It was a grey afternoon when I saw him.
The clouds hung low over Dar es Salaam, heavy with the promise of rain, and the streets were quieter than usual. I had gone to the market after work, searching for cheap vegetables to stretch our meals for the week. I was bent over a basket of tomatoes when a voice — deep, familiar, unsettling — called my name.
"Neema?"
I turned sharply.
For a moment, I thought my eyes deceived me.
But no, it was him.
Ezekiel.
One of the men from my past.
One of the ones I had flirted with, teased, toyed with in my days of foolish vanity.
He had once been a handsome figure — confident, wealthy, always surrounded by admirers.
Now he looked worn and hollow. His clothes hung loose over his thin frame; deep lines etched his face.
We stood there for a moment, strangers bound by uncomfortable memories.
"You... you look different," he said finally, his voice rough with something between bitterness and sadness.
"So do you," I replied quietly.
An awkward silence settled between us.
Around us, life moved on — vendors calling out prices, women bargaining over maize, children darting between stalls.
But we were suspended in an invisible bubble of regret.
"I heard about you," he said.
"People talk. They say you changed... found religion or something."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He gave a short, humourless laugh.
"I thought you were smarter than that. Life chews us up, Neema. It's every man — and woman — for themselves."
I felt a pang of sadness for him — and for the old Neema who might have agreed once.
"I'm sorry for the pain you've gone through," I said softly.
"But I've found something better now. Something that doesn't rot with time or fade with beauty."
He scoffed. "Fairy tales."
I wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped me.
There was no point.
His bitterness was a fortress, and he had locked himself inside.
Still, as he turned to go, I couldn't help but call after him.
"Ezekiel," I said, voice trembling, "God still loves you. No matter how far you've fallen. It's not too late."
He paused, shoulders stiff.
But he didn't turn around.
Only the cold wind answered me as he disappeared into the crowd.
I stood there for a long time, the tomatoes forgotten at my feet, grief swelling in my heart.
Not grief for myself — but for all the souls still trapped in the life I had once thought glamorous.
Souls blinded by pride, weighed down by shame.
Tears burned my eyes as I whispered a prayer for Ezekiel.
For all of them.
And for myself — that I would never forget what God had saved me from.
I walked home slowly that evening, my mind heavy with memories.
Each step seemed to stir up the past — laughter echoing in empty corridors, flirtatious glances exchanged across crowded rooms, careless words spoken without thought or consequence.
I had once believed I was powerful, desired, untouchable.
Now, those memories tasted bitter in my mouth.
As I reached the small rented room we called home, I found my children sitting quietly around the cracked table, doing their homework by the dim light of a single bulb.
Zawadi looked up first and smiled — a small, weary smile — and I felt my heart tighten painfully.
I had almost lost them too.
Because of pride. Because of selfishness.
Because I had forgotten what mattered most.
That night, after the children had gone to bed, I sat by the window, staring out at the glittering city lights.
Somewhere out there, Ezekiel was wandering — angry, broken, alone.
I prayed for him again, longer this time, my whispered words carrying into the silence:
"Lord, save him like You saved me. Show him Your mercy. Break the chains that pride has wrapped around his heart."
For the first time, I realised something profound:
I was not better than Ezekiel.
Only rescued.
Only forgiven.
And forgiveness, I was learning, was a gift I had no right to withhold — from myself, or from others.
As the rain began to fall, tapping gently against the windowpane, I picked up my battered old journal and wrote:
"Today I met a ghost from my past. I saw in him what I might have become — empty, angry, bitter. Thank You, Lord, for pulling me from that pit. Please teach me to walk humbly every day, remembering that my salvation is not of myself, but a gift of Your grace."
I closed the journal, feeling lighter somehow, though tears still wet my cheeks.
The past could no longer chain me.
It could only remind me — of how far I had fallen... and how far God's hand had lifted me.
The sorrowful reunion had been painful.
But it had also been necessary.
A mirror held up to my soul, showing me that true transformation was not about pretending the past had never happened —
It was about letting God redeem even the darkest pages of my story.
And I was ready for the next chapter.