I grew up without the slightest clue of what I wanted to be when I became of age. Whenever adults asked about our future professions, my peers would confidently shout some mouthful of titles. When my turn came, I would stumble and mumble incoherent words.😂 I plainly didn't know. All I wanted was a decent 8am - 4pm job, and travel to a multiple-storey building in Kisumu town during end months to withdraw crisp dry notes, just like my mum did.🙈
However, as time passed and I entered high school, I discovered Biology, or "Bio" as we fondly called it. It swiftly became one of my top three favorite subjects, alongside Business Studies and History. It was during this time that I gradually began to entertain thoughts of becoming a doctor someday😅.These thoughts became more pronounced as I entered form three, approaching my KCSE exams. Strangely, I developed a severe heart condition that perplexed many medical practitioners. Yala, the area where my highschool was located, had a relatively cold climate. But I started experiencing abnormal chills during evening and morning study sessions. I had to modify my school attire, to make accommodation for gloves and a marvin for the cold. It became my new normal. This put me at loggerheads with Mr. Arthur Oduor, the dreaded boarding master.
The gloves and marvin, which were considered foreign attire, was against the school rules. Deputy Principal Academics, Dr. Nicholas Onyango had to intervene to resolve the situation. From then on, I was required to at all times have with me a non-school wear permission sheet, stamped by the teacher on duty and authorized by the boarding master, allowing me to wear the non-school attire.
Apart from the cold, I frequently experienced shortness of breath.😤 Even a brief run from the computer lab to back to my classroom left me panting and gasping for air, much like Ferdinand Omanyala after dashing across a 100-meter track. A short walk to the staffroom under the afternoon sun would trigger an intense migraine. My knees would feel weak as jelly and the world around me would seem to tilt. My head would throb and vibrate, like the tuning fork Mr. Boniface taught us in Physics. I would blink away the darkness clouding my vision, as excruciating pain surged through my nerves.😔
The situation spiraled out of control, compelling me to seek assistance from the school nurse—a slender lady with brown skin, likely in her late twenties or early thirties. As expected, she mistook me for one of those mischievous boys who sought refuge in the sanatorium to escape from complex math and science lessons. Without conducting any tests, she promptly prescribed copious amounts of Paracetamol and ACTm, the bitter malaria medication. She instructed me to take the drugs for three days and return if the symptoms persisted. Deep down, I yearned to confront the nurse and unequivocally express that I did not have malaria, and that I desired a genuine solution for my illness, not just painkillers.
Nevertheless, I dismissed those thoughts🤫, assuming the nurse, as a qualified professional, knew what she was doing. I found the nearest water source, swallowed the medication with gulps of water, and let out a resounding belch. I waddled away, outwardly looking like a normal person. I probably had a knack for concealing my true feelings.
My visits to the sanatorium became more frequent. And urgent. At times, I had to excuse myself from class mid lessons to receive treatment. Naturally, people started talking. The know-it-alls claimed that I was purposefully skipping classes under the pretense of being sick. I remained silent🤐, lacking the energy to engage in such futile arguments.
Days turned into weeks and pills eventually gave way to injections. Concerned by my persistent visits, the nurse sensed that something was amiss. She wrote me a referral letter to a private hospital outside the school. Whenever I visited the sanatorium, she would promptly arrange for the hospital van 🚑to pick me up.
The routine continued, but the hospital brought forth new revelations. The tall, dark lab technician explained why my palms were near white, mentioning that my blood levels were dangerously low. They immediately prescribed Ranferon, a blood-boosting syrup which tasted like molasses😂, alongside some long antibiotic tablets. A week or so passed without a notable improvement. The nurse brought the matter to the attention of the deputy principal. My mother was called and urged to retrieve me from school as soon as possible for specialized traetment...
Lookout for Part 2