Clemens Lux, Nairobi (2025)

16/09/2025

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝘄𝗼 𝗗𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗘𝘅𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲:
𝗚𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗪𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗚

From the beginning of all things, one law has quietly ruled the universe: there are only two dimensions of life — Good and Wrong.

Everything else that people argue about — culture, tradition, wealth, religion, or politics — is only decoration. Underneath it all, the choice is always the same: either you are standing on the side of Good, or you are moving in the direction of Wrong. There is no middle ground.

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The Hidden Compass

Every human being is born with an inner compass. It does not speak with words, but with feelings that rise deep in the heart. When one acts with kindness, truth, and courage, the compass shines with peace. When one acts with deceit, hatred, and greed, it grows heavy with unrest.

The world may confuse us with endless debates, but the compass never lies. Good preserves life. Wrong destroys it.

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The Two Dimensions

Life is like a vast river flowing in two directions. Every thought, every word, every action is like a paddle stroke. With each choice, we steer ourselves toward either the dimension of Good or the dimension of Wrong.

Good creates, heals, and multiplies life.

Wrong corrupts, enslaves, and consumes life.

This truth does not change with time, culture, or opinion. It is as eternal as the rising sun.

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The Law Beyond All Laws

Generations rise and fall, but this law has never broken:

Good brings freedom; Wrong brings chains.

Good builds peace; Wrong sows chaos.

Good lights the path forward; Wrong drags humanity backward.

Every society that has chosen Good has thrived. Every society that has chosen Wrong has collapsed.

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The Choice of Our Time

Now, in this present age, humanity stands at a greater crossroads than ever before. Technology is advancing, voices are louder, and truth is often drowned in noise. Darkness is disguised as light, and light is mocked as weakness.

Yet the law remains unchanged: you cannot serve both. You are either aligned with the side of Good, or you are building on the side of Wrong.

This choice is not small. It determines not only your destiny, but the destiny of your children, your communities, and the future of the Earth itself.

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The Eternal Call

So, to this generation and to the ones yet to come:

When you are tempted to silence truth for comfort, remember: comfort without truth belongs to the wrong side.

When you are tempted to betray others for gain, remember: every act of betrayal writes another shadow into the world.

And when you are weary of doing good, remember: even the smallest act of goodness plants an eternal seed in the soil of time.

For the dimension of Good is not simply a path — it is the heartbeat of the universe. Those who walk in it will shine like stars long after their names are forgotten by men.

---

✨ The choice is simple but eternal: will you walk with Good or will you fall with Wrong?

02/09/2025

𝗨𝗻𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗞𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗚𝗼𝗱

𝙈𝙮 𝙅𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙍𝙚𝙟𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙍𝙪𝙞𝙣𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙍𝙚𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

There are wounds in my life that no one can see, but they bleed within me even today. I was not born into comfort—I was born into rejection. From the start, the world seemed to conspire against me. My father wished me away before I could even take my first breath. My stepfather turned his back on me. And my mother, broken by life herself, left me in the hands of grandparents who had little to give but survival.

I grew up carrying silence like a second skin. The silence of empty stomachs. The silence of dreams denied. The silence of nights when I asked myself, “Why was I even born?” I watched others move forward in life while I was stuck in cycles of labor, sweat, and unanswered prayers.

When I left home searching for something—perhaps a father’s love, perhaps just a place to belong—I found myself homeless, forgotten, wandering between hope and despair. People saw me as a shadow. They laughed at me, whispered behind my back, “He will never rise. His story ended before it even began.”

And maybe they were right… if it were only up to me.

But in my deepest pain, a voice refused to die inside me. It kept whispering:
“Unless they killed God, your story isn’t over.”

Life dug many graves for me:

The grave of betrayal.

The grave of hunger.

The grave of loneliness.

The grave of shame.

The grave of shattered dreams.

And yes, I fell into each of them. But what men buried, God resurrected. Every time I was pushed down, Heaven lifted me. Every time a door slammed in my face, I learned it was protection, not rejection. Every time I was laughed at, I realized their laughter was fuel for my rising.

I have been grazed by rejection, pierced by poverty, and wounded by betrayal. Yet here I stand—because unless they killed God, I cannot be destroyed.

This is my truth: You can strip me of wealth, you can deny me love, you can bury me under shame—but as long as God lives, I will rise again. My story was never written by those who doubted me; it was written by the One who called me into existence.

So today, I declare it without fear:
“Unless they killed God, I will keep rising. Unless they killed God, I will keep shining. Unless they killed God, I will fulfill what He placed inside me.”

Because my survival is not a coincidence. My life is not an accident. My destiny is not in their hands—it rests in the hands of the God who never dies.

31/08/2025

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗩𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗪𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗮𝗴𝗲𝘀

𝘽𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧

Behind every smile is a scar, behind every success a struggle, and behind every soul-a story.

Some stories are loud, filled with spotlight moments and thunderous applause. Others are quiet, wrapped in whispered prayers, lonely nights, and silent battles. But all stories matter.

This book-boldly painted with the words "WE ALL HAVE A STORY TO TELL"-reminds us that our experiences are not meant to be hidden. They are meant to be heard.

Maybe yours hasn't been easy. Maybe it's still being written in pain, perseverance, or purpose. But remember: your voice has value. Your past has power. Your truth has light.

Share your story-not for validation, but for liberation. You never know whose darkness your truth might illuminate.
Keep writing. Keep speaking.

The world needs your story.

30/08/2025

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻 𝗔𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗣𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗿
💫 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒅. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅.
𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏—𝒔𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒚—𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔.
There are seasons in life when prayers feel like whispers thrown into the wind—vanishing before they ever reach the heavens. You kneel, you plead, you wait. Days pass. Then months. Then years. Hope begins to dim, and silence becomes heavier than the words you once spoke so boldly.

For the longest time, life seemed unfair. Every dream was met with delay, every step forward followed by two steps back. The nights were long, filled with whispered prayers on tear-stained pillows. The mornings were heavy, carrying the burden of unfulfilled promises. You prayed for healing, but sickness lingered. You prayed for a breakthrough, but doors stayed shut. You prayed for love, yet loneliness remained a familiar companion.

Still—you never stopped praying. Even when your faith shook, even when your voice cracked, even when the silence screamed louder than your words—you prayed.

Then one day, quietly, without warning, everything shifted. Not with a trumpet sound, not with lightning in the sky, but with small mercies woven together until they became undeniable miracles. The job that seemed impossible to get suddenly had your name written on it. The family that felt broken slowly began to heal. The tears of loneliness were wiped away by the hand of love you once thought you would never hold. The sickness that had lingered for years lifted like morning mist before the rising sun.

And you stood still—frozen in disbelief.

That day, the tears returned, but they were not the tears of pain you had once known. They were tears of joy, the kind that leave you speechless. The same mouth that had begged in the night now trembled in awe. The same heart that had carried wounds now overflowed with gratitude.

Because there it was—the moment you once doubted would ever arrive: the day your prayers were answered.

You wept, not because life had been easy, but because you realized that every unanswered prayer was shaping you for this moment. Every delay was a preparation. Every silence was a lesson. Every tear that fell before had watered the soil of your destiny.

You understood then that heaven was never deaf. God had always been listening—He was simply arranging the right time, the right way, and the right place.

So when the blessings came, they did not trickle—they poured. They came with such fullness that you couldn’t contain them. You cried because you finally saw that every battle had meaning. Every waiting season had a purpose. Every prayer—every single prayer—had been heard.

And in that sacred silence of gratitude, you realized the truth:

One day, you will cry—not from sorrow, but from the overwhelming beauty of a God who answers prayers in His perfect time.

28/08/2025

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗥𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗠𝘆 𝗠𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗵
𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑰𝒔 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝑰𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑫𝒂𝒅.

A word that was supposed to mean protection, guidance, love.

But for me, it became silence, rejection and absence.

I had a father once. Then one day, I didn't.

Not because he died, but because he chose a life without me.

He is still alive, still walking on earth yet to me he has been a ghost.

He is my father-but I don't know him.

For more than thirty years, I have lived without a father figure, and I have never truly encountered one. The word father rotted in my mouth, a word I could never taste without bitterness. I do not say this because of "daddy issues"-I don't carry them.

It was never me who had the issue. It was my father.
I was born into rejection. My mother, a teenage girl, carried me when the world told her to end my life. She refused. She chose me, even when my father did not. I was left in the hands of my poor grandparents, who raised me the best they could. But poverty was a language I learned too soon-poor education, working on farms, and growing up with hunger as a familiar companion.

Still, I longed for him. As a teenager, I left home in search of my father, hoping for recognition, a word, a place in his heart. Instead, I found only the cold reality of homelessness, sleeping on the streets, hiding my pain behind church walls as I served in ministry while secretly carrying no home of my own.

Life dealt me harsh lessons, I endured humiliation before I finally earned a chance to join vocational training and studied for a technical skill. When I did, I gave it my all. I became the best trainee of the year. I rose from rejection to recognition, from nothing to influence, from brokenness to the man I am today.

And yet, even with all this growth-inside, I remained a son without a father.

Dear Dad, wherever you are, I need you to know something.

I made it.
I made it without you.

If leaving me was a mistake, I am here to apologize for carrying your absence with so much weight. If my mother wronged you, if circumstances clouded your choices, I ask forgiveness on her behalf.

Whatever happened back then, I want you to hear this: it was my choice to still choose you.

And if these words ever reach you, Dad, let them not bring guilt, but peace.

Because despite it all-Before I was even born, I chose you. I chose this bloodline. I chose this path. I do not resent it. I do not regret it.

I only wish you knew how heavy it was growing up without you.

Home was dark without my mother, but life was darker without you.

Every boy needs a hand to guide him, a voice to affirm him, a figure to lean on when storms rage. I never had that. I had to become my own father, to grow without direction, to learn manhood through pain and survival.

But today, I release it. I release you.

Not so that you may feel guilty, but so that you may feel peace.

I forgive you-not because I must, but because I choose to.

And if you ever hear these words, let them remind you that I am not broken by your absence. I am proof that even the abandoned can rise, even the rejected can shine, and even a son without a father can still build a legacy.

So, wherever you are, Dad-walk free.

I carry no grudge.

I only carry love that was never returned, a silence that was never broken, and a hope that perhaps in another life, or another time, you might have stayed.

Still, I rise.

I rise with scars where love should have been.

I rise with strength carved out of pain.

I rise as living proof that even without a father's hands to shape me, I could still shape myself.

I do not carry hate. I do not carry bitterness. I only carry the empty echo of a word that should have been a shelter, but instead became a wound.

All in all, the truth will remain forever written in my soul

Home was dark without Mother, life was darker without you. And the word "father"... became my deepest wound.

27/08/2025

𝗔 𝗕𝗲𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗼𝗱
“𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙄 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙.”
The desire to seek out my parents faded over time, but my heart found comfort in the words of the Bible:

"God is a father to the fatherless."

During this period, the church recognized that I had come seeking shelter. However, I was soon cast out by the very brother who had taken me in.

With nowhere else to go, I returned to the streets -another chapter of my life began, one filled with deep questions about religion and faith. I couldn't comprehend why life had turned against me. To survive, I took on a job digging trenches. The little I earned allowed me to rent a small room where I could rest after long days of labor.

By God's grace, I continued attending church.

However, within a short time, the work ended, and I could no longer afford rent.

Two months later, an agent locked up my room because of rent arrears.

WAH! Am I going back to the streets?

Adding to my despair, During that time, I served with unwavering devotion.

My heart burned with zeal, and I had poured my soul into the church like never before. Each morning, I would wake up early to prepare the sanctuary, ensuring everything was in order before the congregation arrived. My dedication did not go unnoticed, and soon, I was appointed as a member of the praise and worship team. It was a great honor -one that filled me with purpose and joy. In my pursuit of excellence, I even took the time to learn how to play musical instruments, a skill that became both a refuge and an expression of my faith. Every note I played, every song I sang, felt like an offering to God. The church had become my home, my solace, the place where I believed my efforts mattered.

But beneath my unwavering service lay a harsh reality-I was struggling.

No one knew that behind my passionate worship, I was battling financial hardship, unable to pay my rent. When my situation became dire, word reached one of the church elders.

Moved by my plight, he confronted the church accountant, and together, they cleared my rent arrears.

For a brief moment, I was relieved. I thought, perhaps, that this was a glimpse of the kindness and love the church always preached about.

But I was wrong.

That Sunday, standing in the congregation, I listened in horror as a church leader turned my struggle into a public spectacle. The words cut deeper than I could have imagined:

"Young men in this church have become lazy-so useless that they cannot even afford to pay their own rent!"

I felt my heart sink.

The words was not addressing a nameless crowd; it was directly spoken to me.

My suffering, my silent battles, had been reduced to a sermon illustration, a lesson in irresponsibility.

Shame washed over me as whispers filled the sanctuary.

The place that once felt like a refuge now felt like a courtroom, and I was the accused.

Then came the final blow. That same day, I was informed that I had been suspended from the praise and worship team. No conversation, no explanation -just rejection.

The very church I had served with all my heart had cast me aside, not with love or concern, but with humiliation.

Heartbroken and discouraged, I made a painful decision. Rather than becoming a church topic, I chose to return to the streets. At least there, I would not have to endure the sting of betrayal wrapped in the guise of righteousness. As I walked away, I realized something profound -sometimes, the very places we expect love and acceptance can become the source of our deepest wounds. And in that moment, I knew my journey was far from over.

Eventually, I joined a street gang where I could at least earn enough for daily food. There, I met another group of hustlers who exposed me to different street trades, allowing me to gain influence due to my hard work.

The hardest roads lead to the most remarkable destinations.

To be continued;

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25/08/2025

𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝗜 𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗔𝗻𝘆𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲

There was a time when I carried the world on my shoulders—every harsh word, every betrayal, every silent goodbye. I carried it all, as if it was my duty to keep proving that I was worthy of love, worthy of being chosen, worthy of being seen.

I cared too much. Too deeply. Too recklessly.

I cared until it broke me. I cared until nights became endless tears on a pillow that never judged but always knew my pain. I cared until I was nothing more than a shadow of myself, giving pieces of my heart to people who never once thought of giving anything back.

I begged for love that should have been freely given.
I chased after people who already decided to leave.
I tore myself apart, just to keep others whole.

And in the end? They still left. They still forgot. They still broke me like I was disposable.

For so long, I believed it was me. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t beautiful enough. I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t successful enough. I wasn’t… enough.

But do you know the cruelest part? Even when I had nothing left to give, even when I was on my knees bleeding from wounds they never cared to heal, I still cared. I still prayed for them. I still loved them in silence.

And one day, something inside me just… snapped.
Not in anger. Not in bitterness. But in a quiet, heartbreaking realization:

Caring for people who never cared for me was killing me.

So I stopped.
I stopped explaining myself to ears that refused to listen.
I stopped chasing love that only ran further away.
I stopped tearing myself apart to build bridges for those who had already burned them.

Now, when I say “I don’t care anymore,” it isn’t cruelty. It isn’t revenge. It is survival.

I don’t care anymore because my heart deserves rest.
I don’t care anymore because my soul deserves peace.
I don’t care anymore because somewhere deep down, I finally realized—if I keep pouring into everyone else while neglecting myself, I’ll run dry.

And so I chose me.

I chose to stop watering dead flowers and start planting seeds in the garden of my own soul.
I chose to stop begging for a seat at tables where I was never truly welcomed, and instead, I’m building my own.
I chose to stop bleeding for people who never even noticed my wounds.

When I whisper “I don’t care anymore,” it doesn’t mean my heart is cold.
It means my heart is healing.
It means I have finally learned that my worth was never theirs to decide.
It means I’ve stopped waiting to be chosen—because I am already enough, as I am.

So if you ask me today why I don’t care anymore, I will smile softly and say:

Because peace tastes better than pain.
Because freedom feels lighter than chains.
Because finally, after all the heartbreak and silence…
I have chosen me.

And in choosing me, I have finally found peace.

17/08/2025

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝗜 𝗟𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗥𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻.
𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝑰 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉—𝒔𝒐 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.
My life has been wrapped in pain and rejection from the very beginning. I grew up in misery, carrying burdens no child should ever bear. I remember as a little boy, working on my wealthy neighbor’s farm during weekends and school holidays, just so I could earn a few coins to buy myself clothes. One day, out of love, I used my earnings to buy sugar and salt for my family, because at that time, they couldn’t even afford it.

But instead of gratitude, my stepfather told me never to buy anything for the house again. He wouldn’t even touch the food or tea made with the sugar and salt I had bought. Do you know how painful that is—to a child who just wanted to be accepted and appreciated?

When the time for circumcision came, after my pre-school education, my stepfather refused to let anyone take me through the rite of passage except himself. After that, he denied me a home, and my journey to high school education was delayed. I started working even harder for my rich neighbor so that I could raise enough money to buy iron sheets and build a small cubic house for myself.

But just when I thought I had finally created a safe place to call home, my stepfather demolished it within a year. That was the moment my life shattered—I ended up on the streets.

Years went by. Street life was cruel, but I didn’t give up. Every day was a battle for survival, yet I held onto hope.

Later, when my stepfather fell critically ill, my family sought me out—because they knew I was resourceful and strong. I went back home and spent everything I had trying to save his life. I took him to hospitals, prayed, and gave my all, but the illness was incurable. Eventually, he lost the battle.

Before he passed, he welcomed me back home and even offered me a place to build. He begged me to help him plant fruits in his compound to fulfill his dream, and I promised him I would—once he recovered. Sadly, that day never came.

After his death, I decided to build my dream home. I bought materials and prepared everything. But then, my mother told me I could not build mine until I first built hers. Out of respect, I sacrificed my own plans again.

Since I was living in the city, I rented a piece of land in the village to farm. But when the harvest came, my mother demanded the produce. She sold it and claimed I had to support her. When she saw the land I rented was producing more than hers, she demanded that land too. And because I always yielded, I left it for her. Now she still expects me to manage it for her, even when it has become too much for me to handle.

Later, my grandfather and uncles on my mother’s side offered me a portion of their land to build on. I prepared the land, gathered materials, and was finally ready to begin. But once again, my mother came and claimed that land as hers—saying it was her inheritance from her father. And again, I let it go.

Every sacrifice I made was met with more demands. Every effort to build my own life was crushed under the weight of rejection and manipulation.

That is why I have chosen to walk away. To buy my own land far away from them. To build my own home, free from interference. To finally live in peace.

This is my heartbreaking story—the reason I left home and why I will never return.

16/08/2025

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝗜 𝗟𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗥𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻
𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝑰 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉—𝒔𝒐 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇.

My life has been wrapped in pain and rejection from the very beginning. I grew up in misery, carrying burdens no child should ever bear. I remember as a little boy, working on my wealthy neighbor’s farm during weekends and school holidays, just so I could earn a few coins to buy myself clothes. One day, out of love, I used my earnings to buy sugar and salt for my family, because at that time, they couldn’t even afford it.

But instead of gratitude, my stepfather told me never to buy anything for the house again. He wouldn’t even touch the food or tea made with the sugar and salt I had bought. Do you know how painful that is—to a child who just wanted to be accepted and appreciated?

When the time for circumcision came, after my pre-school education, my stepfather refused to let anyone take me through the rite of passage except himself. After that, he denied me a home, and my journey to high school education was delayed. I started working even harder for my rich neighbor so that I could raise enough money to buy iron sheets and build a small cubic house for myself.

But just when I thought I had finally created a safe place to call home, my stepfather demolished it within a year. That was the moment my life shattered—I ended up on the streets.

Years went by. Street life was cruel, but I didn’t give up. Every day was a battle for survival, yet I held onto hope.

Later, when my stepfather fell critically ill, my family sought me out—because they knew I was resourceful and strong. I went back home and spent everything I had trying to save his life. I took him to hospitals, prayed, and gave my all, but the illness was incurable. Eventually, he lost the battle.

Before he passed, he welcomed me back home and even offered me a place to build. He begged me to help him plant fruits in his compound to fulfill his dream, and I promised him I would—once he recovered. Sadly, that day never came.

After his death, I decided to build my dream home. I bought materials and prepared everything. But then, my mother told me I could not build mine until I first built hers. Out of respect, I sacrificed my own plans again.

Since I was living in the city, I rented a piece of land in the village to farm. But when the harvest came, my mother demanded the produce. She sold it and claimed I had to support her. When she saw the land I rented was producing more than hers, she demanded that land too. And because I always yielded, I left it for her. Now she still expects me to manage it for her, even when it has become too much for me to handle.

Later, my grandfather and uncles on my mother’s side offered me a portion of their land to build on. I prepared the land, gathered materials, and was finally ready to begin. But once again, my mother came and claimed that land as hers—saying it was her inheritance from her father. And again, I let it go.

Every sacrifice I made was met with more demands. Every effort to build my own life was crushed under the weight of rejection and manipulation.

That is why I have chosen to walk away. To buy my own land far away from them. To build my own home, free from interference. To finally live in peace.

This is my heartbreaking story—the reason I left home and why I will never return.

05/08/2025

𝗜 𝗟𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗠𝘆 𝗪𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗛𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗽

This is How Religious Manipulation Destroyed My Marriage — And Called It Divine.

--- 𝗠𝘆 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗗𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗗𝗮𝘆 𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝘂𝘁 𝗛𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗽 𝗔𝗯𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗛𝗲𝗿 𝗩𝗼𝘄𝘀
I’m Her Husband, But She Cries for Another Man’s Approval

I never thought I'd have to compete with another man for my wife's heart —
Especially not one who calls himself “Man of God.”

But here I am…
Sitting in an empty home, staring at a cold plate of leftovers,
Wondering how we got here.

She left the house early again this morning, eyes swollen from tears — not because I hurt her —
But because I “dared” to deny her permission to go cook for her Bishop.

She didn’t cook for me.
Didn’t ask if I needed anything.
Didn't even say goodbye with a full heart.

She just cried... and left.
As if her loyalty belonged more to a church kitchen than our marriage covenant.

No phone call.
No message.
Not a single thought for the man she vowed to love, cherish, and honor.

She came back the next day… past midnight.
Worn out. Spiritually “full” but emotionally absent.
She handed me a container of leftover food, the same hands that once used to lovingly serve me fresh meals.
She said with trembling devotion:

"This food is from my Bishop’s table. It is blessed. You too should receive this anointing..."

I stared at the food.
But my appetite was gone.
My wife had become a stranger.
A servant.
Not to me, not to our home — but to a man she calls “Papa.”

---

She honors him more than me.
She obeys his words faster than mine.
She praises him louder than she ever praised the God we once prayed to together.
She’s always staring at the calendar — not for our anniversary, not for our family plans — but to see when next she'll “ serve the Man of God.”

Her hands — once warm with love for our family — are now busy kneading dough and chopping vegetables for the Bishop's table.
Her lips — once soft with affection — now chant, “Yes Papa, Amen Papa, As you say Papa.”

---

And I ask myself...

When did my wife stop being my partner, and start being his servant?
When did the altar become a leash?
When did worship turn into slavery?

Religion, when corrupted by manipulation, doesn't just take faith —
It takes family.
It breaks homes in the name of holiness.
It calls neglect sacrifice, and obsession devotion.

---

I didn’t lose my wife to another man’s bed —
I lost her to another man’s pulpit.

And yet, no one talks about this.
No one talks about the husbands who go unseen, unfed, untouched — because their wives are too busy serving “the anointed.”
No one talks about the tears men shed in silence while their wives chase after spiritual approval from other men.

---

💔 This is not holiness.
This is idolatry.
And it’s destroying marriages every day — silently.

---

To every man who feels invisible in his own home...
To every woman who has unknowingly abandoned her family for religious duty...
To every soul who’s been told that blind service equals righteousness...

Wake up.
God is not in the abuse.
God is not in manipulation.
And God does not replace the sacred love of a marriage with servanthood to men.

---

Clemens Lux

16/09/2025

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