When the Public Service Commission announced a vacancy for the position of Chair, I sent in my application with the same mixture of hope and realism that has accompanied many bold steps in my career. It was a prestigious position – one that demanded experience, integrity and a strong understanding of public leadership. Still, I felt a nudging voice inside me saying, Try. Put your name forward. Let the world know you are willing. And so I did.
Days passed. At first slowly. Then too quickly. Then slowly again. Anyone who has ever applied for a competitive national position knows this rhythm—the cycle of anticipation that swings between confidence and self-doubt. I told myself that whatever happened, submitting that application alone was already an act of courage. But a part of me kept wondering, What if?
Then came the morning that shifted everything.
A friend sent me a WhatsApp message with no words—just a photo. It was a page from the Daily Nation. I clicked on it casually, expecting perhaps a story or an opinion article. Instead, I saw a list. A long list. A list of the 52 applicants for the position of Chairperson, Public Service Commission.
I began scanning through the names, half-curious, half-anxious. And then I saw it—my own name. Clear as day. Printed in the national newspaper for the entire country to see.
For a moment, I stopped thinking.
The world slowed. My stomach tightened in disbelief. And then the realization washed over me: I made it to the published list. Out of all the people who had applied, only 52 were listed. And I was among them.
I was all over the moon.
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It wasn’t just pride. It wasn’t about publicity or ego. It was a deeper, quieter confirmation that my journey, my work, my growth—none of it had gone unnoticed. My name in those three major newspapers, also appearing in the Standard and The Star, felt like a public validation of years of service, sacrifice, and commitment to leadership.
I allowed myself to saviour the moment. I shared it with a few close friends. I whispered a quick prayer of gratitude. For that day, hope felt soft and warm and within reach.
Then life resumed its pace, as it always does. Days passed again. This time the waiting carried more weight. A list of 52 meant possibilities. It meant someone, somewhere, had seen something in my qualifications worth acknowledging.
And then, without fanfare, the second list surfaced—the shortlist. Twelve names. Magical 12.
I scrolled carefully. Slowly. Purposefully. Line by line, name by name. Still hopeful. Still imagining that feeling of seeing my name again.It wasn’t there.
I checked again, convinced perhaps I had missed it. But the truth settled gently, then firmly: I had not been shortlisted.
In that moment, the same newspapers that had lifted me suddenly felt heavier than before. It wasn’t heartbreak—no, it wasn’t that intense. It was a quiet disappointment, the kind that arrives without drama. The kind that sits with you and asks for acceptance.
I took a long breath. Then another.
And then the perspective began to unfold.
Being among the 52 applicants was no small achievement. The country is full of brilliant, capable, visionary leaders—people with vast networks, long careers, and impressive portfolios. To emerge in that first cut was already a tribute to God’s grace, my hard work, and the trust I have earned in my profession.
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Not making the final twelve did not erase that blessing. It did not diminish the pride I felt, nor did it invalidate the moment my name appeared across the three national dailies.
If anything, it reminded me that success is not always about winning the final prize. Sometimes it is about being brave enough to enter the race. Sometimes it is about seeing your name printed in the country’s most respected newspapers and recognizing that progress is happening, even when the journey does not end where you hoped it would.
I also realized something deeper: every opportunity prepares you for another. Every door that remains closed is sometimes just redirecting you to a better hallway. I had stretched my courage, tested my capacity, and placed myself in spaces where national leadership is contested. That in itself was a victory.
In quiet reflection, I felt gratitude—for the courage to apply, for the privilege of being considered, for the silent supporters who celebrated with me, and even for the gentle disappointment that reminded me to remain grounded.
My name may not have made it to the final twelve, but it did something else: it reminded me that I belong in spaces where leadership is discussed. It assured me that more opportunities will come. And it strengthened my resolve to keep growing, keep serving, and keep stepping forward with boldness.
Someday, another list will come. And another opportunity. And I will apply again – this time even stronger, wiser, and more prepared.
For now, I carry the memory of that moment—a friend sending a picture, me pausing mid-thought, and the realization that my name had found its way into the pages of Nation, Standard and The Star. That moment remains one of the quiet triumphs of my journey.
And quietly, I smile.
By Ashford Kimani
Ashford teaches English and Literature in Gatundu North Sub-county and serves as Dean of Studies.
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