What am I here for?

Over my three years of medical school, I have had the opportunity to make new friends, and so many acquaintances. In my third year, one of them moved from being just an acquaintance to being my roommate. We, therefore, not only got to share classes, but also to share life, in some way. When you reside with someone, and have to look at their faces when you go to bed and when you rise from it, isn’t that sharing life? I can only guess what marriage is like, and shudder! To some point, our academic and career goals seemed to converge so much that it almost seemed like we would be the greatest duo in medical school, yet not quite so. After a few months, I have had to step back and ask myself what it was that I really wanted from life. Both Njoroge and I certainly hoped to be great doctors in the few years to come, we hoped to be successful and turn back the tide of privation in our lives, but soon it has become quite apparent that we won’t take the same path to attain our goals. Our destinations bear some semblance to each other, but our roads diverge, and a glaring fork-road it certainly is.

Medical school is a sort of agglomeration of students who have crafted legacies for themselves. It’s a community of diversely skilled and different comrades who, clearly, by diligence and unwavering commitment, have been able to make a name for themselves in whatever they set out to do. When we see all these flowers in their lives, we want to blossom in the same exact way. So many of us have taken upon ourselves pursuits that weren’t ours for taking. Down the road, our life has never been so unfulfilling and burdensome. We cannot rejoice when we are living a life that is not our own. As much as we all want to be successful, our paths up that ladder are so different. I have had to understand that just because someone else is doing spectacularly well in Forex doesn’t necessarily mean that I will be successful if I try it out myself. The same is true for online marketing or whatever it is called. I have intentionally avoided mentioning anything that would have a medical connotation to it, as I have lately been made to understand that I never know for certain which exact field I may have to venture in in future. Neither do I look down upon those who trade Forex or do online marketing. Some of them are actually driving by now, while I am still trying to make my way in the world. Did I want to be like them? Yes. Right now, do I want to be like them? Goodness no! We do give honor to whom honor is due, but we do not have to follow the path they took just so that we can get honored as well.

Our lives are beautiful when we take the pen and write our own stories. No story is beautiful if it's not original, if anything, it’s intolerable. Those who have done well, amazingly well, are there to guide us in our path towards our greatness, not their greatness. They can only teach us the indispensable values and kind of deportment that is requisite for success in any frontier, and that most often goes back to diligence and sacrifice. I am sure there is no one in the world, who has done amazingly well, by his own efforts and not on the basis of wealth bequeathed to him by family and the like, who has not had to pay the price of diligence and sacrifice. There is a price to pay for anything we wish or hope to have, sometimes, it even is our souls. When we don’t live as well as we should, when we don’t give our best, we pay a price for that. We all have heard that if we think education is expensive, we try ignorance. There is a price we pay for ignorance. There is a price we pay for our indolence and our unwillingness to plod and strive. And there is a price we pay when we take other men’s strivings on ourselves.

I have always wanted to be a neurosurgeon someday. But even with the sublimity the field is known for, it’s all for nought if that will not allow me to serve my purpose to the world. The question each day has now become, “what am I here for?” If that isn’t what gets me out of bed in the morning or keeps me from bed at night, then is it really what I am here for? When I finally become a neurosurgeon, would I be of use to the world in the best way I could ever be? I wonder?

Sometimes, the path less traveled on in Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken, becomes the only worthy choice we can make. If getting rich, if becoming the greatest neurosurgeon in the world can keep me from fulfilling my purpose, is it worth it? But then, what really is my purpose? What road am I called to take?

Day by day, I am drawn to think of the first devotional teaching in New City Catechism by Collin Hansen and Timothy Keller. “What is our only hope in life and death? That we are not our own but belong, body and soul, both in life and death, to God and to our Savior Jesus Christ.”

In the end, whatever happens with my life, my prayer is that God will be glorified. I may not be as successful as I would want to be, as my family would expect me to, but whoever I will become in the years to come, may God be glorified. Whatever I will do, whatever my hands will excel at, whatever I will fail in, may God be glorified. Because I belong soul and body, in life and in death, to him, and not even to myself, not even to my family. As uncertain as this may seem, I am convinced that my destiny is secure in God. I would love to be successful, but what path exactly am I to take there? I cannot afford to be anyone else. Neither can you. So, what about you, what are you here for?

February 30th (Simps will see dust 05)

As was my habit, as soon as the microbiology practical session was done, I quickly rose to my feet and dashed for the door. Anyone keen on my movements could have quickly surmised that I was rushing somewhere else, to probably get some important business done. I certainly had a lot of work to do, loads of it, but that was never the main reason for my prompt exits after our physical classes. It had been a little embarrassing for me, when I came to the realization that my liking for group discussions in general, and conversations in specific, was hinged on the deluding idea of  self-perceived intelligence and importance. There was the insatiable need to be thought indispensable to a discussion, to be regarded as high and mighty. But who really cared about another’s importance when it was in fact the personal goal of everyone to be thought of as witty and interesting. Everyone was in some sense on that spectrum, with a few of us, at the extremes. Yet discussions become interesting when we lay our importance aside and revel in the conversation. When we enjoy each other's company rather than strive to make others enjoy ours; when we get interested in who people are instead of trying to get them interested in who we are. 

It was a little unnerving to be around some of my classmates, especially those I wanted to impress. It was much easier to talk to them online than in person. This kind of edginess was the result of an incessant striving to be thought as perfect by my colleagues. But did anyone really care if I was impeccable? Flawless? I was suffering because of my pride, always beleaguered by the thought that my foibles were glaringly apparent to those around me. It was probably a characteristic of us humans, to assume that other people were thinking of us as much as we were thinking about ourselves. It would have been liberating to realize that everyone else was also thinking about themselves. That’s how broken we all were. And because of trying to be keen about the words I would speak in such settings, they came out awkwardly and in a way that was clearly artificial and inauthentic. And why all this? Because I was afraid of being found out. Afraid that they would soon realize I wasn’t as brilliant as they thought me to be. I guess I enlisted among those who appeared bright until they spoke, then it slowly dawned on everyone that appearances could really be deceiving.

“Henry, where are you running to?” I stopped and looked over my shoulder.

“Uhm…” I grunted the usual stammer that always came before my answers.

“Have you gone through the slides?” She cut in with a question before I could explain that I was heading home to get done on an article, and text those people I couldn’t talk to in person. Only that I would definitely not say that last part.  Looking into her face, it was easy to notice that wholesome and hypnotizing serenity that found its way into her words. Ashley always seemed sprightly and exuberant, no matter the circumstances, but the kind that was beautifully and gracefully restrained by modesty. Her occasional laughter in between conversations made it really calming to engage her.

“Kelsi will send the pictures, won’t she?”

“You would rather look at pictures than practically observe the specimen?” A demure smile meant to make me feel guilty spread across her face. “Come.” she said as she turned back towards the laboratory. The word come was uttered with all the kindness in the world but with such a peremptoriness that revealed how convinced she was that obeying her would be my only option.

The other students were still walking around, looking into a microscope and the next, with several of them still clamoring for the signing sheet that was meant to be a record of our attendance. I walked behind Ashley silently and obediently like a duckling following her mother. When she finally spoke, coolly and without turning her head, it was as if she meant to confirm that she knew I was behind her.

“I guess you have been to the museum?” 

From the time I had known her while we were in High School, our conversations mostly involved her talking while I groaned my ahas and laughed for most of the time, the kind of laughter that was meant to calm my nerves that always felt frayed and rankled anytime I stood before beauty. The Brenda-kind of beauty. Ashley had a kind of view about life that added verve and delightful animation to all her talks. She was bright, and it was no wonder to find ourselves in Medical School.

“Henry?” she turned back to look at me and then I realized that I had not answered her question.

“Yes, I have been,” I said with a grin. I had not been keen to notice that we were already standing by the side benches, where the crabs, one of the intermediate hosts for Paragonimus westermani, were on display. It therefore came as a shock that made me all edgy and uneasy when, with a kind of teasing nonchalance, Ashley said, “Brenda, what’s usually up with your friend Henry.”“Hmm,” Brenda carefully placed the bottle with the crab on the bench and looked up into my face. She wasn’t smiling, but it was that kind of a look that was meant to tell me in advance that what she was about to say was supposed to be a joke. Yet it was the most beautiful and incapacitating look, and I was certain that no smile in the world could beat it. Just to regard the grace, the light, and the peace that exuded from her calm countenance was torture for any man who was apt enough to notice beauty, real beauty. “Well, he’s been avoiding me. And it seems you are much better company for him.” Ashley immediately laughed heartily at the claim.

“Nooo!” I snapped but immediately cooled down, embarrassed at how forceful the interjection had been. “I had not seen you, you know I always say hi, don’t I?” I defended myself, in a little more composed tone.

“Yes you do,” she said jestingly turning to Ashley, “That kind of hi that always kills anyone’s vibe. Wait, you had left already?” she asked, suddenly turning back to me. “What were you rushing to do today?” 

“To write something, probably.” Ashley said and then silently waited for me to deny the statement. When I did nothing else but smile, a little sheepishly I think, at the accusation, perhaps as a confession that I was guilty as charged, she went on, “we love it when we read something you have written, but does it have to always rid everyone of your presence?”

Immediately I joined campus, I realized that I had a problem interacting with new people. It felt uncomfortable and I avoided conversations with people who I had not properly known before. The new friendships I had had taken days to build, and that was because the other party had endured my usually indifferent and pensive air around new acquaintances. Many people therefore, probably, thought me disinterested in society. But the problem was that I did not know how to think as everybody else thought. I longed for deep conversations that weren’t meant to end when our practical sessions ended. I wanted someone who I could talk to about all the books I had begun to read but never finished. I needed someone to share with about my ambitions and about the books I wanted to write but never knew how to begin. I hoped to find someone who I would confess my fears to, I hoped Brenda would be that person, but I never knew how to direct the conversation or she didn’t look interested in those kinds of stories. If Brenda didn’t care, it meant little if someone else did.

“Henry!” Brenda called. “Have you listened to anything I said?”

“Of course,” I said in a start recovering from my reverie, and tried to force a smile. “Well…”

“Well, what?”

“Would you want to go out with me for coffee, sometime?” I asked with bated breath and then patiently waited for the reply that would either ruin me or … ruin me. It was as if I had set a bomb, and I was counting the seconds to its explosion. Yet what followed made me wish that a bomb would actually explode.

“What?” Ashley asked. It was then that I realized I had just asked the wrong lady out, if I had even asked anyone out. I wasn’t sure anymore.“Are you done, guys?” Kelsi asked as she excused herself to take pictures of the specimen on the bench. “Hello Brenda?” She greeted Brenda, noticing Brenda had been part of the trio. 

“Hi Kelsi.”

I looked into Brenda’s eyes. Did she know it was her I meant to ask out? Was it right to correct the mistake and let Ashley know that the question was meant for Brenda?

Simps will see dust 04_Valentine Special

Had I been keen, I might have seen how her eyes lighted up anytime she looked at me, which was many times. Instead, having resigned myself to the silent moans of desperation of a heart sick with love, I had been wallowing in the thoughts of my incapacity and unworthiness as to be able to win the heart of a lady I adored so much, with a kind of fervency that seemed to border on the extremes of insanity. Phrases I had rehearsed over and over in my room, the exact words that I intended would direct my discourse if fortune honored me with her presence, became nothing but incoherent and embarrassing grunts that left me bashful and discomfited. For several times, my obviously irritating buffoonery had proved me to be an intolerable nincompoop. That consciousness of my inferiority, in contrast to Brenda’s apparent impeccability, found its way into everyone of my conversations for which she was a part of. I would be gnawed within by a kind of strange and inexplicable wretchedness that made me miserable and uneasy in her presence.

While her beauty was endless, with everything about her being large and intense in that manner that it was impossible to disregard or overlook, it was in fact her irresistible stately mien and statuesque deportment that made everything about her both appealing and maddening. Even the mischievous boys of Mavine’s ilk who seemed to be always caught up in some vain expostulation and unnecessary altercation regarding which lady happened to be the prettiest in the whole of med school, were clearly awed by the thought of Brenda’s graciousness. She seemed to transcend every requisite of comparison that my male counterparts occasionally instituted to guide their judgments when it came to beauty. Simply put, she snapped the scales. The mere mention of her name caused a distinct hush among them, reminding them of their impertinence and galvanizing them back to reason. 

For almost a year, I had trained myself to be harsh and to loath her with such intense vehemence that went against everything I preached and believed in when it came to love. To me, it was so demeaning to have someone so good as a table mate. How was I to stand out when she was stealing all my light with her unmatchably sharp wit and incomparably lofty brains. There was always something about how she thought and reasoned that asserted her intelligence and declared her insanely robust abilities. As I walked outside the examination hall that afternoon, with Brenda beside me, I rued those days when I had chosen to be rude to a lady who never had any intentions to shame or paint me in a lesser light. The thought that I had been insensitive enough to deliberately come to the decision of being discourteous to such an angel of a person made my intestine fill with cold broth. I wanted to turn back the hands of time, and grow myself emotionally as to not feel insecure and threatened by someone else’s greatness. 

Rather unfortunately, what I was oblivious of was that even in my current remorse, I was still holding on to the same delusion that had dictated my immature and shameful behaviour in the earlier days of our acquaintance. Until then, I had been unable to see my impassionate loathing for what it really was, a coping mechanism for a crush I was battling with every ounce of energy in me. Beneath the veneer of my belligerence was the silent and helpless wail of a battle I was losing. The battle of love. I hadn’t been wise enough to understand that it wasn’t with indifference nor impoliteness that love was repressed, in fact, if anything, I was activating a domino effect that would only leave me miserable in the years to come when I would be properly and thoroughly enamored by my infatuation. What was so heartbreaking was the idea that Brenda would never love me as I loved her. Yet this was only but a theory I had crafted for myself, and lacking the cojones to face my fears and confess my love, I had strove to convince myself that my love was the most ridiculous and irrational thing.

 As I was busy whining over the pains of unrequited love, I forgot to see the passion that burned in Brenda’s eyes with such intense coruscation every time her gaze settled on me; I didn’t hear the implicit excitement that was in her voice anytime she addressed me; I quickly dispensed with her piquant and dazzling smile that had always been meant for no one else but me. I even forgot that she probably had a hundred better people to walk besides, but to her, I was a better than all those hundreds or else she would be somewhere else. Had I been keen enough, I would have realized that she had waited to see me finish my paper, so that she would steal a minute of my company as I was wont to avoid her, which was largely because of the pain I attributed to my unfortunate love.

The prospect of the following day being 14th of February, Valentine’s day, was one that excited many of the students who were gladly and briskly walking out of the examination hall. Tomorrow they would have opportunity to rid themselves of all the anxiety and trepidation that the Pathology paper had instilled in them, except if they were unfortunate when it came to love as I was. And because I was unable to lift myself from my prostration, to master the necessary machismo and speak out my love; I would never know the desperation with which Brenda expected my proposal; how she waited patiently for me to ask her out; the longing desire she had for me to take her hands in mine. I would only get to know of that after my intern posting, four years later, when it was too late and we now had to part ways. She had been posted in Mombasa, I in Kisumu. May be I had been wrong to regard Jitu’s quote as some dumb philosophical cant when he said, “a man who stays silent around a beautiful lady ends up fetching water on her wedding day.”