly had visitors from the church. I thought they had come to say goodbye. But lo and behold, they had come for the black sheep. Yours truly.

My mum spoke in Dholuo: “Erokamano kuom biro, aluongo u kaye nikech nyako ni, bedo ni waketne alam. asechandora kode ahinya.” She had asked them to come and pray for me because apparently, I had a sugar daddy. It would have probably been better if there was really someone giving me money, except there wasn't. It was just an imaginary person whose face I'd never even seen, and all I had to show for it was shame.

They took turns praying for me. I knelt. They took turns touching my head, and all I could do was hold back my laughter and wish a cardiac arrest would happen to me in the moment.

Laughter because I had never taken money from anyone for sexual favours, laughter because I had never even had sexual encounters. Maybe I wanted to laugh because I felt it couldn't get any worse and all this was a tad dramatic. If truly I decided to become what they were talking about then I'd only be taking back the narrative. I still haven't, years later… I was just a lonely teen who found company in the wrong place and paid heavily for it.

I dissociated from everything and everyone. Every time I'd go to church on holidays with my parents, it would just be because I was being respectful and had no choice. I couldn't risk them calling the elders again for another imaginary crime.

I became a distant observer in my own mind. Leaving home helped me find myself again, although I lost so much on the way. Maybe the calm in my voice or the smile on my face gives it away. It is probably just a very well‑behaved mask.

In reality I'm just a homebody with a painfully strong sense of right and wrong. Maybe it was adolescence and peer pressure that gave me Fomo but looking back I believe if I had someone like me to talk and share with, a lot of the drama and trauma would have been avoided.