One of the challenges I faced growing up as an eldest daughter was not having anyone to talk to about the things that bothered me. While I had my younger sisters, and I could talk to them about many things, there were some topics I just couldn’t discuss with them. To make matters worse, I was bullied as a child. I was bullied throughout primary and secondary school — not only by classmates but also by teachers. It’s not uncommon in Africa for teachers to make fun of students to entertain the class, and my case, wasn’t an exception. They would do anything to make the lesson lively, even if it was at the expense of one or a few students.
Being bullied by classmates is one thing, but not even having teachers to turn to for support made it even harder. One day, I will write about my teacher bullies, but today, I want to share a bullying episode by my classmates from my secondary school days that stayed with me for a very long time. I have never told anyone about this — you, my readers, are the first people I’m sharing this experience with.
I attended a day mission secondary school, and we had a camping tradition. During the period when senior secondary students were preparing for the public exam in Cameroon known as the GCE — which determines whether or not you make it to high school — my school organized a camp where students stayed in school for two weeks before the exam started, to help them focus. When it was my turn, it was no different.
While we were camping at school one Saturday, we had to prepare for church service the following morning. We didn’t have a school chapel, so we attended Mass at the main Catholic church near our school. The night before, all the students were ironing their uniforms — of course, we were stepping out of the school campus, and everyone wanted to look their best. Unfortunately, there were only a few irons, so we had to stand in line and take turns, which I did.
When it was finally my turn to use the iron, one of my classmates, who hadn’t been in line, tried to cut ahead of me. She was one of the popular girls in our class and school, and her friends, who had finished ironing, were waiting for her so they could go somewhere together. When she tried to go before me, I stood up for myself and said I should go first because I had been waiting in line. I wouldn’t have minded letting her go first had she at least asked politely, but instead, she tried to bully me into giving up my spot.
Normally, in situations like this, I would just let them have their way because I would do anything to avoid confrontation with that group of girls. However, on that day, although I was scared, I felt a bit courageous and decided to stand up for myself for once — and I did. She didn’t fight me physically that day or leave a scar to get her way, but she said something that stuck with me for a long time. She said she knew I was fighting to iron my uniform because I wanted the boys to notice me the next day, but I shouldn’t bother because no matter how much I ironed my uniform, no boy would ever see me or like me — not that day, not ever.
When she said this, her friends, who were waiting for her, all laughed with her and made little comments while laughing. As I bent my head and ironed, I did everything I could to hold back the tears forming in my eyes. It was the first time I was standing up to them, and I wasn’t going to let them see me cry. I didn’t even get to iron my uniform as well as I wanted to because I was rushing to leave before I burst into tears.
When I finally left, I made it to my bed and there, I cried my heart out. For someone who already struggled with low self-esteem, those words easily found a home in my subconscious and stayed there for a long time. They affected me terribly — there was always this feeling of being inadequate, not pretty enough, not good enough. As a result, I often settled for the bare minimum because I felt I didn’t deserve anything better.
Funny enough, today we are all in an ex-students’ forum, and when people talk about how united and loving the class was — including the bullies — it amazes me. Either the bullies genuinely don’t remember they were bullies, or they choose to forget.
Going through all this as a teenager, I really wish I had someone — like an older sister — to talk to. In the end, all I had was myself. I had to carry the pain and the burden alone.
I’m no longer that insecure girl, and those words no longer have any hold over me today. But they did influence many decisions back then and shaped my growth in a way.
My hope for you reading this story today — if you are a victim of bullying — is that you can break free from the shackles of whatever trauma your bullies put you through or are putting you through. I want you to know you are not alone and you are far better than the things they said you are.
And to you, the bully: in a few years, you might not remember what you did or you might think your words didn’t matter after you said them. Well, most times they didn’t just pass — they stayed. So please, take a step back and think for a second before saying that hurtful thing you want to say