Growing up in a simple home in Kenya, I always looked up to police officers. Their discipline caught my eye early on. The way they carried themselves with courage and earned respect from everyone around them. Like so many young guys here, I dreamed of putting on that uniform one day. It felt like a real path to something stable.
After school, I got serious about it. I trained hard—running every morning, pushing my body to the limit. Read books on motivation. Prayed a lot. The first recruitment came, and I felt ready. I cleared the physical tests easily. Even got nods from some officers there. But when the list dropped, my name wasn’t on it. I figured it was bad luck. Tried again. And again. Ended up applying twelve times over the years.
Each round, I stepped it up. Woke earlier, ran farther, followed every rule to the letter. Watched friends who trained less with me get picked. Some barely showed effort. Me? Always left out. People started talking. Friends joked about it at first, then stopped. Others whispered about curses or bad luck. A few straight-up told me to quit and find something else.
It hurt deep. One evening, alone in my room, I just sat staring at nothing. Wondering why this kept happening. My folks tried encouraging me for a while, but even they got quiet. Avoided gatherings because the questions came every time: “So, any news on joining the police?” Read more https://drbokko.com/?p=35789
