I was asked to describe my writing style and process. I hesitated. The teacher looked at me, impatience steaming up her face. I looked down at my hands in my lap, my right index finger and my right thumb rubbing the base of my left thumb in a nervous motion. The entire class had turned to look at me. My voice was stuck in my throat, my eyes directed downward. Someone quite close to me chose that moment to clear his throat; I say his because the sound boomed from his throat and seemed to insert itself right in my ear. I jumped. This made me look up involuntarily and I caught my teacher’s eye. She stared at me and then, with her hand, indicated that I stand up.

My scrubs were wrinkled, dirty and spotted with what I called my work fluids. I would walk straight to class from the hospital where I worked, a distance of 5 km. I told myself I was Kenyan, I could hack it. Trouble was when shift change happened and the morning team came in, I had to literally jog the entire distance to make it to her class on time. At the end of our first session when everyone had introduced myself and I had reluctantly introduced my accent to my classmates who seemed prepubescent when compared to my ancient bones, I had approached the teacher and noted that I might be late to class some mornings since my night shift ended at 0730 but we didn’t give report and clear out until at least 0750. Class started at 0800. That was her response.

“Class starts at 0800”

“I know that, madam…”

She had raised her eyebrow and I swiftly realized calling her madam was not well received.

“This is the only class this term that I can take…to make it to graduation…I can’t wait for the next one next year” I said.

Silence.

I was sure she was looking at my scrubs and at my dusty old sneakers. I am sure she saw a girl with an accent and a few gray hairs peeping out along my hairline. Whatever she saw, she kept to herself.

“Class starts at 0800”

And that story died there.

It had been a month since we started. Twice a week, I would clock out and book it down the street, trying to get into my seat before she walked in. After that first conversation with her, I pulled into myself. Exhaustion and fatigue grabbed each other within me and pulled me deeper into my seat. Sometimes I would pull out my contact lenses to give my eyes a rest and struggle to keep my ears open because I needed to listen, to write my notes and then to pass.

That day she called on me.

Describe your writing style and process.

I stood up slowly. I cleared my throat slightly and sent what I could of my accent to the back of my brain.

“My process is to just start writing…”

A few snickers here and there.

She put her reading glasses back on and walked over to the pile of papers on her desk. My heart sank. Did I miss an assignment? My tired brain tried to recall; the last paper I turned in had been a free-write she had set out a week ago, two classes back, with no firm guidance apart from a single instruction. Write about Life.

She looked back at me and asked me,”What about your writing style? Can you describe that to the class?”

“I…just…write…” I almost added Madam but remembered her face from that first day and bit my tongue just before the word slipped out.

Words danced in my brain, in my head, along my tongue but they failed to come alive when I needed them. She stared at me for a beat then walked over to her desk to the stack of papers.

Had I written too much? Too little? Was it too dark? Not dark enough? What had I written about?

She pulled out a paper, adjusted her glasses.

My knees began to buckle.

She began to read.

“My life was supposed to be over before it began. I was born as part of a cursed set of twins – my brother was to be kept and I, I was to be discarded…”