I was once a pencil sharpener

 I told everyone who cared to ask, or did not that I wanted to become a police woman. I was 10 years old. I went to this small public school called Shimoni—it was originally built for the Indian upper-middle class population in the years leading up to Amin. It was grand in a way, with white and dark blue walls, high ceilings, and cracked floors. It was right in the middle of the capital city, Kampala, in the heart of all of the traffic. Someone clever had decided to place a policewoman right outside on the streets that separated the school gate from the rest of the world. She wore a khaki dress, a black belt at her midriff, and a small twist rope thrown casually over her shoulder. Her job was to authoritatively stop cars and order us to march across in perfectly straight cues, all of which she managed to do with utmost grace. We respected her. We feared her. We obeyed her. Everyone did. And I wanted to be her every single evening of my life, that is, until one day when I had another realization.

The compound at school was made of dust and small stones. There were some rather large patches of grass, but as many of you have been children before, you might understand that we chose the non-grassy, rather rough and dangerous places to run and play games at break time. A fall or two from time to time was guaranteed. We chose what we chose and were nevertheless shocked when we tripped and fell or, rather, when they tripped and fell. I did not fall because I did not play. I was the quiet one—an observer.I watched from a not-so-safe distance while my classmates played and fell, often getting bruises and tearing up. It never occurred to me to steer my friends to the grass instead another thought emerged one day: I needed a first aid kit.

I told my mom what I wanted. I told her boldly that I wanted a first aid kit with a detailed list of contents: bandage and ‘plasta’. We had a lengthy discussion on what I was to use it for, and I told her it was so I could ‘plasta’ my friends when they fell. I had a plan in mind. I would stand around on the edges observing from a distance, and when they fell, I would use my ‘plasta’ on them to make them feel better so that they could play again. That said, there would be no use of methylated spirit, which I detested. I must have made quite the argument because, within a short time, I had my first aid kit. I carried it proudly in my backpack everyday along with my bread and fresh passion fruit juice just waiting for someone to fall.Patiently, then eagerly, then hoping, then desperately hoping, then praying that I could be put to use. But then when someone finally did get a bruise, I crawled into a small cave of self-doubt and kept quiet. I did not use my first aid kit. So, I carried my first aid box, my bread, and my juice, and I sat in my cave listening to that voice of fear that we all know. Then, after only a short time, I put my kit away.

Around that time, I became the pencil sharpener in class, sharpening all the pencils in the classroom. The feeling of usefulness gave me joy, but it was fairly short-lived as my thoughts often hankered back to the first aid box that was gathering dust under my bed. I yearned to use it. When we learnt in class about what a doctor does, I wanted to be him. Small beard, long white coat, pants, a shirt, and a long black necklace hanging around his neck with two silver beads at the end and a big button in the middle. I would have worn pants and a tie if it meant I could be a doctor.

I wanted to be that man with the big necklace, but when the time came, I was denied all entry to public nursing schools. I was, however, accepted to a private one, on probation. I needed to score above 60% on all courses.

In the first semester, I scored above 80% on all subjects and was over joyed when I took the Hippocratic oath 4 years later. Now, I get to use my first aid kit all the time, and I have learnt that it can contain more than just a bandage and a ‘plasta’.

I was a child who lived in a little cave of self-doubt. I always had a deep desire to abandon my cave and to plasta kids’ wounds. Indeed, over the course of my life, I have found many comforts—police hood, pencil-sharpening, observing from the sidelines, listening to voices—but there is only one love that I could not live without: my first aid box. And once I realized that I was so much more than a pencil sharpener nothing could hold me back.

Are you sharpening pencils while your true love passes you by? It is never too late to chase your dream. Identify that which you cannot live without, lay out a plan to acquire it, listen to everyone who says to you encouraging words and deafen your ears to those that say you cannot. Realise that failure is not an option. You were not made for second best. You are more than a pencil sharpener.