MISJUDGED 3

EPISODE 3

Whip! Whip!! Whip!!!

The sting of the cane cut through my back, but no tears came. Not one. It was then I began to wonder: had God hardened my heart like Pharaoh’s? maybe I deserved this, maybe I had lost favor with Him.

You’re probably wondering, “What kind of girl knows Bible verses and still misbehaves?” Well, let me tell you, knowing the Word doesn’t always shield you from the weight of human imperfection. I was raised in a Christian home, and I’m grateful for that. What I’m not grateful for is living a life that doesn’t feel like mine.

My mom, in one of her moments of frustration, once said she’d happily hand me over for exhibition because I gave her “headaches.” Harsh, right? I’ve learned not to take her words to heart, she says them in anger. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

My sister, on the other hand, was the golden child. The one with flawless grades, impeccable manners, and an air of responsibility so pristine it could win awards. She was everything my mom wanted in a daughter. Everything I wasn’t.

I tried, Lord knows I did, but no matter how hard I worked to fit into her mold, it never clicked.

It wasn’t jealousy, though. I love my sister. She loves me too, but we were worlds apart. I used to think she was the only one Jesus truly died for, because of my ruled-out behavior, but these days, I’m past caring.

“WHAT HAPPENED ON THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY?” The disciplinarian’s voice snapped me back to the room.

I hesitated. Words were pointless. Whatever I said would be twisted, dismissed, mocked. Still, I spoke.

“My mates were stepping out to meet their boyfriends. It was Valentine’s Day. They invited me to join them.”

The scoffs came almost immediately. The teachers exchanged knowing looks, whispers laced with judgment.

“I don’t even have a boyfriend,” I added.

More scoffs. More disbelief. My throat tightened as I tried to make them see me, to hear me.

“I was helping them prepare to leave,” I said. “I wasn’t part of their plans. I didn’t go with them.”

“Then why was your name listed among those caught?” someone asked.

I sighed. “I walked with them part of the way, but I turned back. I wasn’t comfortable.”

Murmurs filled the room. The doubt in their eyes said it all.

“Why would I be on the list when I wasn’t even there when they were caught?” My voice cracked, but I stood my ground. Deep down, I already knew the answer. One of the girls had called my name. Why? Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was convenience. Whatever the reason, it felt like a betrayal I couldn’t shake.

“Who called you out?” another teacher asked, as if the answer would change anything.

“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

It didn’t matter. They’d already made up their minds.

The head disciplinarian rose, her eyes hard. “You’ve been nothing but a nuisance. You talk back to teachers, you disobey rules, and now you expect us to believe you’re innocent?”

Her words cut deeper than the cane. I wanted to scream, to defend myself, to ask why no one believed me. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. I wasn’t Stella Johnson, the person. I was Stella Johnson, the pastor’s daughter. And in their eyes, that title came with a script I couldn’t rewrite.

I looked at them, my back stinging, my heart heavy. “I didn’t do it,” I said, one last time.

They didn’t believe me. They never would.