I Had Been Struggling With Poverty, Burning Charcoal Year In and Year Out — But This Is What Happened Before This Christmas
For as long as I can remember, my life revolved around charcoal. Not business plans, not dreams, not holidays—just charcoal. I woke up before sunrise, walked long distances into the forest, cut wood, burned it slowly in earth kilns, and waited days for the blackened pieces that barely fed my family. Every year felt the same. Dry seasons were cruel. Rainy seasons were worse. Smoke damaged my lungs, my hands were permanently cracked, and my back ached like that of an old man even though I was still young.
Christmas was always the hardest time.
While others prepared new clothes, slaughtered goats, and welcomed relatives, I prepared excuses. I avoided gatherings because I could not contribute. My children learned early not to ask for gifts. My wife smiled in public but cried quietly at night. Every December, I promised myself, Next year will be different. And every January, I returned to the forest with the same sack, the same tools, and the same poverty.
I tried everything people advised. Savings groups that collapsed. Casual jobs that disappeared overnight. Loans that only multiplied my problems. Some pastors told me to “have faith.” Others told me to work harder. I was already working until my bones screamed. What more could I give? Slowly, hope began to die. Not loudly—quietly. I stopped dreaming. I only survived.
