Today, Magare is already a very busy doctor running two Equity Afia clinics in Nakuru and Kisii, serving the public at Nyahururu County Hospital and Occasionally working at Nakuru’s Aga Khan hospital.

I caught up with him last week, and we talked about his childhood, repeating form four despite scoring A- and his life as the Medical Officer in Charge of two Equity Afia clinics.

Tell me about your life growing up as a child in rural Kisii.

I am the last born in a polygamous family. I am the 16th Child of my father, but 7th of my mother. I was born preterm at 32 weeks and raised in a local incubator, just next to the fire-place under the care of a traditional birth attendant called Milkah. How I survived that was by God’s grace.

We grew under difficult conditions, but there was always enough foo; Kisii being very productive and my mother together with my siblings providing the workforce. My father’s meagre salary as a primary school teacher would not sustain the large family to get a modest living. Clothing was never a consideration when growing up. We only had school uniforms which we would put on 24/7. This meant that our uniforms were always torn at the back. As a family we were despised, a factor that really affected my self-esteem till after I joined university. The sad bit was that even our fellow brothers and sisters in poverty could mock us and make fun of our situation. The only shoe I knew was ‘sandak’- a form of plastic shoe which would really get hot and roast our feet under the sun.

Did you always want to be a doctor as a child?

I had never thought of becoming a doctor, I wanted to be an electronic and communication engineer.

At what point did that change to medicine?

I have always known what I wanted in life. However, choosing a career was one of the most challenging decisions I ever made. After doing my KCSE and scoring an A- (78 points) I got an admission to Masinde Muliro University Of Science and Technology (MMUST) to pursue electrical and communications engineering.

I was happy because that was my second option after aeronautical Engineering and my brother had just graduated from the same university with BSc. Computer science. However, things took another turn after having a chat with my other brother who is a doctor and had graduated from the University of Nairobi. He had just completed his internship. I was curious to understand more about life in medical school. He took me on a tour to Chiromo anatomy laboratory where he showed me the cadavers, which he told me they would dissect and use to understand the human body. It is at this point that I decided that I wanted to become a doctor.

The was one problem though. I had not passed my KCSE well enough to get admission to medical school as a regular student. There was also no way I would afford to study medicine under the self-sponsorship program owing to our humble background.

I had to make a tough decision. I went back to form 4 with only one aim, to fill up the remaining 6 points and score an A plain of 84 points. That way I would be assured of joining The University of Nairobi and pursuing medicine. I did exactly that and scored my 84 points a year later, and my journey to becoming a doctor began.

How was life for you in medical school, did you at some point contemplate quitting or changing courses?

Having been raised in poverty, I knew nothing comes easy. It was a tough life but it had to be done. Initially, I was discouraged because I was used to scoring 90% and above in high school but coming to medical school, everyone struggling to score just 50% which was the cut-off marks to proceed to the next level.

Sleepless nights of solo reading and group discussions characterized our stay at the university, especially in pre-medical school (year 1 and 2). Some days we would envy our colleagues studying engineering and humanities because they got to enjoy campus life while we typically lived in the library.

However, as we went up into the senior medical school, things become easier as we became stronger and adaptive. At this point, I had to look for something to toughen my life. I joined campus politics and became a congressman (In charge of a hostel) and later became the campus Representative for the Medical School campus in the SONU executive.

You are an alumnus of the Equity Leadership Programme, how did you end up in the programme to start with?

The programme targets the top KCSE candidates (best boy and best girl) from each sub-county in which the bank has a branch; and the best candidate in each subject nationally. I did my KCSE at Kanga School which is Migori county. I was the best in the county but unfortunately, Equity Bank by then did not have a branch in the sub-county. However, I was the best student in Biology nationally, and that’s how I joined the programme.

How did being part of the leadership program shape your career path?

Initially, everything was revolving around myself. It was about what I could gain. It was about me being the best. But joining the program has taught me that we get more satisfaction by serving others. By making others happy. By humbling ourselves. Unlike in the past, now I would reschedule an activity to just go and participate in a communal service.

It has strengthened my resolve to continue pursuing health programs that benefit people and society in general. Working towards equality in society. It has also helped me in managing my time well. That is how I am able to work at the public hospital in Nyahururu and also see patients at Equity Afia in Nakuru and Kisii or other private facilities I work in without discriminating on my patients based on their economic status.

Other than medical school and the leadership program, you also hold academic credentials from the University of Washington and the University of Illinois, how have you been able to juggle all that?

We have 24 hours in a day. It’s up to an individual to see how many hours they can put into use. There are those who will restrict themselves to 8hours and ignore 16 hours. Provided I get the 3 am to 7 am sleep, I am good to go. This is the best time for me to sleep and reflect. The rest is sufficient for my other activities. Also, when in public I have learnt to be in good moods as this prepares me for the next activity withot getting fatigued.

You have worked in both the private and public health sector, now you are running your second Equity Afia clinic. What do you find unique about Equity Afia’s approach to the provision of healthcare?

The Equity Afia Model is a masterpiece. It rekindles hope and provides what we can call high end services at a very affordable cost. Its focus on quality, affordable and accessible healthcare stands out and complements other key players in the sector especially the government.

At 30 years you have already accomplished quite a lot and the future looks even brighter for you, what are some of the lessons that you have gained along the way?

I am just trying my best but I have learnt the power of patience, discipline and collaborations. The future will depend on the networks we create in our day-to-day activities. I have also learnt to treat everyone equally regardless of how society perceives them.

If you were not a doctor today, what else would you be doing with your life? 

I would have ended up working in the electronic or communications engineering field as a programmer. There is however a part of me that also toyed with the idea of becoming a catholic priest.

Do you get to have free time, how do you spend it?

My free time is divided between service to community, family and personal hobbies. Like in this era of Covid-19 I do a lot of sensitization to the public about the disease. I also enjoy spending with my wife and our four-year-old son who I named after the former president of Ghanat and also after my dad, Jerry Rawlings Magare Magara.

This is the time I also read medical journals or call my patients and get to know how they are doing. I like interacting with people so you may at times find me at the local joints playing pool table.

If I am just home, you will find me watching Flaqo’s comedy videos and laughing my head off. That stuff never gets old.

The post “Growing up poor made me a better doctor” – Dr Magare Magara appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

Pastor Pius Buodo runs an evangelical ministry in Kisumu. He says that as the virus swept across the world, there was a growing fear among his congregants at the Glorious Covenant Church and at the time there was very little those in his position could do to calm their fears.

“The way this pandemic has been portrayed by the media has brought it so much fears in the lives of people…it will take some time for people to come out of that fear,” he says.

In response to this, Pastor Buodo says he is now focusing on building his congregant’s faith to overcome these fears.

Reduced attendance

Church services attendance has gone down by over 50% since the relaxation of containment measures. He says quite a significant number of believers have lost their faith in the process.

He says that regular church attendance allowed congregants to be pastored and more accountable to their church leaders as opposed to the situation under lockdowns. In the process he explains that “many went back to the world” because not everyone had access to the internet for live church services via digital platforms.

Christian Atieno, another resident of the lakeside City agrees that the ban on gatherings has affected people’s faith.

“There is that fire people had for Jesus that was built through morning and evening fellowships, that has gone down. Christianity isn’t just about the Sunday worship, so when people could no longer worship this way they were finding themselves creating time for other pursuits which are not necessarily christian-like,” she explains.

We are built for fellowship.

Pst. Pius Buodo, Glorius Covenant Church

Threats to ministries

Various religious organizations across the board have been hit with a financial crisis as a result of the pandemic. Reduced church (and other religious places) attendance has also meant a reduction in offerings and tithes that many of these religious establishments use to further their activities. To some extent, a crumbling economy as explained in previous parts of this series has meant that people have less to give too.

Not all doom

Restrictions to in-person attendance of religious services also allowed some people to get closer to God through online worship services.

“Being online allowed people who were not even our members to discover and worship with us. We were giving hope that people who were not even previously religious were in need of at that time. This happened to other ministers too. There were also people in churches that did not allow them to grow in faith and others that discovered that they were in the wrong churches,” he explains.

I have never been a pastor during a pandemic. I don’t think any other minister in our lifetime has….we have never pastored during lockdowns.

Pst. Pius Buodo, Glorious Covenant Ministries

Opportunities

If there is one lesson that has come out of this pandemic for religious people, it is that the Kenyan Christian needs to be socialised not to depend so much on the clergy. God does not live in church but is everywhere. No clergyman has the monopoly and direct line to God. God lives in our minds and hearts. We can have a church with ourselves and our families.

Dr Damaris Parsitau, a religious researcher says “this time calls for many ways of being. It calls on us to deinstitutionalise faith and rethink innovative ways of being spiritual communities. It calls on us to decentralise the role of clergy that does not think about us but about themselves. It calls on us to give science a chance, even as we continue to pray and hope and take care of each other. Taking care of each other is a spiritual exercise. This is the time to be good neighbours. This is the time for us to think about compassion and empathy, After all, science and faith are not in contradiction with each other.”

In developed countries, pastors have been at the forefront of ministering to their congregations at home. Many have come up with innovative ways of being Christian in the age of the coronavirus.

Dr Damaris Parsitau, lecturer and researcher in religious studies.

The post Pastoring in a pandemic appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

However, behind the perfectly made-up face and the ear to ear smiles lie a deep scar that very few know about. Not even the people closest to her.

Christine grew up as a very happy girl but today happiness is a facade she only wears in public. In the privacy of her house, she often breaks down in tears. For three years now, she has suffered from depression and feelings of rejection that she is yet to know how to deal with.

Let me take you back a little to the first time I made contact with her. I had written a long post on my Facebook wall about my experience with depression and being suicidal in my late teens and early twenties. The reaction to that post was beyond my wildest imagination. A lot of people shared and tagged friends on the post. There were comments of encouragement and people asking about how they could be of help to friends and family members. Of course, there were the usual negative comments too. Then there were those who came to my inbox and Whatsapp DMs thanking me for the courage of speaking out about this topic that many would rather ignore.

Christine was one of those. She told me she was fighting to stay alive. The day I made that post was one of her toughest days. Coincidentally, it was exactly three years since her six-month-old baby died. She had no one to talk to about her feelings. That evening I stayed late in the office chatting her up – mostly it was just listening (or should I say reading what she wrote).

I met Christine a little over two weeks ago, for the first time. We had been friends on Facebook for a very long time. I have no idea who sent the other a friend request. If it’s her who sent one, then I must have accepted because of the numerous friends we have in common. I swear I am not one of those dudes who accept friend requests from ladies based on their looks. I don’t even look through their photos. If we don’t know each other in person we have to have at least 100 mutual friends.

When Christine asked where we could meet for coffee, I said Acacia Hotel’s Buzz Bar without thinking too much about it. It was a Monday morning – about 8.30 AM. It was so convenient because it’s just a short distance from my former office. I was hoping to be back in time for our usual 11.00 AM meeting.

Ordinarily, I would have just walked the 578 steps that stand between my former office and West End Mall, but on this particular Monday, the Kisumu sun seemed unable to make up its mind whether it wanted to shine or let the rains take over. I did not want to take chances by walking, so I jumped on a motorbike. It took Samuel Ababu; my bike guy when I am at the office, less than three minutes to get me there. One day I will tell you a story about Sam.

Christine wore stone-washed denim pants, a cream turtle-neck sweater, and brown leather boots. She had a brown leather handbag that was now resting on a seat directly opposite Buzz Bar’s entrance. Her sunglasses were on the table next to a gold iPhone 6 Plus. She wore a golden Michael Kors wristwatch with brown leather straps.

Her head was bowed when I walked in. She was perusing through the contents of the menu. It was not difficult spotting her despite the fact that this was our first meeting. She looked just like her Facebook and Instagram photos, if not a little prettier. I guess I was not that difficult to notice either. She stood up with a wide smile on her face the moment she lifted her head off the menu and saw me walking towards her. Perhaps she had heard my footsteps. She gave me a tight bear hug before motioning me to take a seat opposite her. Still smiling.

“It’s good to finally meet you, ” she said to break the little awkwardness that came with the brief moment of silence after I had taken my seat.

“Yeah, it is, ” I said trying not to look uneasy. I did not have any reason to be. Maybe I was taken aback by her beauty.

Have you ever met someone so beautiful that the words you had get lost in your mouth? You just stand there or sit down staring – at times with your mouth wide open…Yes, I was having one of those moments. I almost forgot why I was there for a quick minute.

“Daniel, are you okay, ” she inquired.

“Yes, I am, ” I replied trying to compose myself. Small droplets of sweat were starting to form around my face despite the chilly weather outside. I took off my half jacket and hung it on the back my seat.

I was a little uneasy. It had everything to do with our sitting position. When meeting someone, I like to get to the venue before them so that I can choose a position with a vantage view of all the entrances and exits. On this day I had my back turned to the main entrance to Buzz Bar and the other glass door that joined the first-floor restaurant with Buzz Bar was on my left side too. Not that I felt that she might be dangerous, I just don’t know how many enemies I have created out here in the line of work and I never want to be caught unawares.

I however relaxed with the hope that Murphy’s law will not apply. I ordered house coffee – double espresso while Christine settled for the “Irish Devil, ” a signature Buz Bar cocktail that is made from Jameson Black Barrel.

“I hope you don’t mind me drinking this early, ” she said. Her eyes peering into mine, perhaps in an attempt to read what I was not saying with my mouth. Christine did not just have a beautiful face and figure, she was also tall. About six feet tall. So you can imagine her looking down on my 5″ 6′ frame. Kinda intimidating.

One of the things I have learned from personal experiences and interacting with people from all walks of life is never to judge anyone. Before I pass judgment on other people’s choices I often remind myself that “not everyone I meet has had the same experiences as I have.” It helps me respect each person’s choices and opinions.

“No, I don’t, ” I said with a smile.

“I can never start my day without a drink. I usually have bad hangovers in the morning and a shot of whiskey helps me stabilize. At night I can’t sleep without having a drink. I can’t remember the last time I slept like a normal person, ” she explains.

Christine is in Kisumu visiting with friends and family. Not even they know of her depression problem that’s now compounded by alcohol dependency. She was not always like this.

Three years ago, Christine was your average girl next door. That is if your next door girls graduated top of their medical classes, work at one of the country’s top private hospitals and are taking their Master’s Degree specializing pediatric surgery. That was Christine’s life. But she was also looking forward to starting a family.

Her boyfriend was a young medical researcher working at a research institute in Nairobi that is affiliated to Nagasaki University Institute of Tropical Medicine. They had been living together for two years but had dated since her campus days. Before her last pregnancy, Christine had had three miscarriages. The first two were within the first trimester. The third was at six months. She says her boyfriend had really wanted them to have a child and she was becoming increasingly worried about not being able to give him one. They saw different obstetricians but none seem to know what the problem was.

After her last miscarriage, the bond between Christine and her boyfriend began to weaken. She says she felt as though she was less of a woman.

“I could not give him the one thing he really wanted. He was capable of making me pregnant but I could not carry a baby to term. It weighed me down. I was afraid I would lose him to someone who could give him a child, ” she explained the first time we talked on Facebook.

One of the doctors she saw after the last miscarriage advised her to wait for six months before she tries getting pregnant again. She could not.

Not when every single day that passed she felt as if she was losing the man of her dreams. A man she saw herself growing old with. In her mind, she had always played this scene where they had both moved to work in Kisumu. Her husband was teaching at Maseno University’s school of medicine while not conducting research at KEMRI – Kisumu station. Their two children were now both grown-ups, living away from home. On Saturday afternoons they would sit on the balcony of their four-bedroom maisonette in Riat Hills on the side that overlooks the airport, immersed in books with occasional glances at each other. At times she would engage him on a surgical case she is working on at Aga Khan, Avenue, Kisumu Specialists or any other big private hospital that would be in town at that time. Some of those weekends their peace would be disrupted by cops who came by after their Christian neighbor snitched that they were smoking weed in the balcony. The highlights of their afternoons would be gossiping about their kids. Their son who now acts all independent, throwing all his energy in his tech business. He would act like he did not need any help from mummy and daddy but quite often would run to his elder sister to borrow money promising to return if his business picked up. Of course, his sister would get the money from their folks but they would all promise to never let him know that the money was from them. Boys and their pride. They would talk about the girl and their worries about her disinterest in getting married.

Chances are that these were now just going to be dreams playing out in her head. She could not wait for six more months. Not when her boyfriend now spent more time at the bar with his work colleagues than he did with her. Some of them female. She had lied to him that she was on the pill but she wasn’t. Just three months later she was pregnant again. She did not tell him. She had raised his hopes three times and ended up disappointing him. She wasn’t going to do it a fourth time. So she waited. He only became aware when her morning sickness became intense, by then she was already four months in.

She still remembers the day they brought the baby home from Nairobi Hospital. It was the happiest day in their lives. Their house had never been that warm. At least not in the recent past. That night, her boyfriend went down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. In front of his mother and two sisters. She said yes. She had said yes months before he asked. At times she wondered if he ever would. That night he uttered the all important four words.

This baby was going to grow up in the most loving, caring and protective arms. That is what she thought. How could she not? Their baby was going to be raised by two doctors, what could go wrong?

“Daniel, I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe that he died on me, ” she said as a drop of tear escaped her eyes rolling down cheeks, messing up her makeup.

I stayed there still. Not uttering a word. Avoiding eye contact. I did not want to see her cry. We had talked about her experience before. Each time we talked she mentioned a detail she had not mentioned before. Coming to this meeting I had not known what to expect. I to some extent thought we would just be buddies having coffee and catching up. It happens that I am one of the people she confides in and that conversation that started with her explaining why she is drinking at nine o’clock opened the gates to this moment.

I kept my eyes on her right hand which was rested on the back side of her iPhone that was lying on the table – face down. I started at her nails which had brown stick-ons.

I did not ask her what happened to the baby. Maybe as a journalist, I should have. It would have satisfied the curiosity you have right now. But on that day, I was not a journalist. I was just a friend who was listening. Another thing that experience has taught me is learning to listen. I was not going to intrude into her grief by asking questions that would make her relive the most traumatic moment of her life. If she volunteered the information, well and good. At that time I did not even think that our conversations would make it to one of my Monday stories. I am glad she later granted me permission to use them in a story.

“A part of me died with him. I had him for six months. I was a good mother, then I was not a mother at all, ” she said as more tears rolled down her cheeks.

I wanted to hug her but I did not. I wasn’t sure if it was even appropriate. So I extended my left hand and gently rested it on top of her right hand which was still on her phone. I handed her a napkin with my other hand. She gently dried her tears. I moved my other hand so that she could use both of hers.

“You know we don’t have to talk about this. We can talk about other happier things like your coming final exams or the fact that you are no longer doing graveyard shifts at Kenyatta National Hospital’s pediatric unit for your residency, ” I said trying to change the topic.

“I haven’t talked about this with a lot of people. I feel like I need to let this out. It’s okay if you feel overwhelmed, ” she said.

I understood her. I felt her pain. We had lost a child at birth too about four years ago. We also had had multiple miscarriages. I know how difficult it is to find someone to talk to about these things.

“No, it’s okay. You can talk about anything you want to, ” I said with a gentle smile.

The death of their son left her depressed. She resigned from her job. She hardly took care of herself. She had no idea how to cope. To make matters worse her boyfriend left. One morning he just left as if he was going to work and he never came back. He did not even take his clothes with him. All attempts to mend their relationship failed. She thinks he left because she could not give them a baby. She blames herself for him leaving.

Christine registered for a Masters programme and buried herself in books and her new residency program at Kenyatta National Hospital as a way of dealing with the loss. It was not enough, so when she was not studying or working, she was drinking.

She is almost done with her course work. She still drinks. At times a lot. There wasn’t much I could do other than listen. I gave her contacts to an organization called ‘Still A Mum’ that offers help to women who have lost their babies. It was started by a friend of mine known as Wanjiru Kihusa. They are based in Nairobi. I also gave her my brother’s number. My brother is a psychiatric clinician, I am sure he can be of more help to her or even give her better referrals.When I reached out to her last week, she was yet to contact either of them.

That Monday I missed my eleven o’clock meeting. I don’t regret it though. I picked up the tab to pay the bill but she would not let me.

“This is on me Daniel, I know we are still a little far from month end but let me take it. The next date will be on you,” she said.

I would never let a lady pick the tab on a first date but because she said “month end” and not “end month” I let her settle it. I have never understood people who say “end month” when they mean “month end.” Christine wasn’t one of those people.

The post PART OF ME DIED WITH MY BABY appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

This car that had been a gift he bought himself at the beginning of the year, was perhaps the most important thing he owned at the moment – a 1998 Mercedes Benz C200. He had always wanted an old school car but when buying their first car, he had to settle for a newer family car. His wife had wanted something more reliable that would not keep them at the garage every weekend. He could not wait to buy this ‘baby’ when he made himself some extra money. It also ended the fights over the family car that he shared with his wife. Brian had hated fights. He was brought up in a family where his parents never fought, at least not openly.

Here he was today. Seated in the car staring at the narrow path that led to the one bedroom extension that would become his new home. His car had in it all his earthly belongings; a couple of clothes and an assortment of documents. The nine thousand shillings in his pockets and the few pending invoices he had of clients he had supplied but were yet to pay was the difference between himself and poverty.

The engine was off. The loud bass beats that characterized his presence in the car were silent that evening. There was no four-year-old baby trying to get his own perception of the world by asking his daddy a hundred questions each minute. No hugs from the little man. No kiss on the cheek. Just silence. Silence punctuated by the sound of his own breath, and now that gentle knock on the window.

“Niko sawa, nilikuwa tu kwa simu kidogo,” he responded. A little lie he thought Mike would buy.

His eyes were still teary. He wondered how his life had gotten to this point again. Everything seemed perfect when their life together had started. He had a job his peers would kill for, they had lived in their own home and then there was the adorable four-year-old boy. But now, there was none of that. Just him, the Mercedes and a new whole life he had no idea how to navigate.

Mike was not one of those nosy landlords. He knew how to mind his own business. He looked about two or three years older than Brian but with a heavier build. Lived alone in the main house. Had an eight or nine-year-old girl who visited over the weekends. I think I would like to have a landlord like Mike, you probably would too. This place was perfect for a do-over. The tranquility of Milimani. No nosy neighbors to ask him a tone of questions regarding why he was moving out here alone.

Brian had seen it all. At 25 he had made his first million bob. This was back in 2006 when a million bob still meant something. You could walk with it into Al-Husnain Motors and get an ex-Japan Toyota Premio – the one they call Premio Nyoka. It was the in thing then. You would still have enough change left to fill your tank and do some shopping for your mum. When you bought a new car back in the day, you had to drive it home and show it to your mother first. It was a huge achievement that your mother had to be given an opportunity to brag about to fellow women at the next chama meeting.

Brian did not buy a car with his first million. In fact, it was a little over a million from a clean business deal. Not government tenders. Not kickbacks. No godfathers. Just a young man working his ass one tiny project at a time.

Brian was a jogger too – not a marathoner but a guy who jogged in the evenings and at times in the morning. He paced his life pretty much the same way he paced his jogging. When out for an evening run he gave himself simple targets; “let me run until that bend” he would tell himself. When he got to the bend he would set a new target. Once in a while after running through a number of targets he would stop to walk a little, reward himself with a sip from his water bottle and would start running again and repeat the process until his target for the evening was done. He applied this with his professional life too.

But Brian had also had his fair share of misfortunes. He had surrounded himself with a lot of people to mask his loneliness. When he had made his first million he had just suffered a breakup that led to a suicide attempt. Deep inside he was emotionally unstable. Most of it from unattended to stress. His girlfriend of two years had brought another man to their bed when he was away traveling for work. He came home to find used condoms in the trash bin. At first, he had found two used cups in the sink. This would not have raised any suspicion but somehow the sight of the two cups made his heart stop. It’s like the universe was giving him a sign. Something told him to look through the trash and boom! There he was, staring at used condoms rolled in tissue paper just the same way she had always rolled their condoms.

He felt his heart sink. Their relationship had been a bit rocky over the past few weeks but he did not expect to come home to this. He did not expect her to disrespect their house like this. When he was going on his trip she had seen him off to the bus station. They had held hands on the way there. They had hugged a little longer before he got into the bus. When he took his seat by the window she was still standing down there waving and smiling. Braving the chill and light evening drizzle. Brian was sure he would come back home to a much better relationship. Then this hit him.

He couldn’t stare at the couch without thinking they had probably had sex there. Despite the Kisumu heat, he couldn’t get into the shower to take a bath without thinking about what they could have possibly done there that weekend when he was away. He got into the bedroom trying to get a fresh set of clothes, the sight of their bed disgusted him. He knew it had been defiled.

He opened his closet and was met with the open box of Femiplan Condoms. Brian had always used Femiplan Condoms with his girlfriend. She was sensitive to hormonal based contraceptives so they settled on using condoms. This was his preferred brand. Not too expensive. Studded and had a lovely strawberry scent. He did not love condoms but it’s the only way they had sex. Their sex life was somewhat boring but they had a great emotional and intellectual connection.

Brian had studied enterprise development, he helped organizations develop sustainable social enterprises. His girlfriend was a nurse who was pursuing a public health degree at a local university over the weekends. They rarely had sex, partly because of their demanding professional lives, partly because Brian hated condoms which would have probably meant the sex was not all that -apart from the few days they had had raw sex.

But here he was, staring at his own condoms. They did not just have sex in their house and on their bed. They used his condoms. I don’t know which of those finished him more.

Brian was distraught. He went and bought a poisonous substance to end his life but not before he confronted his girlfriend and knew why she had decided to betray him like this. He did confront her when she came home that evening.

“What were you looking for in the trash?” She had replied.

That response cut through his soul. He felt betrayed by his best friend. That she did not even try to deny it caused him more pain. He sat on their bed looking at her sitting at the small plastic study table they had fitted in their bedroom for her school work, wondering what had gotten into her. He remembered the day they walked to the bus station holding hands saying nothing with their mouths but a lot with their hearts and gentle stares into each other’s eyes. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. He sobbed. Painfully. He called his mother. He was ready to forgive her but she would not even talk to his mother. His heart broke. His mother’s heart broke too on the other end of the line. She felt sorry for his son. She was worried. That evening she couldn’t sleep. She knew his son, she knew how fragile his heart was. Her instincts were right.

That night, Brian had attempted to kill himself. It was his third and last suicide attempt.

Here he was six years later, feeling lost again. Wondering why unhappiness had to stalk him everywhere he turned.

It took him about 15 minutes to move his bags from the car to the house. He had dropped everything in one corner of the sitting room. There was a mattress on the sitting room floor. His friend had brought it with her earlier when they had come to pay a deposit and rent for the house. They came in her car. He liked the place as soon as he saw it and paid without haggling over the rent.

His friend lived close by. She had convinced him they pass by her place on their way back to town to get some bedding. Brian didn’t mind sleeping on the hard floor, he was just happy that he had finally decided to move out – far away from the violence.

The previous day had been a Sunday. Brian had gone to close some business deal that took longer than expected. It was one of those deals men close in a bar. He had frequently updated his wife on the status – not really on his own will but because he knew how crazy she could get. When he was done he called her to tell her he was coming home. She had told him to stay wherever he was. That she would not open the door for him.

Brian got home to find the padlock to the gate changed. He jumped over and knocked on the door. Silence. His phone calls went unanswered. He got back to the car and drove to a guest house in Milimani. He spent the night there. In the morning he drove back home to change and go to work. His wife demanded to know where he had spent the night. He explained in detail trying so hard to keep calm. Brian hated fights but he loathed morning fights more. They spoiled his entire day. There was however no escaping one this morning.

“Sasa ulikuwa na hao malaya wako, si ndiyo?” She had shouted.

Brian kept quiet.

“Unaniona mimi ni mjinga nakuongelesha na unanyamaza,” she said grabbing Brian by the collar of his shirt and pushing him towards the wall.

He never fought back or hit his wife. He managed to get her hands off his neck and push her away to free himself. She came back charging with her head like a bull. The impact throwing Brian’s back against the wall. He hit the back of his head.

Their son who was asleep woke up and sat by the edge of the bed. He was watching in silence. Not crying. Just staring. It was hard to imagine what was going on in his head. Difficult to know if he understood what was unfolding right in front of his young eyes.

“Stop. I can’t do this anymore. Let me pick up my things and go. I will continue supporting you and the baby as I have always done. Just let me go,” Brian had told her.

Brian loved his son. He was the best thing to have happened in his life. He did not want him growing up thinking it’s okay to be violent. If he stayed here, that was exactly what was going to happen.

“Toka, rudi kwa hao malaya wako,” she shouted moving to his side of the closet and starting to throw his stuff on the floor.

Brian took out his traveling suitcases and threw the clothes inside. Once in a while she would stop him to pick an item she had gifted him. He was only to carry the things he had bought. It did not take long before he had his clothes and documents in the car. He drove off with tears rolling down his cheeks as his wife hurled unprintable words. The neighbors watched in disbelief. They were not so surprised though. If they were it was about how a man like Brian could be so cool in such a situation. How he could leave behind his son and their house just like that. There were rumors that she had cast a spell over him circulating in the neighborhood.

He left without knowing where he would spend the night. He was lucky to find this house online. Lucky that the landlord was likable. Lucky that he still had this one friend he could count on.

When he was done setting things down in the house he cried. He cried bitterly for his son. He asked him to forgive him for bringing him into this life. He wasn’t sure about his belief in God but he prayed and asked him to take away the suicidal thoughts and feeling of defeat. He felt peaceful after.

That night Brian slept on the mattress on the floor. It was a cold night. He had no curtains on the windows. He stared at the light outside with tears still rolling down his cheeks until he fell asleep. He had eaten nothing that night.

That night marked a fresh start for his new life.The day he walked away from a relationship that would have killed him or sent him to prison for murder leaving behind an orphaned son. Painful, but he hoped it will get better when morning light comes in.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Sam was the neighborhood drunk. Not that he drunk more than anyone else in the hood or sang the loudest when he was staggering home at 10 PM – he was actually not the type that sang. Maybe staggered once in a while but he never sang – at least not when staggering home.

Sam was witty, intelligent, exposed and a drunk. There were worse drunks in the hood but because he came from a particular family his drinking was more conspicuous. Let me take you back a bit.

Sam was born in the UK. So were his elder sister and younger brother. His firstborn brother was born in Kenya before their parents moved to the UK on a diplomatic assignment. Being children of diplomats they did not assume UK citizenship despite being born there. In the late 80s, there was a major political development in Kenya and because they belonged to a tribe that was considered rebels by the Moi regime their parents were recalled from the UK assignment. Their dad settled for a university teaching job, their mum was lucky to still get a government job but was posted to Kisumu. That is when they came down here. We moved into the neighborhood around the same time with them.

Growing up Sam was everything I wanted to be. Spoke good English with just the right amount of twang – of course, he had to speak good English. He was neighbors with the Queen!

Sam loved the local. He typically lived there. You see everyone who drinks at a local is an alcoholic – let’s not argue about this. There is no social drinking at the local, everyone there wants to get high.

There are those like Sam who literally live at the local. They check-in in the morning say 10 AM and won’t leave till 10 PM. Sam did not need to have money to drink. He did not have a job, his siblings did not send him money and neither his dad nor Nyarseme his mum – a staunch Anglican would give him money knowing the drunk he is and how much of their money he already wasted in school.

Sam, as I said, was very bright. In 1994 he scored 625 marks out of a possible 700 at Pandipieri Primary School in Nyalenda, Kisumu. Was the first time anyone was getting anything above 500 marks at Pandi (as we called it then, the ‘pieri’ suffix was too vulgar to be pronounced aloud by kids my age) and would be the last time.

He was admitted to Mangu High School where he only lasted two months before being expelled. He would be expelled from Six other schools before finally landing at Mbeji Academy in Siaya. His crimes were always smoking, alcohol, sneaking out through the fence and petty theft – at least that is what he told us.

Mbeji Academy back then was the school where rich parents took their children who have defeated their eyes – when you hear a Luo parent say “nyathini otamo wang’a,” know it’s bad. If that parent was rich they would take ‘nyathi ma otamo wang’gi’ to Mbeji.

The conversation with their friends would be something like,
“an aol yawa. Be asetemo ndii. We watere atera Mbeji dipo ka owuok gi certificate wamanyo kumoro watere.” These rich kids, their parents always hooked them up with everything from schools to jobs.

My mother Nyakisumo would only say “nyathi ma okalo penj iluongo gi barua.” There was nothing like finding you a school. You went to the school you were called to. You could not even dream of being suspended from school leave alone being expelled. There wereno barua schools sent to ‘luongo expelled students.’ If you tried that BS in Nyakisumo’s house you were on your own.

I don’t know if there was a version of Mbeji Academy for girls.

Mbeje never had that much form ones. By the nature of their business they mostly had form 3s and 4s. It was the place you were taken just to finish high school. The rules were relaxed. It was like campus life in High School. They had six different uniforms – not pairs of uniform but different uniforms!

They had uniforms for Monday and Friday, Uniforms for School Outings, Uniforms for when their school was hosting an event and so on….

They ate fish and chicken and chapo – yaani kids ate chapo in a boarding school. Something some of us only saw at Christmas and if your parents were Jehovah’s Witnesses like mine and did not celebrate Christmas you only saw it on Viusasa (lol, we ate enough chapos though).

I still wonder how Sam was expelled from Mbeji Academy too. Fidel Odinga was never expelled from Mbeji, Otieno Didi was not expelled from Mbeji….I could go on mentioning a lot of people who were not expelled from Mbeji but somehow Sam got himself expelled from Mbeji. Being expelled from Mbeji can be compared to the devil throwing a sinner out of hell. That had to be special.

The story according to Sam was that one day as his colleagues were asleep he collected their shoe yiote, put them in a sack, made a hole in the fence and sold them in the village. He had done this before with textbooks but thought he should try shoes. He needed the money to buy chang’aa. He did not tell us how much he sold the shoes for. The following day was a market day some of the students had asked for permission to go out to buy new shoes – these rich kids just had money enough to buy new shoes just lying around. At the market, they stumbled upon a seller who tried to sell them their own shoes. He was frogmarched to the school with the help of the villagers. Sam did not wait to be expelled. The moment he heard someone had been arrested with the stolen shoes he made good use of the hole in the fence. He did not even take his box or other items that were of value to him during his school life at Mbeji.

Sam’s story with education could have ended here but thank God for a system that allowed for private candidates and Alliance Francaise. I do not know what he scored at KCSE. He speaks fluent French and German too.

Sam’s father being the university lecturer he was had a huge library in the house. We would borrow the World Book Encyclopedia and Encyclopedia Britanica from their library. I only know two people who have read the entire volumes from cover to cover – one was my father (he used to send us to borrow them for him from Sam’s house) and Sam.

You could not start a conversation on any topic under the sun that Sam could not constructively chip in. He was also very witty. He was creative with his hands and mind. When not drinking he was always fabricating stuff. The first time I heard someone talk about a ‘scroll saw’ it was him. He wanted to create something that he could only do with a scroll saw and because he could not afford one he made one from scratch! Google to see how complicated that machine is, then imagine Sam making one from scratch.

Remember I said he had no job, so how did he support his drinking? His brightness and wit got him free drinks at the locals. He was such a witty storyteller. At times he would surprise strangers by making an informed comment about a discussion they were having. Once in a while, he got some money from repairing electronics for people or from his wife when she wanted to buy his affection. I did not tell you he was married and with three kids. The oldest is in form one now. A very sharp girl. Let’s stay with the wife here a bit.

Sam had a wife he always referred to as his mother’s wife. He called her so because it’s his mother who insisted he marry her when she got pregnant with their first daughter. The lady was a girl from the hood. Not from a family, Sam would have imagined that someone of his caliber – here we are talking family, should be marrying from. Class difference.

He did not love Nyamalo as she was fondly referred to in the hood. But Nyarseme being Nyarseme stuck to her guns…so they lived together for a few weeks before Sam sneaked to go to Nairobi. Life in Nairobi was a little too difficult and he soon returned. Back to life as he had left it just that this time he built himself an extension in his mum’s compound. Nyamalo was never allowed in that two-room extension. She was a persona non-grata in his little cubicle.

So Nyamalo slept in the main house with Nyarseme and her daughter. She would only come into the cubicle to clean it or to set Sam his breakfast or dinner. He was never home at lunchtime and he rarely touched his breakfast still he will cause too much drama if breakfast was not brought.

There were days Nyamalo slept in the cubicle though. These were days he bribed Sam with a little drinking money. That would probably earn her two or three days sleeping in the same bed with this guy who came home dead drunk each night.

One day I asked Sam how come he had three kids who look exactly like him if he really hated this woman the way he claimed.

“You know Nyamalo tricks me when I am high. I have told you before that is my mother’s wife not my wife.”

That must have been some serious tricks…But Sam loved his children. He just loved his drink a little more.

There are only two people I almost speak to exclusively in Luo. One is Tonny Ovich and the other is Sam. We were sitting at the Java on West End Mall. I was helping Sam renew his driver’s license. Sam, a guy who taught himself how to drive by stealing his dad’s Mazda 323 while in class six has not driven in over a decade. He had no idea that you no longer go to KRA to renew your driver’s license.

As the rest of us embraced technology people like Sam had stayed behind. He is now on WhatsApp though and on Facebook. Twitter is still a foreign concept but I am sure he will catch up.

When I lift my eyes up from my keyboard to take a sip of my ice tea with passion juice he opens his mouth:

“Omera Dan, I always knew ni you will make it. Ne inga focused chakre chon owadgi Orengo.”

I honestly do not know how to respond to that so I just smile. Sam thinks I have made it in life – but that’s because he doesn’t know much about me. We try to keep in touch but he only knows what he sees – which is what everyone else sees, the things I let them. No, I haven’t made it yet but I am not going to burst Sam’s bubble with facts. Maybe I am the only person he looks up to and imagine what making him realize it’s not all that might do to him. Not today, maybe never.

Sam is about to embark on his second real estate project. He just finished putting up a 12 – units apartment block at Polyview. His first tenant got in in September, now all the 12 houses are occupied.

Sam does a thorough background check on his potential tenants. You have to provide him with a one-year bank statement and/or payslips for a similar duration. Each of the units fetches Sh. 25,000 every month.

By now you are wondering how he could afford this. See Sam’s dad made good money as a diplomat and during his days teaching at the University. He had bought several properties in Nairobi, Mombasa, and Kisumu.

He is now unwell and he did not want to die when one of his kids was still unstable financially. So one day he called Sam to Homabay where he now lives and told him the only way he would inherit a cent from him was if he quit alcohol and took control of his life. He showed him his final will and testament which had left Sam out because of his drinking.

That is the day Sam quit drinking. Six months later his father gave him money to set up apartments at a plot they owned in Polyview. This was two and a half years ago.

Today he has just gotten a loan from KCB which he intends to use in putting up another apartment block in Kanyamedha. He says this one will be for his daughters.

I am so proud of Sam, proud of the turnaround he has made in his life and I am happy for the kids.

He is still not living with Nyamalo but if ninja stopped drinking, it’s just about time till that is worked out too.

We talk about the past, the people we grew up with. Some still go to the same locals we went to. The Alcoholics. You see at the local there are peeps like Sam who came in in the morning through the back door. Locals defying Mututho laws always have a secret entrance. Then there are the functional alcoholics who come in at 5 PM after work through the front door. Drink till midnight and go home to their depressed wives. They wake up with a hangover, do not take breakfast. At times they have to sneak out of the office at 10 AM ‘to remove lock.’ They think they are not alcoholics.

Most of these people drink because they are frustrated with something, some have just realized they can never rise to the occasion so they sink into drinks. No, woman would want you touching her when she was already dead asleep and definitely not when your breath is reeking of alcohol. She has resigned herself to being serviced by the bodaboda guy. If she is rich she has a Ben 10 in one of those houses in Nyalenda Railways. She is only staying with you because of the kids. You are not bothered either. She got her Ben 10, you got your booze. This is the real definition of a win-win. Others have dysfunctional families, there is the guy with a boss who screams at the slightest opportunity.

Then there are people like Sam who did not even know why they were drinking – but it was the only thing they could do.

The Sam sitting on the opposite end of the table on this hot Ksimu afternoon was a very different Sam, one I never imagined I would ever meet.

BTW in the first paragraph I said “the Java on West End Mall,” that was not necessary because there is only one Java in Kisumu. It’s at West End Mall.

Sam, has made it. If he stays this way he will never know poverty in his lifetime.

Featured Image Courtesy of Adobe Stock.

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The voices on the other end were frantic. He had seen a couple of tweets about a bank robbery in progress somewhere on Riverside Drive but had not paid much attention to it, this is Nairobi. These things happen. The first call was from a friend who works at one of the companies on 14 Riverside Drive.

“Ogolla please come and help us we are under attack, there has been a huge blast and now there are gunshots everywhere,” said the friend.

But as he was still speaking on phone to this particular friend someone else was calling asking for his help in finding out if her husband who worked at the Dusit Complex was okay. She could not reach him on his phone. Then there was a journalist friend who called seeking help in tracing several other people.

This was all within ten minutes since the attack began and Ogola was still in his house. No, it was, in fact, a terrorist attack and not a bank robbery. But why were these people calling him and how was he supposed to help?

He is not known as a digital humanitarian for no reason. Ogola has on several occasions used his digital skills for public good in cases of crisis such as accidents, disasters, and even terror attacks – in September 2013, he was among the first people to arrive at Westgate Shopping mall during a terror attack setting up a digital command center that would help link those trapped inside the building with rescue teams and their families. The attack lasted more than three days and when the guns became silent Ogola went through a difficult psychological breakdown.

More than five years later Ogola was being called back to action and as a good ‘digital soldier’ he did not think twice about it. Armed only with a laptop, a phone and charging cables for both he drove to the nearest Red Cross office, parked his car and jumped onto an ambulance headed to ‘ground zero.’

Ogola is a former Red Cross employee where he used to work with the digital communications team. His understanding of the organization’s processes and their familiarity with his work made it easier for him to volunteer his services to the rescue mission.

While in the ambulance driving towards the site of the attack, Ogola decided to set up a Whatsapp group. This group had the people who were sending him contacts of their loved ones they wanted information on, Red Cross staff, police officers involved in the rescue mission and people trapped inside the building whose contacts they had verified.

READ: HOW LESSONS FROM THE PAST HELPED SAVE LIVES IN TUESDAY’S TERROR ATTACK

Ogola said the first thing he did when reaching ground zero was to set up a digital command center where he would filter social media posts about the attack and relay relevant information to the rescue teams.

“I have a digital tool which I used to filter all social media posts that were coming from this location. People trapped in the building were terrified and they were sharing posts asking for help. Most of them were even oblivious of the kind of danger they were exposing themselves to because even the terrorists could use that information and harm them. I identified those posts and communicated back to them through direct messages. I introduced myself to them to gain their trust as I sought to find more information about where they were and relay the same to the rescue teams,” explains Ogola.

He says he added up to 124 people in the Whatsapp group he created through the contacts he was getting from his communication with those who were asking for help on Twitter and Facebook.

“Most of these people were in groups of between ten to thirty. We would get all their contacts and add a couple to the Whatsapp group. We advised them to switch off their phones and only leave a few so that at any given time we would have someone to talk to. When one person was running low on battery someone else who had their phone turned off would be asked to switch theirs on,” he continued.

Through the Whatsapp group, Ogola would also update friends and relatives of those trapped on their status.

“They told us exactly where they were in the group and how many they are. We also gave them advice on things to do as the rescue teams worked on getting them out. At times when there were blasts or gunshots, we would explain to them exactly what was happening – whether it was police officers detonating grenades laid by the attackers or officers engaging the attackers.”

The night was a long one, but each time a group was rescued it gave him and the other teams more drive to continue until the last person was out.

“It was stressing, at times families would be asking for information about their loved ones and you are still not in a position to locate them or deliver the information they are hoping for. When we had groups of those rescued coming out and thanking us or giving us a hug it encouraged me to press on.”

He says the hardest part of the night was breaking to those following up with him for information on their loved ones that the people they were looking for did not make it.

“Not all the people we were trying to trace made it out alive,” he says then pauses for a couple of seconds.

I could hear his breath on the other side of the phone line getting heavier, you could tell from his voice that he was struggling to control his emotions. I apologize for making him relive this moment.

“I remember there was one woman who kept asking about her son. I had known by then that he had died but I did not know how to break it to them so I bought time, sending them round in circles till morning when I directed them to the psychosocial support team. I did not know how to break it to them.”

That though would not save him from dealing with them after.

“The guy was Luo and I think the mum recognized my last name and knew I was Luo to. She came back to me and spoke in Luo asking me how come we could not save his son. I have never felt so helpless,” he says.

Ogola spent more than 18 hours at the site, by the time he was done his feet were swollen, he could not wear his shoes anymore. He was exhausted both physically and mentally. He was also hungry – all this while he had not had a proper meal. He says he had to walk to Chiromo Funeral Home to get an ambulance that could take him back to the Red Cross office to pick his car and go get something to eat.

When I first reached out to him on Friday about this story Ogola was on his way to a therapy session. It would be the third one since Wednesday. He had decided to go for therapy this time after experiencing a breakdown following his involvement in the rescue mission at Westgate. He says he sunk into depression, drunk too much and even became suicidal.

“I would scream in the middle of the night. I had dreams of gunshots and explosions. At times I smelled blood and dead bodies. I could not drive for weeks. I did not want to go through that experience again, that’s why I am for therapy.”

Ogola is happy that many people were rescued this time around and appreciates the response from the police and emergency crews. He, however, believes that authorities should also include a digital response strategy having seen firsthand how effective it is as a tool for both information dissemination and rescue efforts coordination is as a tool.

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The doctors told my dad to take me home and make me comfortable. There was nothing else they could do, I had about 14 days to live. I had gone to the hospital able to walk on my own but now I had to be wheeled out in a wheelchair – the death sentence from the doctors has sucked the life out of me.

Those are the words of 17-year-old Winnie Rukia. She is describing a moment from 4 years ago when a doctor at Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital had given her dad a status report of her high-grade sarcoma – a fast-growing tumor on her brain. She had pretended to be asleep but heard everything the doctor said to her dad. The countdown to the end of her life had begun, 14 days is all she had and comfort was all the doctor could prescribe. This is the largest hospital in Western Kenya and the only public hospital offering cancer treatment at the time.

Her friends visited to encourage her, people from her mother’s church came to pray with her but she still remembers the nights she couldn’t sleep. How could she when 14 days is all she had left in this world? They were frightening she says.

Before she went to the hospital she had no idea she had been diagnosed with cancer. For about a month she had had itches on the right side of her scalp. As she scratched more it turned into a wound. Her dad who worked at a hospital took her there to get treatment, little did he know that his second-born daughter would be diagnosed with cancer. When the diagnosis came he had no idea of how to break the news to her daughter. He told her they had to go to a hospital in Eldoret for surgery but she had no idea it was because she had a tumor in her brain.

I met Winnie during the ‘Cancer Conquerors’ Walk’ in Kisumu, she and several other survivors marched through the streets of Kisumu city to create awareness on cancer, fight stigma and create publicity for a breast and cervical cancer screening that was being held at Kisumu Hospice and Palliative Care Center for the next two days.

Winnie removes a white hat she was wearing. The hat had concealed a healed scar on the right side of her head – the scar has a diameter of about five centimeters. We were having this interview in a shade outside the Kisumu Hospice and Palliative Care Center. The hospice is located inside the main referral hospital in Kisumu and for a long time was the only place cancer patients from Western Kenya could get subsidized chemotherapy and hormonal therapy for breast cancer survivors. To date, there is no facility in Western Kenya offering radiotherapy.

It’s here that Winnie’s countdown to her time of death ended about four years ago. One morning when she just had six days left in her countdown her dad told her he needed to take her somewhere. They came to the hospice.

I remember it was a Tuesday morning. Dad told me we needed to try a form of treatment called chemotherapy. I was wheeled into a room and put on a drip. I started feeling much better after the first treatment. The six days I was waiting for passed, I was getting more energetic. On the day I was to die I started walking albeit with a little help, it was a miracle. People who did not expect me to get better thought I was putting on the last show. On the seventh day, I was back to the hospice for my second session of chemo. When I went for the third session I went alone using public transport. People at the hospice could not believe it.

Winnie was too young to worry about the cost of her treatment. She just wanted to get better and get back to her journey of becoming a lawyer. She, however, knows that the treatment she received was very expensive. She says that as a lawyer she will earn enough money to donate some to cancer patients especially children from humble backgrounds.

Winnie is a member of the Kisumu Cancer Support Group, the groups which were founded at Kisumu Hospice and Palliative Care Center plays a very important role when it comes to counseling of the patients. Here they come with various needs, others have had their diagnosis revealed to them in a shocking way, some are dealing with denial and several others are dealing with difficulties in financing their treatment.

At the hospice, I also met Rita Opondo. Rita is a Secondary School teacher and an official of the Kisumu Cancer Support Group. She had a mastectomy operation about three years ago. She describes her journey in conquering breast cancer as “hectic.”

Hectic because at the point of her diagnosis, she had no idea how she would cater to her treatment. Her doctor prescribed a ‘radical’ treatment which involved eight sessions of chemotherapy and five sessions of radiotherapy. She could get chemotherapy at the hospice for Ksh. 15,000 (approx USD 150) a session. Quite expensive for a public servant like Rita.

For radiotherapy she needed to travel to Nairobi. Kenyatta National Hospital is the only public hospital offering radiotherapy in Kenya. Being a national referral hospital which also at times serves patients from other East African countries, congestion is a real issue.

I wanted to go for radiotherapy but here in Nyanza, there is none. I could have gone to Kenyatta (National Hospital) but when I thought of the queues and at times there were breakdowns of the (radiotherapy) machines. At times I would be told to wait for one month and by that time the lump (in my breasts) seemed to be growing fast and I was worried. I knew the consequences (of not having this treatment fast enough).

She considered going for treatment at a Private Hospital in Nairobi, but she later realized she could not afford the treatment. Rita was lucky enough to find a doctor at Mulago Hospital in Uganda who could offer the same treatment at a more manageable cost. Ksh. 150,000 (approx USD 1,500) was all she needed.

Radiotherapy was not very successful, mastectomy was inevitable. Rita is grateful that the kind doctors at Mulago Hospital managed to do the operation to save her life despite not having enough money to cater for it.

Rita who was all smiley was now a bit emotional. Her narration of the process brought tears to her eyes.

She, however, wishes that the cost of treatment locally was manageable. She still regrets that she had to go to Uganda for a procedure that would have been done locally.

It feels bad. It’s actually a pity that we don’t support our patients as much. At the time I was getting my treatment I was really discouraged by the kind of service I got from our insurer. I went to AON Minet (the insurance service provider for public school teachers) and they told me they don’t cover cancer treatment. I cried. When I asked why they told me ‘it’s one of the new diseases.’

I went to NHIF (National Health Insurance Fund) and asked them what role they could play for me. They said that since we had deserted them to AON (AON Minet) they are not going to do anything for me. The person I was talking to was very rude. I cried. That was a painful moment.

Rita took a loan to facilitate her treatment. A loan she is not done paying. Her family also chipped in. She asks me what happens to people who don’t have government jobs and can’t access loans?

According to statistics from Kenya’s ministry of health, there are about 40,000 new cancer diagnosis every year. More than half of these patients die due to late diagnosis. Several others are driven to seek treatment outside the country due to congestion at the public hospitals that offer cancer treatment or the high cost of treatment in private hospitals. India remains a favorite destination for thousands of these patients.

Last year alone, Kenya patients spent about Ksh. 10 billion (approx USD 100 million) in cancer treatment in India. President Uhuru Kenyatta acknowledged this during a trip to India.

We are very grateful that India has opened up its facilities to our people and over 10,000 Kenyans are coming for various medical treatments.

-President Uhuru Kenyatta

President Kenyatta hopes that a lot more cancer patients can be saved if Indian doctors invested in health facilities in Kenya. His own government has however made little investment in cancer treatment despite the worrying figures of new diagnosis.

There exists an opportunity to expand that number from 10,000 to well over 100,000 by developing those facilities in Kenya. You would be able to triple your business and it’s beneficial to you and to us.

-President Uhuru Kenyatta.

For now, recovering patients like Winnie and Rita will continue marching on the streets every October, hoping to create much awareness about this disease that has robbed them of part of their bodies. Hoping and praying that such awareness would lead to having more responsive doctors who will go out of their way for their patients and a public health system that makes treatment of cancer and other terminal illnesses affordable for all Kenyans.

It is already painful enough to have this disease, we should not add the pain of not being able to afford treatment to it.

– Rita Opondo, Kisumu Cancer Support Group.

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As I am putting together this piece, the hash tag #HelpBabyElsaFightCancer is trending. Elsa is 3 years old and was diagnosed with Wilm’s Tumor when she was barely two and a half years.  One of her kidneys had to be removed but that did not stop the cancer from advancing. She now needs to raise funds for treatment in India.

#MyPastorOnceToldMe United we stand… #HelpBabyElsaFightCancer pic.twitter.com/hHwK9wuw5W

— Raila Odinga (@Raila_AOdinga) October 9, 2016

The people behind the hash tag are probably hoping that their crowd funding initiative will be as successful as it was for Emmanuel Otieno, popularly known as “Jadudi.” Two years ago Jadudi needed to travel to India for a surgery to remove a tumor from his brain. He needed Ksh. 1 million (about USD 10,000) for his surgery and  accomodation in India. His family had spent all their savings on the 28 radio therapy sessions he had already had in Kenya and two surgeries. A popular blogger told the story of his plight and set up the hash tag #1Milli4Jadudi. In 48 hours, Kenyans had raised six times the required amount.

Not everyone though is as lucky as Jadudi was. I met up with him about a week ago at a popular restaurant in Kisumu. It was my first time meeting him despite the  fact that we live in the same city. I wanted to see how he is fairing on but it turned out we were meeting just about four months after he had had another major surgery in India.

“I can say it’s God who has been helping me, I have seen patients struggle with treatment.” .

The national health insurance came in during the mass appeal for funds for his treatment and fully catered for the bill as people started to question why they are not involved. The funds raised for him through the Africa Cancer Center were channeled towards helping other patients who could not afford treatment.

@jadudi ‘s case should be an opportunity for us to change how #cancer is managed in KE, we all need to stand w/ him #1milli4jadudi @Pawa254

— #Cancersoldiers (@Eddahs_Hope) August 4, 2015

The National Health Insurance Fund (NHIF) would soon thereafter claim that patients with NHIF cover could get free treatment in Kenya but that is yet to be actualized.

“When I am feeling well I help with counselling patients. The main problem they face is their inability to finance treatment. NHIF tells you they cater for radio therapy and chemotherapy but patients are told they have to pay for two sessions out of every three that the insurance pays for,” explains Jadudi.

Even for those who can afford cancer treatment still find it a bit steep in Kenya. There are about only five hospitals offering radio therapy in Nairobi, one of which is a public hospital.

Kenyatta National Hospital (KNH) which is a public teaching and referral hospital in Nairobi only has one functional radio therapy equipment which occasionally breaks down. Patients seeking treatment have to wait for months to get scheduled for radio therapy.

There are no public hospitals offering the service outside Nairobi thereby increasing pressure on the machine.

Dr. J.N. Onyango who is a retired oncologist says the main problem facing cancer treatment in Kenya is the lack of decentralization of treatment centers. He was the first Kenyan oncologist working at the Cancer Center at KNH and claims his efforts to decentralize cancer treatment faced political interference.

“We had a plan to build a cancer center right here in Kisumu  and even procured radiotherapy equipment but that plan was never actualized. Politics came in the way and no single oncologist was ever posted here to use the equipment.”

Dr. Onyango now runs Kisumu Hospice and Palative Care Centre at Jaramogi Oginga Odinga Teaching and Referal Hospital in Kisumu. The center offers patients with subsidized chemotherapy, hormonal therapy and immunotherapy.

During a recent Statehouse Summit the Health Cabinet Secretary DR. Cleopa Mailu acknowledged that cancer treatment remains a challenge with only one treatment center in Niarobi. He talked about the government’s plan to setup satellite treatment centers across the 47 counties of Kenya.

Dr. Onyango however warns that such a move must be followed up with proper equipment and trained personnel.

“We have a cancer center here in Kisumu but it’s not functional because it lacks staff and equipment. The center is being run by nurses who keep referring patients to Nairobi or pushing forward their appointments until a volunteer doctor from Aga Khan Hospital comes over.”

“A cancer center must have radio therapy equipment and a trained oncologist who can give both radiotherapy and chemotherapy. Then you also need personnel who understand other forms of treatment such as hormonal therapy and immunotherapy which are crucial in treatment of breast cancer and prostrate cancer.”

Those who are already sick though cannot wait for these services and in most cases are left with no option but to seek treatment abroad.

Mrs. Rosa Okwaro who is also one of the founding members of Kisumu Hospice spent more than Ksh. 5 million (about USD 50,000) in one year in treatment for her daughter Karyna who had cancer too. She eventually had to send her to India when the cost of treatment became unbearable.

“One dose of chemotherapy at Nairobi Hospital costs about Ksh. 200, 000 (about USD 2,000) while the same costs about Ksh. 12,000 in India (about USD 120).”

Karyna died in 2012 after a long battle with cancer.

Like Dr. Onyango, Jadudi looks forward to a time when treatment for cancer patients will either be more affordable or at least fully covered NHIF.

“I am not fully recovered. I live with strong migraines and I use very strong painkillers. My NHIF cover is supposed to cover for the drugs at public hospitals but most of the time when I go there they are out of stock. I still spend so much money on medication and God forbid I get to need another surgery.”

It’s however not all gloom, for Jadudi who has now become a cancer champion. This October he is organizing events to create awareness about cancer in Kisumu in collaboration with Kisumu Hospice. He hopes that through sensitization he could help people get tested and treated early for cancer, influence lifestyle changes and fight stigma against cancer patients.

As I walk out Dr. Onyango’s office, one of the patients he is monitoring comes in. She had a mastectomy about two years ago but could not afford cancer treatment. She is an informal trader who sells roasted maize by the roadside. The Hospice has helped her find a donor to pay for chemotherapy and hormonal therapy which she really needs to cope with her current conditions.

Not many Kenyans however are usually lucky enough to successfully run fundraisers on social media or get donors to fund their treatment. To them, the words “you have a tumor” are as good as a death sentence.

PHOTO: Jadudi Sharing a light moment with his nephew at home. / Image Credit: Dennis Okore

The post Why getting diagnosed with cancer could be a death sentence in Kenya appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

Even though Eddy successfully cleared his name from the allegation, he has been rather quiet regarding his political ambition despite several candidates showing interest in his current seat. We sat down with him to find out why.

OW: Are you running for office in the coming general elections?

Eddy: I am yet to decide whether I am going to run for any political office in the coming elections. There are things that I had pledged to the voters in my ward to deliver before the next elections but I am yet to so I want to focus on them before deciding to go back to them.

OW: What are these promises you are talking about?

Eddy: I represent one of the wards with the most number of unemployed youths in this county. I have done a lot to create job opportunities for these young citizens of Kisumu both in the private and public sector. When supermarkets and retail chains are opening in Kisumu, I am usually at the fore front of bargaining for employment slots for young people in the ward.

OW: We have heard rumors that you are silent about your political ambition because you intend to be Dr. McObewa’s running mate in his race to unseat Gov. Jack Ranguma.

Eddy: I do not know where you heard that from. People say all manner of things in politics.

OW: Has McObewa’s team approached you?

Eddy: I have been approached by several people to run with them for office in the coming general elections. One instance was in Migori County but I turned it down.

OW: Who was it?

Eddy: I won’t say.

OW: In which other county were you approached to run as Deputy Governor?

Eddy: I can’t say that too.

OW: Who are you supporting in the race for Kisumu Governor?

Eddy: When that time comes I will let you know. I however hate the divisive direction Kisumu politics is currently taking pitting the natives against people from other parts of the country. The so called “oluwo reru.” Kisumu’s economy is controlled by people from outside Kisumu and they have to be respected. I can confidently say that they have not had their fair share of representation in the current government. The next government of this county has to reflect Kisumu’s ethnic diversity.

I am one of the people who started the Oluwo Reru movement to fight for residents who are not from the native Kisumu clans. This movement was not against Governor Ranguma but it was hijacked by a few self centered individuals who are now using it to push for their own political agenda.

Eddy is keeping his cards close to his chest, and his next political move is up for anyone’s guess. If he is however interested in defending his seat or running for the Kisumu Central seat then his competitors could be a little a head of him and he will need to work twice as hard as he did in 2012 to win this.

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