A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear Younger Me,

I remember you clearly. A young man full of hope, walking through the halls of the University of Nairobi with dreams bigger than fear. You believed in hard work, in honesty, and in the power of knowledge to change lives.

You chose medicine because you wanted to heal people. You did it not for fame or money. Deep inside, you believed that saving even one life was worth a lifetime of effort.

You studied day and night, determined to master the complex science of the human body. Years later, you stood proudly in the operating theaters of Kenyatta National Hospital as a neurosurgeon. Your hands carried the responsibility of touching the most delicate organ in the human body—the brain.

Every surgery was a battle between life and death, and many times, you helped life win.

You built a career based on trust, skill, and dedication. Patients believed in you. Colleagues respected you. Your family looked up to you.

Life felt meaningful.

But if I can reach back through time and whisper something into your ear, I would tell you this:

Life does not always change because of the big decisions we make. Sometimes it changes because of the smallest ones.

One ordinary day, you will buy a second-hand mobile phone. It will cost only two thousand Kenyan shillings. You will buy it from someone you know at the hospital—a mortuary attendant. You will not question it. To you, it will be just a cheap phone. Your daughter can use it while studying at Moi University.

It will feel like a simple act of love from a father to his child.

But that phone will carry a history you cannot see.

It once belonged to Moses Gituma, a senior official at the Central Bank of Kenya and brother to the then Commissioner of Police, Mathew Iteere. He had been robbed and murdered, and his belongings—including the phone—were taken by criminals.

The phone will pass through unknown hands until it reaches you.

Years later, investigators will trace the device. The trail will first lead to your daughter’s boyfriend. Then, it will lead to your daughter. Finally, it will lead to you.

You will tell the truth. Calmly. Clearly.

You will explain that you bought the phone second-hand and had no idea where it came from.

You will believe that the truth will protect you.

But the truth will not save you.

In 2009, a court will convict you and sentence you to thirty years in prison. When you appeal, hoping justice will correct the mistake, your sentence will instead be increased to death.

Later, it will be commuted to life imprisonment.

And just like that, the life you built for decades will collapse.

Your career will disappear.

Your freedom will vanish.

You will watch the world move on without you.

Today, I write this letter from inside Kamiti Maximum Security Prison, where I have spent more than two decades.

But here is something important I want you to know.

Even when life takes everything from you, it can’t take who you are.

Inside these prison walls, I refused to stop being a doctor. I help sick prisoners when they need medical advice. I treat wounds when I can. I care for people who have been forgotten by the world.

I also trained as a paralegal to help inmates prepare legal documents and fight for their rights.

In a strange way, I am still doing what you dreamed of doing when you were young:

Helping people.

So if I could give you a few lessons before life takes its unexpected turn, I would tell you this:

Be careful with the small choices in life, because sometimes they carry invisible consequences.

Never assume that justice will always be fair, because even systems created to protect people can make mistakes.

Do not let your identity depend on your title or your freedom. A doctor is not defined by a hospital building but by a heart that cares for others.

And most importantly, never lose hope.

Because hope is the one thing no prison wall can truly hold captive.

Younger me, life will not go the way you expect.

But even in the darkest places, you will still find ways to heal others.

And that, in the end, will remind you that your purpose was never truly taken away.

With wisdom earned through pain,

With love and gratitude,
Your future self,
Dr. Clement Munyao Katiku