When I got into medical school, my parents, teachers, friends, and seniors told me I had to devote all my time to studying. “Marry your books,” they said, which translates to “Do not have a life outside of medicine if you want to excel.” Except I have never been the type of student who’s content to have only one thing going.
I had two choices: basketball or politics. Choosing basketball was a no-brainer because basketball has always had my heart since secondary school. Juggling medical school—its endless workload —and the strict basketball schedule had me on my toes all week and even on weekends. I couldn’t tell my mum she sent me to read medicine, but I was here playing basketball instead. Every time I had a fall, a cut, or any of the many injuries I picked up in the court, I tended to myself rather than call home. I signed up for this. Injuries will not deter me.
I already had enough on my plate, but how does one even survive medical school without a side hustle? I was at an age when I had more needs than my allowance could pay for, so I started writing. Writing was even more demanding than basketball. Now I had to secure a gig and be my own muse. Now I had to get in the zone, start my research, and actually sit down to write. Unlike basketball, writing came with deadlines.
“Marry your books” was the home training I received, but here I am in a demanding polyamorous relationship with three different commitments. The love quadrangle did not come with a bride price or a vow, but it had me on a lockdown with a ring I can’t see. I was taken.
Did the medicine my mother sent me to school to study suffer for my infidelity? Of course, it did, like the poor child of unfaithful parents. Once a little high-flying, top of the class, and celebrated local champion, I was suddenly teetering on the precipice, just marginally clearing the pass mark. From chasing 70s and 80s in exams, I started to celebrate my 60s and occasional 50s. I was no longer a distinction student, but was I happy? Yes. Yes, I was.
As I scaled year after year through medical school, nothing got easier. No level was worse than 400 level. That was the first time I realised that I may have bitten more than I could chew; the first time I took a step back from basketball and buried myself in my books. The months I spent studying 400-level pathology and pharmacology courses were an odyssey of survival, resilience, and personal discovery. I arrived in my own Ithaca–500 level–victorious, without the scars of resit to tender. I’m glad I prioritised the degree I’m chasing.
The Nigerian medical school is not designed for comfort. It’s not designed for extracurriculars. It is a marathon race to which you have to commit intentionally day after day and year after year, and I’m still surprised I made it work.
My medical school did not start and won’t end with me reading. I played basketball and wrote wonders. I registered for several competitions, won more gold medals than I can count, and participated in several health outreaches. It has been colourful and memorable.
Would I have made the same choices if I knew how much I would struggle academically? Yes. Yes, I would.
As narrated by: Ajoge Sekinah (Ilorin, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of the series, Surviving Medical School.
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