His name was Meshack Kibaka. Throughout his life, his name felt like a prison sentence. He was born into poverty so obvious it nearly had a smell—a mud hut in the middle of a slum, a mother who had already borne two children she could barely feed. A woman carrying survival on her back like firewood—necessary, heavy, and endless. Her face showed lines long before her age required them. Smiles were rare, and laughter even more scarce. When it appeared, it looked almost painful, as if her muscles had forgotten how to hold joy.
His father appeared like a rumor. Sometimes at night.
Sometimes unannounced. Sometimes not at all. When he did appear, he spoke big
words. On one such night, he named his son with conviction:
“You will be like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. You will
accomplish the impossible.” His father prophesied—a rare statement. But names
don’t automatically determine destiny. Sometimes, names also carry history.
Kibaka was a name passed down from a great-grandfather known
as a thug. It was whispered with contempt and carried a story. Unfortunately,
stories spread faster than children. Meshack’s mother would later discover she
had married into a family of thieves. She herself had come from desperation,
snatched from the streets into what she thought was safety. A mud hut was
better than the pavement. So she endured. She bore children. She survived.
Her existence was minor. Until she noticed something
different about her youngest child. The boy clung to books like a crocodile to
its prey. He devoured words. He lingered over pages. He read as if reading were
oxygen. And in him, she saw something she hadn't seen in a long time — light.
“You are not Kibaka,” she would tell him. “You are Meshack.”
But the world kept saying otherwise. One evening, a neighbor came running with
news: an altercation had occurred. Three men lay dead after a mob lynching. One
of them was Meshack’s father.
His mother exhaled — not in grief, but in relief — and went
back to work the next morning. But the slum never forgets. Children taunted
him: “Son of a thug.” Teachers called him to the front of the class and used
his life as a cautionary tale. “Never become like this boy’s father.” Imagine
being ten years old and being used as an example of what not to become.
That kind of humiliation doesn't just pass through you. It
settles in. It burrows deep. It becomes a belief. And Meshack adopted one that
would stay with him for decades: “I am unworthy.”
Here is something I have learned in my work as a habit
coach: The most dangerous habits are not what you do with your hands.
They are what you agree with in your mind. Meshack agreed with shame. He
did not wake up one day and decide to be insecure. He did not consciously
choose resentment. But repeated exposure to humiliation trained his internal
voice.
And what you rehearse internally becomes your operating
system. He ran away at the age of 10. Not because he was rebellious, but
because he was exhausted. Exhausted from carrying a name that felt heavier than
his body.
His mother understood something profound: environment
matters. She walked sixty kilometers to a top boarding school in the country
and pleaded his case with the founder. And by grace, the boy was admitted.
His environment changed, but his identity remained the same.
He excelled academically—earning a law degree, a master’s degree, and becoming
a lecturer from the slums to the lecture hall. Yet, let me tell you something
many high achievers don’t want to admit: you can upgrade your address and
still carry the same emotional wounds.
The little boy standing at the front of the classroom, in
shame, was still alive within the accomplished man. Unhealed shame does
something subtle; it drives you to succeed but never to rest. Meshack began
comparing himself relentlessly. He noticed others who came from wealth, those
with polished backgrounds, and others whose fathers were respected.
Comparison became his silent companion. When mixed with
insecurity, comparison breeds envy. The more he compared, the more he resented.
The more he resented, the less joy he felt. He masked it well—he was candid,
direct, and honest. People called him sharp. They admired his
straightforwardness. But sharpness can sometimes be pain disguised as
confidence.
He built his mother a small house in the village. The day he
drove there in his first car was supposed to be triumphant—a son returning
victorious. Then he overheard someone whisper, “That Kibaka boy must have
stolen like his father.” The rage that surged inside him was volcanic, not
because of the insult, but because it touched an unhealed wound.
And this is where the habit deepened. He developed an
obsession with respect. “No one will disrespect me.” That became a rule. And
whenever someone even slightly threatened his image, he overreacted. Because he
was not defending his present, but his ten-year-old self.
Soon, alcohol became a companion. Not because he loved
drinking — but because he loved silence. Silence from the voices that mocked
him at night.
“Thief.”
“Imposter.”
“You don’t belong.”
Let us pause here.
Many successful men are not motivated by vision; instead,
they are driven by the fear of falling back—back into obscurity, back into
poverty. Fear is a powerful motivator, but it burns dirty. Meshack began
associating with friends who improved his image. His relationships became
calculated, clients became transactions, and students became nuisances.
Meshack overlooked something essential: law as a business is
about relationships. Leadership relies on relationships. Life itself is
relational. However, shame had taught him to prioritize self-protection. His
drinking became noticeable. Students made jokes about it. His temper shortened.
He was rude. Defensive. Ultimately, he was dismissed from his position as a
lecturer.
Reputation, once cracked, breaks beyond repair. Meshack
started chasing clients not to serve them, but to protect himself. At first, it
was accepted: “Lawyers are cunning and dishonest,” people say. It comes
with the career. But Meshack took it to a whole new level. He would threaten
clients who were late in making payments with court action. His specialty was
forming close ties with auctioneers, turning relationships into battlegrounds.
When a former high school friend replaced him on a legal
case, the humiliation became unbearable. “I will avenge myself,” he
promised. Revenge is simply insecurity demanding acknowledgment. From there,
the descent sped up. More alcohol. More women. More questionable deals.
When you are driven by shame, you will always seek external
validation. And validation has no bottom. Eventually, desperation met
desperation. In one land case, a woman lost her property under suspicious
terms. Her son responded violently. Meshack was later found poisoned in a hotel
room. Naked. Alone.
A man who once stood in lecture halls, proud and confident,
died in secrecy and scandal. At his burial, some celebrated.
That line should disturb you because no man sets out to be
celebrated in death for the wrong reasons. Meshack did not fail because he was
poor. He failed because he never confronted the habits formed in poverty.
Shame.
Comparison.
Transactional living.
And here is the core message I want you to sit with: You
are not your past. But if you refuse to confront it, it will quietly design
your future.
I have worked with executives who earn millions yet still
feel like impostors. Founders who damage partnerships because they can't handle
perceived disrespect. Leaders demanding loyalty but unable to show
vulnerability.
The pattern remains the same. Unhealed identity triggers
destructive habits. If any part of this story feels uncomfortably familiar,
don't ignore it.
Ask yourself:
What shame am I still negotiating with?
What comparison is draining my joy?
Who have I reduced to a transaction?
Success without inner healing is fragile. You can accumulate
wealth and still be emotionally empty. You can command a room and still be
terrified inside. Meshack’s tragedy wasn’t that he came from the slum, but that
he never permitted himself to heal from it. Healing is not a sign of weakness; it's
courage.
If you want to build habits that support success — not
sabotage it — you need to confront the narratives beneath your behavior. That
is the work I do. Not just surface discipline. Not superficial motivation. Identity
work. Habit transformation. Emotional reconstruction. Because discipline
without healing becomes performance. And performance without peace becomes
collapse.
You are not your father’s mistakes. You are not your
childhood humiliation. You are not the whispers that followed your name. But
you must make that decision.
If you're ready to explore the habits behind your success
and build from a sense of identity rather than insecurity, let's get started.
The most powerful habit you can develop is this: self-awareness before
self-destruction. That habit can save your life.
If this message stirred something in you, don’t let it fade.
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