THE SCARRED SCRIBBLER

DREAMS OF A SCARRED SCRIBBLER

By MARY-CYNTHIA KOSISOCHUKWU UDEMBA (Doc Cally)

I have always believed that dreams are loudest in silence.

The silence of power cuts at night.  

The silence of empty wallets after school runs.  

The silence of being “the girl with potential” who sometimes couldn’t afford a textbook.  

And above all, the silence of betrayal when the people you believed in didn’t believe in you.

My name is Mary-Cynthia Kosisochukwu Udemba Doc Cally, some say.. and I am a medical student, born and raised in southeastern Nigeria, in a family where dreams had to be practical. In a house where love was plenty but resources were limited. My journey isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a story of grit quiet resilience wrapped in prayer, ink, and a strong belief in Africa’s future.

I started sharing short reflections online thoughts on pain, purpose, perseverance. And to my surprise, people listened. Girls I’d never met messaged me saying, “I didn’t give up because of your words.” Some boys said my writing helped them find clarity in chaos. I was stunned. I was just being honest about the struggle, about the beauty of rising scarred but not bitter.

And suddenly, I realized, "My dream was never just mine".

It was about us. The African youth who are tired of waiting. The dreamers who are building, writing, and healing even while the world underestimates us.

But make no mistake, it’s hard. Being a young woman in Nigeria means constantly proving yourself in the classroom, on the street, even in your own home. You must be intelligent but not intimidating, ambitious but not “too proud,” confident but not “too loud.”

I’ve been called “too much” for daring to dream of Harvard while still borrowing lab coats. I’ve been mocked for staying principled and focused while others chase pleasure and popularity. But every time I wanted to give up, I’d go back to my why.

And my why is healing not just of bodies, but of hearts, systems, and communities.

In my first year of medical school, I didn’t just struggle with anatomy and lecture halls, I faced the bitter taste of betrayal. I ran for a student leadership position, driven by a genuine passion to serve. But the election didn’t go as expected. Rules were broken. My opponent wasn’t held to the same standards. People I called friends whispered lies, others mocked me openly. Even someone I once helped turned against me not with honesty, but with manipulation.

I felt humiliated. Not because I lost, but because integrity didn’t seem to matter.

And in that same season, I lost another friend someone who said I was “too focused,” “too serious,” and mocked my dream of studying abroad. She said I was too “local” to make it global.

I remember retreating to my tiny lodge room, my blue journal in front of me the one I titled "The Scarred Scribbler". I wrote, "They don’t see your dream. But maybe that’s because it wasn’t shown to them, it was whispered to you."

That night, I chose healing. Not just through medicine, but through writing.

To me, health is not a hospital building or a government slogan. It’s dignity, It’s equity. It’s making sure that the girl in the village gets antibiotics when she’s sick and not just prayers. It’s giving boys access to mental health support without shame. It’s ensuring every pregnant woman doesn’t have to choose between buying food or paying for a scan.

I want to be part of that change. I want to study abroad not just for myself but to bring back tools, techniques, and ideas that can serve my people. I want to use both medicine and writing to open conversations, to advocate, to educate and to build trust in health again.

Someone once asked me, “Why are you always talking about Africa? Why don’t you just focus on making it out?” I smiled. Because I’m not trying to make it out. I’m trying to make it better.

Our continent is rich in dreams but poor in systems. Overflowing with talent but bleeding from bad policies. Yet, in all this, I see hope. I see the nursing student volunteering in IDP camps. I see the boy learning to code with a borrowed phone. I see the farmer’s daughter passing her WAEC against all odds. I see a new Africa rising not from miracles, but from determination.

We are not waiting for saviors, We are becoming them.

There’s a scar on my left wrist from when I fell while hurrying to catch a bus to school. It reminds me that sometimes, movement hurts but it’s better than standing still. My story is filled with those scars, some visible, others invisible. But each one tells me, Keep going.

I don’t have all the answers. I still have nights where doubt whispers louder than hope. I still cry. I still lose people. But I keep writing. I keep studying. I keep choosing growth.

Because Africa deserves dreamers who won’t stop. And if one scarred scribbler with a stethoscope and a journal can spark one more dream, then maybe  that’s enough to start a movement.

So when you hear the name "Doc Cally", don’t just think of a future doctor. Think of a young woman who bled purpose out of pain. Who turned betrayal into bravery. Who chose the pen and the scalpel to fight for something bigger than herself.

This is not just my dream.  

This is our dream.  

A healthier, prouder, and more empowered Africa one healed heart at a time.

And yet, even as I write these words, I know this journey is still unfolding like a sunrise that refuses to be rushed. There are more lessons to learn, more wounds to heal, more bridges to build. I want to spend my life proving that hope is a discipline, that compassion can be taught, and that every small act of courage can rewrite a nation’s story. One day, when I look back, I want to see a trail of others who dared to believe because they saw a scarred girl from southeastern Nigeria rise with her pen and her stethoscope, carrying her continent in her heart. My dream is not finished, it is still breathing, still growing, still calling me forward to serve, to write, to heal, and to remind every African child that no matter how humble their beginning, they too can turn silence into song, pain into purpose, and scars into symbols of strength.