When Loving Him Felt Like Losing Myself

At sixteen, I believed my life in our small village in western Kenya was as simple and predictable as the changing seasons. I woke up at dawn, fetched water, helped my mother prepare breakfast, and walked to school. My only goal was to excel in my studies, leave the village, and make something of myself. My mother, a strict but loving woman, always reminded me of the dangers that could derail my dreams.

“Beware of men who sweet-talk you, Achieng’,” she often said. “Their words are traps, and their intentions can shatter your future.”

At the time, her warnings felt distant and unnecessary. I was focused on my books, determined to chart a path to success. Then Mr. Otieno arrived.

He was a teacher on training, tall and charismatic, with a polished manner that set him apart from the other teachers. His voice was deep and soothing, and his smile made the girls whisper and giggle whenever he passed by. But he wasn’t just charming; he was also kind, attentive, and intelligent.

From the moment he stepped into our English class, he seemed to notice me. He praised my essays and singled me out for my ideas during discussions. At first, it felt like encouragement, a teacher recognizing a hardworking student. But soon, it became more personal.

One afternoon, he asked me to stay behind after class. “Your essay about dreams was beautiful,” he said, his eyes locking with mine. “You’re different, Achieng’. You have a spark, something special.”

His words made me blush. No one had ever spoken to me like that. Over the next few weeks, he found more reasons to keep me after class or talk to me during breaks. He shared stories about his life in Nairobi, his struggles as a student, and his dreams of becoming a great educator. I listened, drawn to his voice and the way he made me feel like I mattered.

Then, one evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills and the school compound emptied, he asked me to meet him in the library. I hesitated but agreed, thinking it was about another essay. When I arrived, he was sitting by the window, the golden light casting shadows across his face.

“You’ve been on my mind, Achieng’,” he said softly. His tone was different—intimate, almost tender.

I froze, unsure of how to respond. He stepped closer, his gaze intense. “You’re not like the others. There’s something about you… something I can’t ignore.”

Before I could process what was happening, he reached out and touched my face. His hands were warm, his touch gentle, and for a moment, I didn’t pull away. My heart raced, a mix of fear, curiosity, and something I couldn’t quite name.

Then, it happened.

What started as a moment of hesitation turned into something I didn’t fully understand but felt powerless to stop. He kissed me, his lips soft against mine, and the world seemed to blur around me. It was my first kiss, a mix of confusion and thrill.

But it didn’t stop there.

In the days that followed, we grew closer, our stolen moments becoming more frequent and more intense. He told me I was mature beyond my years, that I understood him in ways no one else could. I believed him, letting myself be swept up in his words and the feelings they stirred in me.

Yet, the guilt was suffocating. Each time I saw my mother, her warnings echoed in my mind. I felt like I was betraying her trust, and it became harder to look her in the eye.

One night, I couldn’t bear it anymore. I broke down and told her everything. Her face turned pale, her hands trembling as she listened. When I finished, she was silent for a long time, her expression unreadable.

“I warned you,” she finally said, her voice trembling with anger and sadness. “I warned you, Achieng’. But he… he’s the one who has betrayed you.”

The next day, my mother marched to the school, her fury uncontainable. She demanded a meeting with the headmaster, calling Mr. Otieno out for his actions. What followed was a storm of accusations and denials. Mr. Otieno claimed I had misinterpreted his intentions, that nothing inappropriate had happened. Some teachers sided with him, others with my mother.

In the end, he was transferred to another school. But the damage was done. I felt exposed, ashamed, and uncertain of who I was anymore. My once-bright dreams felt overshadowed by the weight of what had happened.

It took years to heal, to forgive myself for trusting him and to understand that the fault wasn’t mine. My mother’s love and strength were my anchors, helping me rebuild my confidence and move forward.

Now, as an adult, I often think about Mr. Otieno. Not with fondness or hatred, but as a reminder of how easily trust can be manipulated. My mother’s words stay with me: “Beware of sweet talk, Achieng’. And never forget your worth.