After my hike up Mt. Longonot, I became newly aware of a stubborn little mole on my left foot. One of those things that suddenly feels like it has opinions about your life.

So on Monday, I went to the hospital to get it sorted.

Now, you may call it surgery. I prefer not to. Because once you call it surgery, you must inform your family—and my family would have turned this mole into a national event.

There would be prayers. Updates. Visits. Milk, bread, and suspiciously, alcohol (not for the patient). What starts as recovery becomes a house party. A kesha.

So I kept it to myself.

Privacy—not secrecy. There’s a difference.

The procedure was scheduled for Friday at 1 p.m. I arrived at 11 a.m., feeling responsible and ahead of life.

Immediately, I noticed there was no Wi-Fi.

This was not good.

Wi-Fi is connection. Without it, you are alone—with your thoughts and time.

Still, I told myself: Two hours. You can manage two hours.

Then the nurse said:

“Sir, your procedure is for 6 p.m.”

Six.

In the evening.

I had come prepared for two hours.

Not seven.

And I had come unprepared.

No charger.
Phone battery already in orange warning mode.
No book. No journal. No laptop. No earphones.
Even the magazines looked like they had seen things.

The TV was there—but of course, the signal wasn’t.

Time slowed down.

Actually, that’s a lie.

Time didn’t slow down. It expanded. It stretched itself just to spite me.

I rationed my battery like it was famine season. Airplane mode. Low brightness. Occasional checks to see if time had moved.

It hadn’t.

By 1:30 p.m., hunger politely knocked.

By 2:00 p.m., it was negotiating.

But I knew better—one biscuit and suddenly your procedure is rescheduled to 2028.

So I stayed loyal to my empty stomach.

By 3:00 p.m., boredom had evolved into imagination.

I pictured what would have happened if I had told my family.

There would be a WhatsApp group:
“Operation Mole 2026 🙏🏽🔥”

Prayer chains. Voice notes. Updates like a football match:
“Is he in theatre?”
“Has kickoff started?”

My mother would have called the hospital landline.

Twice.

By 4:00 p.m., I had memorized the ceiling.

There’s a crack that looks like Africa—if you tilt your head and ignore Madagascar.

By 5:00 p.m., my phone was at 5%.

No charger.

No dignity.

Just me, my thoughts, and the growing suspicion that this mole had already won.

Then—finally—a knock.

“Mr. Njuki?”

I sat up like a man resurrected.

“It’s time.”

And just like that, the longest day of my life was over.

Or so I thought.