I never imagined I would be this woman — the one neighbours come to for counsel, the one who sits quietly at the back of a church hall and somehow draws others with nothing more than a look of peace. If you had told the twenty-nine-year-old Neema, the one who tossed her wedding ring onto the counter and walked out with her head high and her heart shut, that this would be her future… she would have laughed. Or worse, rolled her eyes and said something cruel.
But I'm not that woman anymore.
The transformation didn't come in a single moment, like some lightning bolt from heaven. It came slowly — painfully — like learning to walk again after years of limping on pride and false strength. I look in the mirror now and I see the lines on my face, the grey beginning to show in my hair. But I don't hide them anymore. Each one tells a part of the story — the fall, the wanderings, the sorrow… and finally, the return.
People in the community have stopped whispering about me. Or maybe they still do, but I no longer notice. I walk to the market with my head held high. Not in arrogance, but in quiet assurance. The kind that comes when your value no longer rests in other people's applause, but in God's grace.
The other day, a young woman knocked at my door. She was trembling, tears in her eyes, clutching a bag that looked hastily packed. Her husband had just hit her for the third time that month. She had nowhere else to go. I didn't ask questions. I simply opened the gate and let her in. Later that night, as she curled up on my old sofa, she looked at me and asked, "How do you stay so calm?"
I smiled. "I wasn't always."
She didn't believe me at first. But as I told her my story — the real story, the one I had tried to bury for so long — her shoulders relaxed. Her sobs became sniffles. I made us both some tea. And in that small act of hospitality, I saw the purpose behind my pain. My shame had become my testimony. My failure, a bridge for someone else to cross.
My children are noticing too. Subira calls more often now. She's working in Arusha and recently told me she's thinking of joining the church near her campus. Zawadi sings hymns in the kitchen while helping with dishes, and Amani, still so young, reminds me to pray before meals even when I forget.
I'm not a perfect mother. I still feel the ache of what I lost — the time I squandered, the wounds I caused. But each morning, I wake up and thank God for another chance to love them better.
Last week, during Sabbath School, the teacher was absent and the superintendent asked me to step in. I hesitated, palms sweating, unsure if I was ready. But I stood and opened the Bible, and as the words came — not rehearsed, not polished, but honest — I saw people nodding, eyes wide, hearts open. One sister came to me after and said, "You speak like someone who has lived it."
I have. I truly have.
I don't know what the future holds. I don't crave it the way I once did — chasing bigger houses, fancier clothes, or attention. I crave peace. Obedience. Moments of service that leave no headlines but please heaven.
I'm not famous. I'm not wealthy. But I am changed. And I have never felt more whole.
Even my neighbours, who once eyed me with suspicion, have grown gentler. Mama Joyce, the elderly widow two houses down, now brings me mangoes from her tree and lingers longer in conversation. Last week, she said something that made me pause.
"You've changed, Neema," she said softly, brushing dust from her kitenge. "Not just outside — it's in your eyes now. There's peace there. I used to see fire in them. Pain. But now, it's like… still water."
Still water.
That stayed with me. I had been many things — restless, angry, desperate, proud. But still? Peaceful? That was new. It was the work of God, I knew. Not my efforts. I had tried to fix myself before and failed miserably. But surrender — that slow, steady opening of the heart — had done more in months than years of striving ever did.
There are days when memories sneak in — little flashes of who I once was. Sometimes when I pass by the hotel where I used to meet men whose names I no longer remember, my stomach turns. A certain perfume, a familiar voice, even a song on the radio can stir shame. But I've learned not to run from those memories. I face them, acknowledge them, and then lay them at Jesus' feet.
"I was that woman," I whisper sometimes, "but I am not her anymore."
And I mean it.
One Saturday afternoon, after a church lunch, a young man approached me. He was barely twenty-five, shirt buttoned too tight, eyes nervously shifting. "Sister Neema," he said, "would you speak to my sister? She's struggling. She says church people are all just pretending."
That hit deep.
I once said the same thing — scoffed at those I now call brethren. But I agreed. I met his sister the next day under the jacaranda tree by the chapel. Her name was Doreen. She was beautiful, in that fierce, wounded kind of way. We sat on the bench in silence at first. Then I told her I used to think faith was a costume too. That I had worn it when convenient, and discarded it when the crowd changed. She didn't say much, but she came to church the next week.
One soul at a time. That's how this works. Not grand sermons. Not powerful titles. Just stories, shared in truth and humility.
I don't seek platforms. I no longer hunger to be admired. These days, I am content to be present — fully present. In conversations. In worship. In the little acts of daily service. Helping a neighbour fix her tap. Sitting with a sick friend in hospital. Reading the Psalms aloud by candlelight with Amani.
The world once told me I needed more — more money, more beauty, more applause. But the Kingdom tells me something else entirely.
"Blessed are the meek..."
I used to think meekness was weakness. Now I see its strength. It takes courage to forgive yourself. Bravery to start again with nothing but faith. Grace to walk into a room full of people who know your past and not hang your head.
I am no longer ashamed.
This body, weathered as it may be, has carried the weight of regret, and now holds joy. These hands, once so eager to grasp and cling, now give freely. My smile, no longer forced, comes from a deeper place — one the world didn't give, and cannot take away.
I have become the woman I once mocked. The one with plain skirts and scripture on her lips. The one who prays before every decision. The one who weeps at testimonies and lifts her hands in worship. And I am so glad.
There's a quiet sort of dignity that follows redemption. You don't have to announce it. It walks with you.
And when people ask, "What happened to you, Neema?" — I only say, "God found me. And I let Him keep me."
Some days I still wake early, before the sun rises, just to sit quietly with my Bible. It's not a ritual — it's a hunger. I open the pages, not just to read but to listen. Scripture has become my mirror. In it, I see not just who I am but who I'm becoming.
I've learnt to slow down. There was a time when I hurried through life, chasing deadlines, appearances, and affection. Now, I find joy in walking through the market slowly, greeting the vendors by name, asking about their children. There's something beautiful in being known for kindness rather than allure.
One Sunday morning, I was invited to speak at a women's meeting in a neighbouring church. I hesitated at first. Who was I to speak to others? But then I remembered what the Lord has done in me, and I went. I didn't bring a sermon. I brought my story — raw, trembling, but redeemed. And as I spoke, I saw tears in eyes I had never met. Women nodded. Some reached for my hand afterward, whispering that they too had made wrong turns, that they too were seeking the way back.
I told them there is always a way back. Always.
It wasn't just church folk who noticed my change. My own children, especially Zawadi, have started to look at me differently. She still carries scars — I see it in her silence sometimes — but there's a warmth returning to her eyes. One afternoon, she found me humming while peeling cassava. She paused and said, "Mum… you smile more these days." I laughed and replied, "I have more to smile about."
My home, once echoing with conflict and coldness, now feels like a place of rest. There's less shouting, less rushing. More prayers at the table. More listening. More love. Subira often plays gospel songs as she does her homework. Amani has started joining me during evening devotionals, his small fingers tracing the lines of my Bible.
The world hasn't changed. It's still noisy, demanding, full of false promises. But I have changed. And that changes everything.
I've become something I never expected to be — content. Not because I have everything I once wanted, but because I've been given something deeper: peace. Purpose. A sense of being held, even on the hardest days.
I am not perfect. I still make mistakes. Sometimes I lose my temper, or struggle with envy, or forget to pray when things go well. But I no longer spiral into despair when I fail. I repent. I start again. I walk forward.
The greatest transformation has not been in my circumstances, but in my heart.
One evening, as I sat with Mama Joyce watching the sunset, she placed her wrinkled hand over mine and said, "You've become one of those women, Neema. The ones people turn to. The ones who carry light."
Her words moved me. Not because they were flattering — but because they confirmed what I had hoped. That my life, broken as it had been, could now be used to comfort others. That I, once so lost, could now point the way.
And that is what I want to be known for.
Not for my past, though it shaped me. Not for my suffering, though it refined me. But for my transformation — for the quiet strength of a woman made whole by grace.