They laughed at me.
At first, behind my back — whispers that floated like smoke in crowded corridors, dissolving when I turned. Then more openly. Jokes with my name woven into them, sly glances at my plain dresses, my quiet refusals to join Friday night outings.
"You've become an old woman before your time," one of my old colleagues chuckled once, nudging me in the ribs as if she expected me to laugh along.
I smiled politely and said nothing.
Another time, at the market, a woman I once considered a friend spotted me comparing prices of secondhand shoes. She stopped, looked me up and down, and said loud enough for others to hear, "From glamour to charity cases. God must be proud."
The words stung — more than I wanted to admit.
I remembered a time when I would have snapped back with a cutting remark, maybe flaunted something expensive just to silence them. But that Neema was gone.
Instead, I picked up the worn shoes, paid quietly, and walked away.
That night, I knelt by my bed, the shoes still in their plastic bag beside me, and prayed:
"Lord, teach me to treasure what You treasure. Strengthen my heart to endure mockery the way You endured the cross."
It wasn't always easy.
There were moments when their laughter rang in my ears long after the conversations ended.
Moments when loneliness pressed so hard against my ribs I thought I might suffocate.
Moments when I stared at the mirror and wondered if it would have been easier to slip back into the life I once had — easier, yes. But hollow.
I clung to the small joys.
Like my children's eyes, now softer, watching me pray.
Like the sweet calm that filled my soul each Sabbath as I sat under the wide sky and listened to simple hymns.
Like the growing knowledge that I was finally living for something real.
The final blow came at a wedding.
An old acquaintance spotted me sitting alone at the back, dressed simply, without jewelry or makeup, my hair tied back modestly.
She waltzed over, sparkling in gold and perfume, and bent low so only I could hear.
"You could have had it all, Neema. Men, money, fame. You chose… this?"
Her words dripped pity, as if she mourned what she thought I had lost.
I looked up into her painted face, so full of weariness beneath the layers, and I felt no anger — only sorrow.
Because I had once been her.
Because I knew what it was like to wear a mask of glamour over a heart full of emptiness.
I stood up, smoothing my plain dress, and smiled.
"I did have it all," I said gently, "and I lost myself. Now, I am finding something far better."
She blinked, confused, and turned away with a toss of her hair.
But I stood there for a moment longer, my heart steady.
I wasn't ashamed anymore.
I wasn't weak.
Mocked?
Yes.
But unmoved.
The days that followed the wedding were not easy.
Every time I passed by the mirror, a whisper from the past tried to taunt me:
"You've lost your glow. You've lost your power. Who are you now?"
I wrestled with these silent accusations in the dark hours of the night, when the house was still and my children were asleep.
I had no riches, no admirers, no applause.
Only a growing, quiet faith — fragile some days, but stubbornly alive.
One evening, after a particularly hard day filled with snide comments from coworkers and pitying glances from neighbours, I opened my Bible randomly. My eyes landed on a verse in the book of Peter:
"But even if you should suffer for what is right, you are blessed. 'Do not fear their threats; do not be frightened.'" (1 Peter 3:14)
Tears welled up in my eyes.
I wasn't alone.
God saw. God knew.
That Sabbath, when I entered the small, sunlit church, I felt lighter.
I sat among simple men and women who greeted me with warmth, not judgement.
Their clothes were modest, their smiles real. There was no competition here, no games to play, no masks to wear.
When the preacher spoke about "the narrow way" — the path few choose because it is hard and lonely — I wept quietly.
Because I knew I was walking it now.
And despite the thorns and rocks, despite the jeers and the isolation, it was beautiful.
For the first time in my life, I no longer needed the world's approval.
I belonged to Someone greater.
As I walked home that afternoon under a bright, cloudless sky, children playing in the dust and women selling vegetables on the roadside, I smiled to myself.
The world could mock me.
Friends could abandon me.
Dreams could shatter.
But my soul — my soul was anchored.
I was mocked.
I was misunderstood.
But I was unmoved.
I was finally free.