I never had really thought of doing medicine until after we’d left Germany, and dad asked me what plans I had about furthering my education, and making a career for myself. I knew that in a way, I had disappointed him seeing how in spite of me having proved to be, apparently, intellectually savant, I was not as ambitious as he would have wanted, neither had I seriously thought about the next steps of my life. Personally, I was convinced things would just work out and I did not presume to fret myself over the specifics of what my future would look like. When my dad mentioned medicine, I was drawn back a little. “Medicine?” “Yes, medicine,” he replied, and for the first time, I think I detected some peremptoriness in his voice. “Okay, a doctor? Mmh,” I thought.
Dad was the one who handled the paper work. I remember only signing a few sheets which I actually was unable to read past the first few paragraphs, and later, taking some passport photos. A few weeks later he handed me an admission letter: University of Nairobi, Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery. My abilities to thrive in almost any environment, as far as I can remember, always gave me an edge, otherwise, my first experience in the human anatomy labs during our very first anatomy dissection session would have been a great shocker. I guess I was yet to learn a few more things about this well talked about country.
Our introductory lectures had been online, on zoom. I didn’t expect that we would be over 400 participants in a single class. When we reported in Chiromo for our first dissection session, as I beheld the crowd in the anatomy lab, and as we looked over each other’s shoulders, trying to find an appropriate view of the cadaver, I felt something had to be amiss with system. I however, didn’t think much of it, and it wasn’t mine to say whether the system worked or not. The surprising thing was that, in my own bizarre kind of way, I soon realized that I had in fact fell in love with the throngs.
I loved my African table mates, they weren’t much of talkers. Most times, it felt a little awkward conversing with them because their manner usually came across as affected and unnatural. They didn’t appear to be at their ease around a white student. I did my best not to make them too uncomfortable, and soon enough, we could have a decent conversation. I enjoyed their stories, and I loved how when they spoke, they would soon run out of English words and break into Swahili. To me, it was funny, but they would look especially embarrassed, which only made it funnier. That’s in fact how I learnt some bit of Swahili. Habari. Fiti sana. Sasa. Niaje. Anytime I said the words, they would chuckle heartily. I am sure I never said any of them right.
It was with one of my table mates that I fell in love. I had had a boyfriend in Germany, but I never felt anything for him. How we ended up together is something I am yet to make sense of. We had kissed twice, and I never felt anything spectacular about it as I had been made to expect. When my dad and I traveled to Kenya, I didn’t feel any bit beholden to let him know of the development. I thought it a fine and sublime way to finally end a relationship that clearly was never meant to lead anywhere. I didn’t text him back, and when he begun pestering, I just blocked him and deleted his contact.
Daniel Njuguna wasn’t, at first, a guy to take note of. He had in the beginning seemed a little shy, and in comparison to our other colleagues, and his fellow Kenyans, a little more reticent and particularly forlorn. When he spoke, he said very little, but his way with words and felicity with phrases left us expecting to hear more from him. He always seemed to be saying less than we wanted him too. He, also, clearly, was always very prepared for the dissection sessions. One time, we were left to watch silently in awe as he elaborately answered every question our table mentor, Dr. Kasule asked. He ended up explaining so astutely, and demonstrating so adroitly, with an ease and dexterity in movement, everything there was to know about the brachial plexus. I understood it so clearly then than I had when we had had our online lecture the day before.
“Excellent!” Dr. Kasule had remarked. I was blown off my feet. I don’t really remember ever having been impressed by a guy’s intellectual abilities as I had been in that moment. While we were signing out, I unobtrusively avoided my white friends and run after Daniel immediately he had his QR code scanned. “Daniel. Hi.” He turned, with a look of surprise on his face. “Sandra, your table mate.” He smiled blushingly, almost forgetting he was supposed to reply. “Hi, Sandra.” he stuttered, finally. I smiled.
“Do you have a discussion mate?” I managed to say after an awkward moment of silence, I was unsure whether I was supposed to do the speaking, and he was clearly unwilling to take the lead. “Oh. I am in a discussion group already.” “Oh. You are?” “Yes I am.” “Can I join you.” That came out almost unconsciously and I regretted asking, but after a minute I was glad I did. “You won’t mind, right?” I went on. “No I won’t.” I felt ecstatic at the reply. “When do you meet?” “Every week except Wednesday at half past eight.” “Okay.” “Oh in the evening. Online.” He added smiling. “Online?” “Yes. For now.” “I think that’s alright. Can I take your number?” “Let me take yours,” he said. I felt relieved.. He unlocked his phone and handed it over to me to dial in my number.
Later that evening, at a quarter past eight, he sent me a google meet link. I wasn’t sure what the discussion would be about, but I didn’t want to come across as overbearing by asking too much questions. I joined in at 8:28 pm. A minute later, a lady, Anita, and a gent, Brian, logged in. The names weren’t familiar. I don’t think we were in the same anatomy shift. Even though we never turned on our videos, we had a surprisingly warm introduction, and immediately got into business. The discussion was a little heavy for someone like myself who really hadn’t prepared for it. I came from it thinking of how much I really was supposed to study.
Daniel must have been the leader of the discussion group. He spoke with much more ease and appeared, most times, to have the reigns of the discussion. Afterwards, I texted him to thank him for allowing me to be part of the team. “Which books would you recommend.” “You know what’s funny?” he began, “I actually love Grays. I think it’s pretty standard.” And then followed it up with: “Lasts and Vishram? Maybe I just have an attitude problem towards those two.” And then: “We are honored to have you btw.” My soul leapt as I read the texts. Almost immediately, I received a WhatsApp notification that I had been added to a group. The group name was a single male emoji in a stethoscope. It felt a little eccentric but adequate. “Welcome Sandra!” Daniel texted. “Welcome Sandra!” A quick text followed. “Anita here.” “Thank you so much,” I replied.
Our friendship with Daniel soon blossomed into something worth more than just an acquaintance. He was an interesting person and it was difficult not to enjoy his company. He would let you talk, only taking a turn in those moments when you were out of words and wanted to catch your breath. I felt so at ease around him. I longed for our anatomy dissection sessions and was always looking forward to seeing him. “Sandra! Sandra! Are you in?” “Yes. Yes. I am.” I had got a little absent-minded once while I listened to him during our discussion. “Uhm! I think I have very little to add.” “Add to what?” Daniel asked in the middle of a chuckle. “I only asked if you had already submitted your biochemistry write-up.” “Oh. That. Not yet. I plan to do so tomorrow. Sorry.” I was in love, and Daniel knew it.
I couldn’t stop trying to make out what he thought of me while he looked into my eyes during our dissection sessions. I don’t think it took him long to know the power he wielded over me. Occasionally, he would smile mischievously at me, and my heart would melt. I still hadn’t told my dad or any of my friends that I was in love with a black dude I knew nothing about. Daniel never talked or said anything about himself, while I, on the other hand, had said all there was to say about my engineer dad and about my mom, and how she had committed suicide while I was still in middle school. “Sorry Sandra,” he had whispered softly, a serene and sympathizing look on his face. Tears came to my eyes and soon were flowing unhindered down my cheeks. “Sorry,” he whispered again, taking me into an embrace. Our first embrace. It was then that I realized he was a little shorter than I. I didn’t want to ever have to let go. I felt so at home. So at peace. “Do you want me to accompany you home.” he asked. “I would really appreciate it.”
“Sandra.”
“Sandra?” I rose my head and strained to see who it was who was speaking to me. “I am afraid we don’t have very good news. Daniel is dead. He stabbed himself to death yesterday night. We are yet to get a full report from Jacob, his roommate.
“Oh.” I mumbled. I was yet to make sense of the news.
“His girlfriend Anita is here. She’s asking to see you.”
“Anita? His girlfriend? Who? Jacob?” I didn’t have the strength to string together a complete sentence.
“Daniel’s girlfriend.”
“Wait, what?” I tried raising my head higher but that drained my little strength and I fell back helplessly. “Where’s Daniel? What happened to Daniel?” I gasped. “Anita’s his girlfriend?”
“Take it easy ma’am.” Had he said Daniel was dead? Tears came to my eyes, I wanted to give out a holler but for want of energy I could only manage a silent gasp. I felt a stabbing pain at the bottom of my abdomen. I felt like I was about to drift back to unconsciousness. I closed my eyes to welcome the oblivion. “This abortion should just have killed me,” I lamented silently. “We shouldn’t have left Germany? Mom, why did you leave me?” I must have finally become unconscious because when I woke up, I saw Daniel looking over the bed into my face, rocking me gently to wake up. I could see his calmly countenance, his enamoring smile. “Daniel?” I whispered.
“No ma’am, it’s Caleb.”
“Caleb?”
“Yes, Caleb, your lawyer.”
My heart sunk.
This piece, first published in the second issue of Utamaduni Magazine, during the AMSUN Art Cultural Week, is an attempted follow-up of this earlier piece:
You can appreciate my work by buying me coffee, if you can.
Daniel
As I sutured up the heart, I must have pricked a tiny blood vessel, as I saw blood begin to slowly trickle a few inches from the suture line. I wasn’t the person to slide into oblivion while I was in the OR, and during one of my past surgeries, I had, once, furiously retorted at a nurse who, clearly, was absent-minded. I later apologized for being so ra…