The Unforgettable Success Card
I was unprepared to receive it
One week away from the national exams, success cards started streaming like love letters in the middle of the term.
You never think you will finish high school until you get that comment from your friend:
This time around I won’t have another chance. When I ask for your help, don’t hesitate.
The make-or-break ambiance was palpable in the air. It was physical. Tangible. Whatever can be grabbed will be grabbed if it guarantees a better grade. It beats logic to stay aloof when everyone prefers listening to the latest scoop of what might come in the exams.
A balance was necessary. In moments like this, we would break free from the paranoia and enjoy the success cards. Some would have a note or two to lather their pockets. Money. Motivation. Why some employers forget this is simply beyond understanding.
I remember the success cards I got. Complete recollection might fail me because one of the success cards stands out from the rest. My final year in high school, however, contrasts with my experience in primary school.
Before KCPE
A day before the Kenya Certificate of Primary Education (KCPE), I was rushed to Mariakani Hospital, South B.
I was later diagnosed with malaria and typhoid. My treatment started there and then with a loaded needle up my left butt cheek. My elder brother and two sisters were the first to arrive. My mother came later. The twins were back home.
A week before that, my classmates started getting success cards. Terry Indeche’s family bought success cards for everyone in class. Someone else also had their family send all of us cards, but I can’t recall who it was. Those are probably the only cards I got. I don’t think I took them home. I, however, appreciated it. I didn’t feel left out.
Exams came and we passed, despite feeling like half the student. My left temple throbbed in pulses. I had to rely on my peripheral vision to do my exams.
Was I forgotten? Were my organs rebelling for not getting a card?
I doubt.
Support was evident when I was at the hospital. My cards came with legs, laughter, and words of encouragement when we went back home that evening.
High school was different. I got an actual card. A card I would never forget.
Like a freshly cut diamond
Pick up the pen
The handwriting showed the penmanship typical among women. Neat. Evenly-spaced. She picked up a pen and wrote without crossing any word.
Her letters matched her height. Lean without underlines to guide her sentences. It was the last card I got.
This time around, unlike my primary school experience, I got letters from everyone in my extended family. My cousins who used to stay in Migori sent theirs. The cover had a mature African elephant. Like the elephant, my time matured. I needed the memory of the African mammal for my exams.
I got a card from my nieces. My nephew was two years old. He was represented by his elder sisters. Some had money in them. Not so much though. I already had enough money to spoil myself at the time.
When I was done, I picked the final one. It was the largest of the bunch. After opening all the others, I wondered who could have sent this one.
How did she know the address of my school?
I wondered.
It must have been the open culture her school is known for. They used to leave school provided they came back by the stated time. She must have gotten my school address after a single web search. P. O. BOX 11, Sare, 40405.
Nobody in my family could write as she did. I could. I too had neat handwriting. But I wouldn’t send myself a letter.
After tearing open the envelope, I read every pounding line. That’s how every sentence hit me. I struggled to control my eyes. The words became blurry for a minute. I had to blink severally to brim back my tears.
I read it again.
The letter came from Murima. The sender went to Alliance. Proudly. Need I remind you she wrote as she was tall? My other friends tell me they used to call her pedestal, the desert feature conspicuous from the waves of sand dunes and barren land. Just as much, her card stood above the rest, a pedestal of a card.
I never got a chance to reciprocate
Diamonds are forever like family and loyalty
The last time we met was after our class eight exams. My mother sent me upcountry for reasons I have never known.Â
She hadn’t changed much since we met last in 2005, during the large family gathering at our grandmother’s homestead. We were younger then.
Obligation welled up in me. I had the money. But did I have the time? I doubted.
I figured it might take several days before the card got to her school. Even if I had the money, I didn’t know the address. I was crestfallen.
For the remainder of the evening, I couldn’t read without intrusion. How could I also send her a letter? I’d have to order one from our canteen guy. But…he might not get the card I like. I can be choosy like that. I don’t just get gifts because I need to gift someone. I couldn’t rely on the taste of the canteen guy. He also needed to get the cards for others. He might also get cheap ones and claim they were expensive. There was no way I was winning.
I was stuck.
Days passed and we did our exams. We left for home. Yet, to date, hers was the card I couldn’t forget.
Her card was the diamond that came from family. Forever, like family and loyalty, it remains in my memory.
What I’m trying to say is…
The most could never afford the precious jewels
That’s precisely why I’m blessin’ you with clear-cut messages— J. Cole
Clear-cut messages. I hope to be explicit — this is my response to the card. No postal address. No forthcoming exam. No card. No money slid in between the folds.
I couldn’t pick up a pen nor do I know her current address. But I know how this can get to her.
Thus, years later, I write this to her.Â
This is my card to my cousin.
This song inspired some of the lines used in this article. Source — YouTube