I had just arrived at my hostel some minutes after 6 p.m., which was about 300m from the classroom, grudging over the number of lectures I had on the first day of clinicals. The previous years were termed pre-clinicals, and though hectic, they were popularly referred to as the “lesser of the evils” when in comparison with the clinical part of school. I hated the fact that I was stressed, and my face did not hesitate to reflect my frustration.
There were four bunks in the moderate sized room and eight occupants, all of us classmates. We walked into the room one after the other like a fleet of refugees, exhausted and hungry.
“This clinical level is different from what I dreamed it to be!” Dave lamented. I always admired him for being serious with his academics while I struggled to remain positive.
“At least we are now in clinical class; the hurdle of preclinicals has been overcome.” I replied, laying my back in an oblique manner on the soft student mattress placed on the bunk in the outer room.
“These lecturers wanted to kill us today; it was a day of lectures from bumper to bumper.” Benjamin, another roommate of mine, added.
“Imagine one of the lecturers saying it was not too late to turn back from studying medicine, and he did not fill out the UTME (Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination) form for us.” Dave hissed. We all burst into laughter, partly because of the drama Dave added as he mimicked what one of our lecturers had said earlier during the day.
“What I want right now is food.” I said, bringing a reminder to us all that we needed food at such a moment. Thankfully, Kennedy walked into the room, frowning and not greeting anyone in the room. Even though we all knew he was equally tired, he was the chef in the room, and cooking was something he did not find difficult.
“Kennedy, calm down; we were all hit together; it seems you took yours in a worse manner.” Benjamin said, causing an uproar of weak laughter, with Kennedy joining in.
I was glad to see Kennedy light the gas and put the pot of water on it. Food was what I craved right at that moment to facilitate the sleep that lurked in the walls of my eyes.
“Guys, the class captain just wrote on the class page that Professor Ibrahim is in class!” Benjamin said as he stared into his phone.
“What?” we all chorused. My head immediately became heavy, as I wished it were one of Benjamin’s jokes. I picked up my phone to confirm what Benjamin had just said, and shock, pain, and anger flooded my emotions immediately.
Kennedy turned off the gas he had already switched on to cook, and we all scurried into the clothes we had previously put off. The tales of Professor Ibrahim were such as to scare demons out of any hardened criminal. It was almost dusk already; shadows had begun to recede, allowing darkness to overwhelm the night. “Who comes to class for lectures at 7 p.m.?" I thought to myself. I hated the fact that my time of rest was infringed upon by the nocturnal professor.
We met a few of our colleagues hurrying to the same class that we faint-heartedly trotted to. We were surprised to find the class almost full, wondering how other colleagues got the news so fast. I got a seat at the back along with my other roommates. The class was quiet, like a graveyard; we had heard the professor was strict and uncompromising.
“By the end of this academic year, not all of you will be promoted, and not just that, some of you here will be withdrawn from the study of medicine. It is not a curse; it is how it has always been and would be.” Professor Ibrahim stated this during the course of the lecture without remorse. A wave of fear coursed through my being as my heart began to pound profusely as though it would bulge from the chest cavity. That very statement hit me like a shock wave bearing news of terror, dampening my already exhausted spirit, and I felt his words were directed at me. The dead silence that dominated the class made me realize I was not alone in my thoughts of fear, knowing and fearing that what the professor said was true.
My sleep that very night after the lecture, which ended some minutes after 9 p.m., was unpleasant as the professor’s words kept resounding in my mind and even showed up in my dreams as a torment. I felt a bit relieved the following morning after a fairly good night's rest and resolved to be among the few that would graduate, irrespective of the professor’s statement. I began to show more zeal in my academics with admirable promptness to lectures, which amazed myself and my colleagues. Unfortunately, my zeal was short-lived as responsibilities and distractions crept up within the course of the 14-month academic calendar. Yet, whenever I pondered what the professor said, I was determined to work harder. Eventually, I made it through that academic year with a repeat of that class. It was painful, but I embraced my bad luck and resolved in my spirit not to give up or be among those to be flushed out of medical school as a result of poor performance. I had to buckle up, limit my distractions, and face my fears squarely, which were daring and turbulent and many times discouraging but eventually paid off.
After the repeat session of that stage, subsequent years in medical school were yet challenging, but with a difference and determination to reach the finish line. I ended up graduating a year after my class and roommates, but rather than not finishing at all, I was thankful to have finished late.