It was a usual Friday—the kind that smells of freedom just beyond reach, with the weekend waiting like a faithful lover on the porch, arms wide open. But something unusual happened. That evening, the association’s publicity page—usually a space for everyday updates and announcements—was flooded with more people, like moths to a flame. Then, an even stranger shift: all the admins were stripped of their powers, leaving just one behind, a lone monarch sitting on a crumbling throne. And the next day? A broadcast from the association’s executive committee denounced this singular figure as a scammer—an unscrupulous element. But here lies the irony:
“If this person is truly a fraud, how in the world did they get inside the house with the keys in hand? How were they made an admin?”
Was it a glitch in the system, a slip of code on WhatsApp? Or something far more threaded with unseen politics and buried intentions? The surface was cracking, and beneath it lay a story—one that begged to be told.
And tell it we will.
For those still in the dark, this is what really happened.
What Really Happened – The Chronology of Events
By law, the parliamentary calendar should run no more than twelve months except in the case of an industrial action or disruption of the academic year [Article VI, Section 72(iii)]. In this case, the SRB could consider an extension. But in a year, that had been the most peaceful with no disruption to the academic calendar, that would not be an issue of debate.
Knowing this, the electoral chairman sounded the first alarm on July 16th and sent word to the Speaker that it was time to prepare for elections. Yet, the response was silence—
Thick, deliberate silence.
Undeterred, the chairman and his committee pressed forward, drafting plans, sending reminders, and knocking on the Speaker’s door. When answers came, they were vague, ephemeral things that dissolved in the air. And so the weeks dragged on. A simple question remained like an ache:
Why delay what cannot be avoided?
In frustration, the chairman began writing letters to constituency leaders, urging them to appeal to the Speaker’s better judgment. Time, after all, was not an ally—medical school’s relentless calendar demanded precision, not procrastination. Eventually, the Speaker promised feedback, but not until late October. It seemed a reasonable compromise—until you peek behind the curtain.
If the October meeting is postponed? It becomes November. And by November, the Part 6 members—Stalwarts, the oldest class in the Association—will be writing their final exams.
Constitutionally, they cannot cast votes after graduating. Therefore, delaying the elections was more than a scheduling error; it could be a calculated erosion of their voices.
The injustice did not stay hidden for long. On October 6th, the dam broke. Several members from the Part 6 class contacted their constituency leaders and raised concerns. They demanded an emergency sitting—one last chance to make their votes count. But the Speaker refused. He would wait for the next scheduled meeting.
Mr. B, the class representative, implored his classmates to remain patient and to approach the matter diplomatically. And they did, giving the Speaker one more opportunity to do the right thing. But the silence persisted. In the end, Miss. J, the original creator of the General Publicity Page, acted. With support from her classmates, she planned to unlock the page to lead the summon of a congress after the speaker allegedly dismissed their pleas for an emergency sitting. “Go ahead if you think you can,” was the interpretation gotten from his lack of favorable responses.
And so, on that fateful Friday, the admins were relieved of their positions, and one solitary figure stood as the new gatekeeper. But this wasn’t the work of an outsider.
Miss. J was no intruder; she belonged. She has always been with us.
The narrative of a scammer, spun by the executive committee, unraveled before it could take root. But that’s not all. The intrigue deepened.
What Lies Beneath
While the association was embroiled in chaos, a sharp-eyed observer discovered something unusual buried in plain sight. Applications for the organizing committee of the upcoming 37th IFUMSA Health Week were circulating. The date? March 25th of the following year—three months beyond the official end of the tenure.
Why plan the Health Week months after the tenure expires? Who granted the permission? Was this decision ratified by the SRB? And, most importantly, was it constitutional?
Miss A, an SRB representative, asked these very questions, and the Speaker responded hours later. He claimed it would be addressed at the next sitting, sometime in the unknown future — shunning the demand for an emergency sitting once more.
The irony? He, himself, had been elected through an online democratic process.
That was the spark—a betrayal so subtle yet profound that it ignited outrage. Representatives who had watched in silence began to raise their voices. Letters were drafted, and signatures were collected. By the end of the day, members of the SRB, fueled by integrity, demanded an emergency sitting. It will hold today.
This is the chronology. This is the truth, laid bare.
What Will You Do?
The stage is set. The laws we hold dear are teetering on the edge of aberration, and their meanings are twisted by those who swore to uphold them.
MediVoice—your voice, our voice—will not sit idly by. Will you?
This is more than a broadcast. It is a stern proclamation: those who trample the Constitution for personal gain will face our pen. We are watching – as unbiased as possible. Any SRB member who forgets their duty, who bends under the weight of convenience or greed, will be exposed. You were elected to represent us, to be the voice we entrusted with our dreams and grievances. If you betray that trust, know this—you will be remembered not for your silence but for the consequences it brought.
When injustice raises its head, you must stand taller. When power demands obedience, you must meet it with defiance. Because if you don’t, history will etch your name into the margins of disgrace, and you will forever be haunted by the truth you refused to tell.
Make no mistake, our Constitution is Sacred—the stories you shy away from today will one day rise to judge you. The microphone is in your hands. Will it speak, or will it gather dust?
The meeting is scheduled for 8 PM. Make no excuses—charge your power banks, clear your schedules, and finish your meals. Tonight, the future of our association is on the line.
Will we uphold our Constitution or let it become a relic—something to be bent, reshaped, and discarded at will? The choice is yours. The hour is near.
“I am going to sleep now,” you say. But not tonight.
Not when history waits for you to act.
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