Twice as Tall

 

Magwunyi ayuloko no (yafó)

Alhamdulillah, he finally crossed the gate into medical college after years that felt longer than they should have been. Nights with open books and half-closed eyes. Days that asked too many questions and offered too few answers. He is not the loudest genius in the room, not the kind that recites pages from memory. He is simply a boy who refused to quit, and that, it turns out, is a form of intelligence the classroom does not always measure.

A week into resumption, ailment came like an uninvited guest. The body weakened just when the dream was supposed to rise. Discomfort taught him new lessons, pain gave him unfamiliar lectures, and the bed tried to turn into a prison. But he stood up anyway. He dressed, carried his books, and walked into class with a body that protested and a spirit that did not. He chose attendance over absence, hope over excuse. He listened even when his head threatened to split. He trecked when his legs felt heavy. He showed up consistently, not because he was strong, but because he was certain.

Some call it stubbornness. He calls it purpose.

There are days when the ailment whispers cruel things. Turn back. Rest. You have done enough. But purpose answers louder. Not yet. Not now. Not here. He knows he is fighting something, though he refuses to name it an enemy. He believes in surviving without drama. Healing without noise. Rising without announcement. He believes that whatever this is, it will not be the reason his dream fails.

When you see him standing among classmates who look larger in confidence and louder in speech, understand this; he is twice as tall, though not in inches. He is twice as tall in patience. Twice as tall in endurance. Twice as tall in the quiet courage it takes to climb a hill while pretending it is a path. He does not wear victory yet, but he wears resolve like a second skin.

Medical college does not just teach the anatomy of the human body; it exposes the anatomy of a dream. It stretches faith. It breaks pride. It humbles brilliance. And in that intense ejection of comfort, this boy is being recast, refined, and remade. Not into just a doctor, but into a man who knows what it costs to stand.

He is learning to read more than textbooks. He reads pain from posture. He reads exhaustion from eyes. He reads hope from silence. He is learning early that medicine is not only about cure, but about courage, it is about holding on when every part of you says let go.

One day, he will wear a white coat and it will look ordinary to strangers. They will see a young doctor and think it came easy. But somewhere in that cloth will live the memory of nights he studied with a weak body and a stubborn heart. Somewhere in the pocket will be the echo of days he refused to stay home. Somewhere on the collar will rest the dust of every small battle he won when nobody was clapping.

He says; This is just another lesson.

And when he finally stands where he has always dreamed of standing, he will remember this season, not with bitterness, but with gratitude. Because hardships taught him how to be humane, and suffering sharpened his sight beyond textbooks. Because he learned early that greatness is not in being the strongest, but in standing when you feel the weakest.

He walks forward now, not in perfection but in persistence. And with every step he takes, though unseen by most, he grows, twice as tall.

®Ahmed Salim Jn ✍️ RCHP|Med. Student

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