MISJUDGED 2

EPISODE 2

"Johnson Stella," the head disciplinarian called, her voice steady, cutting through the tense silence.

“Yes, ma,” I responded, my voice barely above a whisper, shaky and full of fear.

“Be on your knees!” barked a voice behind me. "You rebellious children!"

I dropped to my knees instantly. My mind raced, searching for a way out of this nightmare, but all I could do was obey. Maybe if I appeared remorseful enough, they'd see my innocence.

“So, you’re among,” another voice scoffed, dripping with disdain. That would be the 4th time.

I looked up briefly. There were ten of them: six women and four men. They stared down at me as though I were already convicted—a disgrace to my family, to my faith, to them.

“What happened on the 14th of February, 2019?” The head disciplinarian’s voice came again, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto mine.

“I didn’t do anything, ma,” I stammered. My words sounded hollow, even to me.

Whip! Whip!!

The cane struck me before I could blink.

“If you give me one more ridiculous answer, you’ll see what I’ll do to you,” she snapped. “What happened on the 14th of February, 2019?”

Tears streamed down my face. My palms instinctively rubbed the throbbing spot on my back. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “We visited a nearby hotel to celebrate Valentine’s Day,” I said.

“Visited?” one of the teachers sneered. “Do you think this was some authorized school excursion? Were you permitted?”

“No, ma,” I choked, my face drenched in a mix of sweat, tears, mucus…everything liquid.

“Correct yourself,” the head disciplinarian commanded, her cane swinging menacingly.

“I was not among, ma,” I blurted out desperately, trying to cling to the last shreds of my innocence.

From the corner of the room came a murmur. I wasn’t sure who said it, but the words struck like a dagger: “All these priest children are the worst. Descendants of Hophni and Phinehas.”

Kai!

My head snapped around. My tear-filled eyes burned as they landed on the teacher who had uttered those words. What exactly did they have against pastor’s children?

“I said I wasn’t among!” My voice cracked as anger flared within me. “Why would you compare me to Hophni and Phinehas?”

The room fell silent for a moment, their judgmental stares boring into me.

That was when I knew that I was done with secondary school education, by myself and for myself.

Let me properly introduce myself. My name is Johnson Stella. I’m in SS3, the second daughter of core Pentecostal pastors. To the world, I’m nothing extraordinary, but because of my family, I’ve been cast into a spotlight I never asked for.

If you think I haven’t tried living judiciously, then again, I could borrow you my life for a week. Every move I make, every word I say, is scrutinized under the harsh lens of expectations. They say I’m rebellious, but all I’ve ever wanted is to live a life as a teenager—not as a title, not as a label, not as “the pastor’s daughter.”

Yes, I have a temper. But does my identity deserve to be tied to the failures of Hophni and Phinehas, the biblical sons who disrespected the altar? If you ask me, I’m not terrible, I’m just stubborn. If you could offer help, I wouldn’t refuse.

As I knelt there, tears flowing freely, I realized that this wasn’t just about Valentine’s Day. It was about the weight of being born into a role that I’ll think over again and not want to choose. About battling a world that refused to see me as anything but a reflection of my parents.

Inside, I knew what awaited me—more judgment, more pain. But what hurt the most wasn’t the punishment. It was the reminder that, to them, I’d never be just Stella.

I’d always be “the pastor’s wrong daughter.”