The Start of a Journey

 Even though his life was devoted to medicine, it was consumed by literature, medicine was his lawful wife, but literature was his mistress...

Getting into 2024 with my blog finally on its feet has been among the most delightful thoughts for me. Jumping that precipice certainly took a lot of courage and pushing. Among the many things that have encouraged me along this path, is the desire to be a voice worth listening to. As I continue to learn my craft, I hope to be able to write in a manner that’s real and authentic. Sincerely speaking, I have been a little surprised to have amassed an audience even when many of my stories and articles are a little bit amateurish and unpolished. I was afraid that I would write and be the only one to do the reading, but right now, especially when my mentors and friends have urged me along, my passion has in some way been rekindled. For these three months or so that have gone by, I have had to question whether I was in some sense qualified to speak on and address any of the matters I thought myself to have an opinion on. But I am realizing that the most important and right thing to do is to be real and sincere in every one of my discourses, only giving an honest review of whatever topic I handle. Quite remarkably, and a little counter-intuitively, I have had to also learn from my earlier articles, a proof that personally, I am also not out of the wilderness I often vividly describe.

Having a platform that gives a number of people beyond your ordinary circle of friends and classmates an opportunity to peak into your life is a little intimidating. It is as if I have subscribed to a level of performance which I fear I may not measure up to. After my essays and articles draw feelings of awe and delight from readers, it sure will be a great disappointment when they finally get to see how dorky and uninteresting I am in person. But that isn’t a big deal, because personally, I believe I am a great guy. Wait! Did I just lie? I hope I didn’t.

Having a platform that gives a number of people beyond your ordinary circle of friends and classmates an opportunity to peak into your life is a little intimidating…

Most of the feedback so far has been positive, aside from a little expression of discontent about the high-planed jargon that becomes distracting once in a while and sometimes makes my arguments esoteric and indecipherable. I hope to definitely work on that.  Notwithstanding, the appreciation and ‘wows’ has been a source of great encouragement especially considering the doubt that almost made me want to keel over when I set out for this particular journey. As I forecast on how this particular commitment to write will pan out as the months of this year unfold, I am mostly unsure if I would have made the impact I hope to make with writing, especially with all the dedication to academic work that my third year of medical school seems to be soliciting. Anton Chekhov, that great Russian writer alongside Leo Tolstoy, is a great inspiration to me in this regard. Even though his life was devoted to medicine, it was consumed by literature as one man put it. Once, he said that medicine was his lawful wife, but literature was his mistress. It’s clear that my desire and quest to be excellent in both frontiers will be a tough and challenging one, but I am hoping to learn great lessons of stamina and persistence.

It’s already clear to me that I can go far in neither pursuits except all of you have my back, and I humbly request for help. As you read, please do not withhold any form of feedback even if it seems as though I may not like it. Every critical review will go a long way to improve every argument and keep me on track. I am not expecting this journey to be static and without any surprises, I know I may have to step into uncomfortable places that will challenge me to learn and grow. If I happened to be the one following through these articles, I would have most certainly expected nothing short of excellence in the man behind the pen. But even while I regard excellence as one of my core values, my experience so far might have been everything but that. That has made me question a lot and inspired some sought of imposter syndrome that might have precipitated the mental breakdowns I have had at some points in my life. I have mostly expected myself to perform exceptionally well in the areas I committed myself to, but as that has not always been the case, it is now a question of whether I would manage to keep a reasonable reading audience, especially now considering how people would rather do anything else than read inane and unpromising articles.

This uncertainty has been  a little disturbing, but in these few days I have gotten to speak to some of my closest friends who have been keen to urge me to keep at my work. In some regard, they have been the voice of God that has reminded me that it is the Lord working in me for his pleasure. I am getting to see that what I have to do is to obediently answer to His will, and strive to be a blessing to every person my writing will get to. I am therefore confident that this endeavor will turn out amazingly well, not to mean that it will be without its ups and downs. Even if it does not, I will be glad I took the journey, and I will be happy to step back and probably re-prioritize. Whatever failure I will stumble into, it would certainly only be part of the many lessons I will get to learn, and it would be therefore careless and ungrateful to whine or fret over them. 

As you read, please do not withhold any form of feedback even if it seems as though I may not like it.

Thank you so much for being one of my readers, please stay with me in this journey, and let us grow and help one another, for as iron sharpens iron, so a man sharpens the countenance of another. Once again,  I confess that I really need everyone's feedback despite how inconsequential you might think it to be. I would really be grateful if you could personally reach out to me as regarding anything about this blog, or even anything aside it, we never know what will come out of such conversations. Furthermore, I am a firm believer that if someone has something to say, the most prudent and courteous thing to do is listen. I learn so little as I talk, or even as I write, but I know I will learn so much as I ponder on everyone of your suggestions and input. So, let’s talk! If you have a story you would love to share, or if you would love to do an article as a co-writer once in a while, please reach out to me. Thank you for all your kind and encouraging words so far, I hope we always have fun together. Let’s make every story come alive, because this is Litnerd Letters.

I am writing a piece that I hope will be my first short story soon. It is a story about the experiences of a medical student at the University of Nairobi, Henry, who has to face the challenge and demands of med school with great commitment and courage, while at the same time bear the disappointment of his unrequited love for a lady he has grown to adore so much to the extent of helplessly associating every single one of his misfortunes with her. It is a story of growth and transformation, as  Henry expresses how medical school has reshaped his perspective on intelligence and hard work, and how loving someone who doesn’t love him back teaches him the true meaning of love. The title of the series is a little facetious and may draw people away from the story, but as Henry shares his story, it takes a keen eye to see how his pain and failure prepare him for the next season of his life. The story is inspired from my real-life experiences, and from Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s literary classic Love in the time of Cholera, where Florentino Ariza waits for more than fifty years when Fermina Daza will finally let him into her life again. Make sure to subscribe to the blog so that you never miss an episode, nor miss the excitement and suspense that every episode builds. 

Read every episode in order from the links below.

Episode 1

Episode 2

Episode 3

Join the Journey

Simps will See Dust 03

With fervid determination, I was still scribbling what was to be the last sentence of a test that had from the very first leaf drawn silent tears of desperation from me, when a tap on my shoulder startled and rose me to my feet in an instant. I proceeded to hand over my paper as I let out a sigh of deep resignation, not deigning to look into the face of its recipient. My heart was still clutched by an unrelenting spasm of agony that I was careful not to intimate by the wild supplication of clemency that was probably painted upon my countenance in that moment of embarrassing disillusionment; and that would obviously be spurned and rebuffed with a contemptible and derogatory indifference. As it was, I had strangely managed to maintain a streak of misfortunes and I was determined not to allow a disparaging verbal thrashing from a cantankerous lecturer add to the concatenation of humiliation and suffering that seemed to be sedulously pursuing me since morning.

And so it was that as I silently bemoaned my unenviable circumstances, I was unconsciously drawn into reverie. I regretted to think that if I was in some sense brilliant, then it might have been the most insignificant addition to the work and dedication med school demanded of me. It had been a little careless to forsake the indefatigable plodding that had been the most defining aspect of my academic excellence since primary school, and to allow myself to fall victim to the paralyzing and delusional idea of self-proclaimed intelligence. My high school success had been the sum moments of intense and beleaguering work that did not afford the space and time to yap to others. There weren't any promises to be made, there was only work to be done. But having allowed myself to drink so long from an inebriating siphon of praise and veneration, I had forgotten the diligence that had earned me a place among the smartest students in the country, and I was never ready for the precipitous fall from grace that would follow. I had taught myself to disdain any form of average performance, however, the struggle to keep afloat at this point now seemed to be most exacting, even traumatizing.

I had nursed that thought of perceived intelligence with unrelenting vehemence and was convinced of my abilities so that the unexpected awakening to reason and realization of the reality that I wasn’t as good as I thought made a personal reassessment of myself necessary and impossible to disregard. I could see everything that I thought to be but was not find perfect expression in a lady who even with the unmistakable grace of mien and soothing serenity in her air did not think herself uppity. With wonder and awe I watched my initial vilification thaw into great veneration and an inexplicably ardent feeling of adoration. It was as though scales had dropped from my eyes and I could now clearly see her endless beauty that always seemed to be chastened by a restrain of maturity; beauty that was not in her dresses, nor her earrings, nor her necklaces, nor her make up; but in her radiance, her movement, and her passion. There was nothing artificial in her eyes, instead they were windows of a heart so large and a grace so passionate, their depth seemed to exude a commitment to excellence that manifested itself in an impressive deportment that made it impossible for her colleagues not to instantly like her. At least I now knew, even accepted, that I wasn’t strong enough not to as well.

Yet I couldn’t help but wonder what it was exactly that my love meant. Was it even love, or was it the sparks and crackles of a fire that would soon go out? I had loved no one else, yet when I finally did love, it seemed to be shamefully and embarrassingly unrequited by a lady who would never compromise her principles to meet the whims of an unimpressive course-mate who was pining after her like a luckless idiot . Clearly, Brenda would never resign herself to regard any statements of fealty from a man who was yet to find his way in the world as sincere and dependable. And since nothing I would ever say would make a difference, it would be much better if I kept whatever I felt to myself.

“Henry,”

I knew that voice; the tone with all its refined propriety was definitely familiar, it could only be one person. I raised my head to confirm what I feared, and there she was, the organ of my veneration, with a dazzling piquant smile on her face. I wanted to say something, but I could not find my voice. I think I wore some kind of ridiculous look as she would not stop smiling as she looked at me. I had thought of how pleasurable it would be to have her attention all to myself, but I have never been as miserable and discomfited as I was in those few moments that I stood, silent and solemn, before the incapacitating gaze of the prettiest person in the world, my world.

“The lecturer needs your paper.”

“Oh!” I gasped.

Simps will See Dust 02

I squirmed uneasily in my seat as I struggled to bring my breathing to a calm rhythm. The incessant perspiration made my skin clammy and my apparel― the blue AMSUN t-shirt that every time I wore I would bump into the same people, which almost made me want to explain that it wasn’t the only clothe I had, even though that wasn’t entirely false― uncomfortable. With such poor ventilation the Examination Hall wasn’t so forgiving and I wondered why my colleagues who sat by the windows had not deigned to open them. But who had the liberty to worry about windows when the fear of unpreparedness and the likelihood of failure threatened to draw a holler of desperation from you. The promise to study at home was one easily reneged on except if you were Njoroge Maina, who from the look of his calmness and composure seemed prepared and ready for this exact moment of his life, I envied him. I looked up like a luckless idiot and irredeemable fool to the invigilator who was just handing me the list to sign my name, and as I was yet to recover from the traumatizing reality of almost missing my paper, I was unable to find the words to explain why I neither had my student examination ID nor my school ID.

“Write.” She instructed a little pensively but still firmly and in a peevish tone so unlike her beautiful and kind countenance that seemed to go ahead of her nasty and foul attitude excellently deluding single, desperate and miserable male comrades who for their apparent knack at mistaking kindness and courtesy from lady colleagues to be love, had been very disappointed and heartbroken in that particular frontier. I wondered why doctors had to be so irascible, or probably a beautiful face didn’t necessarily mean a beautiful heart. The moment she laid the paper before me, a drop of sweat broke from my chin and soiled it. Once again, I abashedly looked to her face, prepared to meet the most irritated and basilisk glare, but when she saw the expression of bewilderment and suffering that was painted all over me, she smiled; a piquant and reassuring smile that made me retract my irrational censure a few seconds ago. She handed me her pen when she realized that even my stationery seemed to have ganged up on me at that humiliating moment. With her stay extended at my desk, I could feel the piercing and questioning glances of my colleagues towards me. It was impossible to know what they were making of it.

When she finally walked away, I heaved a sigh and shut my eyes as I rehashed the events of the dream that had so risen my hopes only to dash them down again. I felt broken and cheated to be denied something that I had desperately yearned for eons now. I had thought myself an alexithymic and the most apathetic and socially awkward yet contented person who had no need for love, believing Medical School to be engaging and demanding enough, and to have myself pining and simping after someone was not something that seemed prudent to me to do. However, I knew it in myself that this was a disposition inspired by timidity rather than priggishness, and afraid even of the opportunity to fail, I wittily avoided such miasmic musings regarding romance. That was until I met Brenda. No. Until it became impossible not to love her because I know I hated her first. But did I, really? Her graciousness had infected and soaked every atom of my life. She had broken into the parts of me I had been embarrassed to face and admit; that everyone needed love in one way or the other. Even those people that had been hurt and disappointed, those who had been betrayed and repugned, who were used and abused, they needed love to heal and be whole again.

“When I feel like not studying, or this or that, I stop thinking about it and sit down and study.” I overheard her explain to Kelsi one day as we were coming in for our Histology Practical. Since that time when it had turned out to be insufferably difficult to rid myself of the thought of her, I had always hovered around her like a hungry vulture around the carcass of a buffalo, only that I never came down to have a taste of the meat. So, even though I never told my love vocally, if looks had language, even the merest idiot would have surmised that I was head over heels; and I have occasionally been tempted to think that behind her bedazzling and incapacitating smiles, she understood me― but I would always shrink icily into myself, like a snail, and tear away my glance from her eyes that seemed endless and intense in their depth in a manner that was so hypnotizing. Even though it hadn’t been real, the thought that she had accepted my proposal made me want to see her desperately.

“You have half an hour to go!” boomed a stentorian voice from the other end of the hall.

What! I gasped as I looked at the Pathology essay paper I had barely begun, and it slowly dawned on me that my infatuation would be my nemesis; aside a broken heart, I would be carrying a failed grade back home.