So the cat was out of the bag. And my self righteous reputation with it. All the vices I had said were above me were now on the lips of every other student as being my modus operandi. Or so I thought. I still get dreams about the shame, to this day. Being in a room where no one wants to speak to me. Being in a gang where everyone is ashamed to be associated with me. Undertones of disrespectful sarcasm. The occasional overtone of how outrageous what I did was. Even I didn’t recognize myself anymore. How was I going to cope with this then? How do I cope with it now?

This was a far cry from the innocent, Christian, fifteen year old boy who reported to form one in a reputable school. The chubby cheeked, city boy who found himself in a brand new environment, among fellows who had never seen what was commonplace for him, and who knew nothing of everyday experiences most other young men spoke of. It was only a matter of time before the culture shock became overwhelming. The need to hang out with other city boys quickly moved from being a choice to a necessity for survival, if this home-for-the-next-four-years was going to be even remotely bearable. Or so it seemed. So the best alternative was the other well groomed city boys. The ones who professed their faith publicly. Or so it seemed. Yet, these were also the target of the senior city boys. For other reasons. 

The seniors, you see, had managed to establish a system of coping. The trappings of comfort in this far-from-home space were quite Hi-Tech, in fact. A water heater powered by the dormitory light switch. Someone sure paid attention in physics class. A Hi-Fi music system with Dolby surround. Someone sure had the smuggling routes figured out. A snack bar that made the uptown supermarket canned food section seem like child’s play. Someone sure had rich parents! Why were they even here? I wondered. 

Anyway, all these were illegal, so all these luxuries required a security system. And we were it. A job we loved. A job with perks. A job that elicited as much envy as it did full blown hatred. A job that even the least qualified toddler could learn in no time. Look out boys. Just sit a few meters away from the epicenter of power and raise the alarm when someone above the standard height began approaching. Easy peasy. There would then be an endless supply of peanut butter sandwiches, Ovaltine hot chocolate, instant noodles (well before instant noodles were commonly available) and every kind of snack fathomable by our peers. This was the life. Until the price we had to pay for the luxury we lived in became unfathomable. At least to all of our peers. 

There was now an endless supply of dirty socks, rugby stained denim shorts, week-long worn laundry and the funkiest smelling towels you’ve ever come across. This had now become the gutter that runs through Runda. Shanty dwelling in the suburbs. It was dehumanizing, stripped us of dignity and was a boiling pot for bitterness. And in a short span of time, this bitterness found expression.

The perfect opportunity to act came in the form of a break from school where first formers resumed before the rest of the school. This was our opportunity to hit back. And we were not going to miss it. We plotted a heist that we executed with ruthless efficiency. Or so we thought. After a box and “locker-breaking” spree through the premises that had been in our care,  we felt avenged. It was sweet victory. We had really hit them where it hurts. And we were proud of ourselves for standing up for ourselves. Albeit in secret. A bit too proud, in  fact. We dared boast about it. At least one of us did. It’s always the boastful one who gets everyone else in trouble, isn’t it?

One day, when we had broken free from slavery and each of us had found his path (mine was the daily evening rosary prayers), we were rounded up and called to answer for our sins. It was, for me, like the rapture finding me in deep prayer. Only this time, the calling was straight to a lynching party by an angry mob. The only thing that seemed close to rapture was my eardrums when one of the particularly strong rugby guy’s palms landed squarely on the sides of my face as he said “after all we did for you?!”. That one stung. I had betrayed a friend. I deserved every bit of the pain. Or so it seemed. Over the next several months of identity crisis, defensiveness and being on the receiving end of jeers and disapproving glances, that seemed more like stares, I had nothing to lose. Or so it seemed.

I now had a new hell hole to dig my way out of. Shame. All the statements I’d heard from family members about my deteriorating grades, from the neighbours’ children about being so poor, or shady, or living in a small house, all the stuff I heard when I went up country..all of it..it all met the shame of being a two timing, petty thief at the junction of a school set up where city boys were an endangered species. And it was heavy. And it wasn’t going away. I needed an out, and desperately. And this came in the form of weed.

Now, I’m not going to write a long story of sixteen years of abuse, but I will say that they ended with addiction to heroin, job loss at one of the best employers on the continent, deteriorating health, accumulated debt, alcoholism and debauchery, as a smoke screen to hide what was really the issue. Basically, an unhealthy mix of  wine, women, work, weed and wastefulness. Unhealthy is a kind word. Toxic would be more fitting, but it’s rather cliche these days, don’t you think?

What I will do, however, is share a bit about what I learned 18 years after this episode of high school rejection. I realised that there’s a form of rejection that hurts me more than most other things. I have experienced a lot of other forms of pain and suffering, just like the average urban dweller. Been through this and that but when I sense a lack of acceptance in a social setting, that really, really hurts. Whenever I’m not speaking the common language, not seeming to fit in, not receiving as much attention as everyone else in the room, or even just perceive that these things are the case, whether or not it’s true, it hurts in a place that’s down deep, deeper than down. What I learned about this is that it triggers an unmet childhood need that I try to compensate for in my adulthood. 

There are five of these, for boys, apparently. I’m certain that there are similar ones for girls too. Acceptance, attention, affection, affirmation and approval. So, whenever something about these, or anything else we lacked, or a deep hurt in our childhood we didn’t reconcile comes up, we end up giving disproportionate attention to it. And this attention could be in the form of an unhealthy or even toxic coping mechanisms. 

Drugs may be a negative extreme, but spending a ridiculous amount of time in places that are meant for good is also unhealthy. We can lose ourselves to an overindulgence in entertainment, mood-altering substances, sporting achievements, material acquisition, career advancement, community development, society’s admiration and many other forms of using people or things to try and fill a void that we constantly feel in our subconscious minds. In our hearts. And this is the kind of coping that not only hurts us, but also hurts those around us and throws them into the vicious, generational cycle of pain, perhaps even anguish. One man’s lack causes another’s. An emotionally unavailable mother raises a violent son. An abusive father raises a vengeful daughter. A disrespectful older sibling gives rise to a person who uses public shaming and humiliation to bring others down. We can go on and on here.

Suffice it to say, ending up in a hospital bed to recover from it all was the second chance I needed to get out of concocting craftiness. Being jobless and seemingly unemployable after working in one of the region’s most reputable firms taught me a lot about treasuring hard earned wealth. 

And finally, and most importantly, being rejected by even the rejects taught me how precious love is. And this is how I came across the greatest form of love there ever was, is and ever shall be. Christ Jesus. It is in Him that I learned how to turn away from situations that would put me in shameful situations. It is in Him I learned how to heal from scars caused by those in authority, those I trust and those I love. It is in Christ that I have learned to forgive and seek forgiveness. And with this, I have learned to appreciate the value of healing mechanisms in the long term, rather than cling to coping mechanisms which usually only offer relief in the short term.