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Dear Pendo

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Dear Pendo

You don’t know me, but the first thing I’d like to say is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that our country let you down and put you down before you learnt the beauty of dreams. Come to think of it; I’m struggling with dreams these last few days, at least good dreams for Kenya.

I got to know of you the day after the IEBC (election organisers) announced that Uhuru Kenyatta (the president) had won the election.

Before I go on, let me introduce myself. I’m a 44-year-old man who lives in the relative comfort of Nairobi. Well, that comfort all depends on what side of the highway you live in, what you earn or even what tribe you are from. I doubt we’d ever meet, but your name is now known across the land and even in some parts of the world. I got to know of you the day after the IEBC (election organisers) announced that Uhuru Kenyatta (the president) had won the election. There were other presidential candidates, but Baba had lost. This was not your baba, but Baba and I’m sure you’d heard his name being tossed around Nyalenda quite a bit. Many had hoped Baba would win; this was his last chance. You see, he had tried twice before, but it was not to be. Such is the nature of siasa in this country. I don’t want to open old wounds, I’ve accepted and moved on. Anyway, Baba lost again, and many were disappointed, some very angry, and they took to the streets to vent. Serikali stepped in to stop this venting with even more rage, but they had rungus and teargas to assist their anger. The cockroaches had company that night. Serikali descended on your neighbourhood Nyalenda, and also on Kondele, Manyatta, Obunga, Bandani, Nyamasaria, and Mambo Leo.   Like you, Kisumu was not allowed to sleep that night.  Hearts were heavy, and tears were forced out of people’s eyes. If you felt your eyes sting and you struggled to breathe, it was serikali. Ok, it was tear gas, but tear gas that was bought by serikali. Your parents say this all happened in the dark of the night. Boots were knocking on doors, lives threatened and bullets not mosquitoes sang that night. Your baba, is a strong man, for he tried to protect all of you but once the tear gas was thrown in your home, he rose like Samson in the Bible and took down the door so that you all could not choke. But with the door open, it allowed the rain to begin. And then it rained and rained and rained. This was not ordinary rain though; it was violent, wooden and hateful. It was that rain, that took you back to sleep. Your little house stormed! Fortunately, you didn’t hear your mama’s anguished scream for too long, or feel your sister’s trauma or see the helplessness of your father, as he learnt first-aid on you. He had to give you life again. Even serikali feared, but they did nothing, so they fled. Only the night knows what was in their hearts at that time.   You eventually ended up at Aga Khan Hospital after two hospitals said they couldn’t help you. Aga Khan is a good hospital. Consider yourself lucky. Otherwise, your sleep would have ended on the streets. That is how we got to know about you, Samantha Pendo. That night when Kisumu was forced to cry.

We all went into a state of tension. Tension for you and the country. Our kuras have become like that. We pray for peace, vote peacefully, go home and watch tv mfululizo, pray that our choice wins and then we either cry or celebrate. After that, we fight or attempt to fight. Then we move on. Unga calms us down; blows and burnt tears are not food.

The cockroaches had company that night. Serikali descended on your neighbourhood Nyalenda, and also on Kondele, Manyatta, Obunga, Bandani, Nyamasaria, and Mambo Leo.   Like you, Kisumu was not allowed to sleep that night.

But this time round there was you in the picture and another girl, Stephanie Moraa in Mathare here in Nairobi. She rested too after a bullet went to find her on her family balcony. She was only ten years old. But there was you. We were introduced to your shiny forehead, that amazing smile, your chubby cheeks and that little red dress. You were only six months old, a kadonye. But you were caught up in the madness of Kenya that even we don’t understand. We hoped and prayed you would get better, but you still slept, and then we were told you rested. That broke me. I remember seeing your baba on TV, trying to be so strong telling the world that you had gone. He was Samson brave again, demanding justice, but getting choked up in emotion. Joseph was valiant but broken.

I questioned many things after that. Questioned this country and my country men. Can’t we vote without blood? Can’t we vote without hate? Before the elections, we see people down on their knees praying for the nation, but those same people will not raise their hands up for justice, even your justice!   What is haki our ngao?   I hear people even had the audacity to blame your mama and baba for your death. Some claim that you were used as a human shield! What mother would do that? They don’t know that Linser had two miscarriages before you were born. They don’t know or recognise that you were called Pendo because your parents believed that you were a gift of God’s love. They don’t know you but only see your parents’ heritage. Hawa watu wako hivyo is what they would say. Why can’t we just be Kenyans? It’s a real pity, nyathi, child, that the only time we come together is when a national tragedy occurs. Our warmth and kindness know no bounds, but after that, we go back to our cocoons. I wish we had more equalisers than elections; that would make us share our spaces more. Where our flag would continually fly in our hearts and not just when we win in athletics or rugby! Maybe that would have happened in your time?

Our kuras have become like that. We pray for peace, vote peacefully, go home and watch tv mfululizo, pray that our choice wins and then we either cry or celebrate. After that, we fight or attempt to fight. Then we move on.

We dread Augusts here, and this one is no different. Coups, bomb attacks, school and airport fires, Likoni police attack, plane crashes, rail and bus tragedies and you. Pendo, you have joined Mzee Kenyatta, Masinde Muliro, Kijana Wamalwa, Martin Shikuku, Mrs Michuki, Karisa Maitha, and Father Kaiser, in having this ‘jinxed’ month as the one you rested. Pendo you have also joined another rank of Kenyans who lost their lives thanks to our heated and fractious elections. A PEV victim that will see no justice. I have no faith that the officer who rained on you with his club will face the book. He has a higher ngao that will protect him and his kind. Our polisi have an amnesia like no other. And maybe eventually we too will forget about you, just like them. Me included, but I hope this letter will remain to preserve your memory. I know your baba, mama and sister will not forget you, Samantha Pendo Oloo, for you brought love into that house near the road in Nyalenda.

At times, I think that maybe you are the luckier one. You will not know the disappointment of being judged by your name or tribe, religion or even who you love. You see, as Kenyans, we love to box people, and hence we limit the individual. If one chooses to do things differently, ‘Hatumwelewi,’ they lament. You are free from being caged by people’s narrow perception.

You see, we have developed a stupid mantra that will keep us mired (forgive the big word) in this place unless we change. Accept and move on, accept and move on.   It might even replace our national motto, harambee. Our pulling together to this state of inertia (kutodo) will make us ignore our history, and we will therefore not learn from our mistakes, and that is why we get mesmerised by the scandals and shidas that recur. Apathy, be plenty in these borders.

At times, I think that maybe you are the luckier one. You will not know the disappointment of being judged by your name or tribe, religion or even who you love. You see, as Kenyans, we love to box people, and hence we limit the individual.

Pendo, I’m sad that we have become a nation that is afraid. Afraid to change, afraid to learn, afraid of difference, afraid of the individual, afraid to appreciate and afraid of one another. We have chosen to hide in an ‘Africanness’ that doesn’t go beyond our borders. Religiosity, prosperity and conformity are our walls. Pendo, you were born into one the most beautiful countries in the world. It’s a pity you didn’t get to see it. We are far from being a great nation. We are pulling apart rather than pulling together.

The other day I had gone to the City Market to buy a few things, and there was a group of women holding gunny bags and negotiating for something that I initially couldn’t see. I got to discover that they were negotiating for fish carcasses to cook and sell. You see they were several women, and you couldn’t miss them. Their dresses were wrapped in kangas, handbags in one hand, and a gunia in the other. Apparently, there was a shortage of fish in some of Nairobi’s neighbourhoods. They were haggling, Nairobi hustle style. There was a gentleman next to me who asked one of the shop attendants, “Hawa Wajaluo wanalilia nini?” That’s how I got to understand there was a fish shortage. There was a judgemental ‘othering’ tone in his question, and that annoyed me. He didn’t see their struggle nor respect how cooking fish carcasses was how they made a living. He didn’t see their inability to buy whole fish. He only saw their Luo-ness. Maybe because they all were buying fish, so they were Luo and in his head that was enough for him. We are ‘othering’ one another more than ever.

Pendo, all my talk has made me tired, because I’m thinking too much about a situation that I fear may not change. I still want to believe in Kenya, but at times it’s so hard.

I hear some people have given up on Project Kenya altogether. What is Kenya? Who is Kenya? To be honest, there are many different Kenyas in our Kenya.   I realised we are a country of the KKK. Kula, kura na kabila or kula kila kitu, we stopped being the nchi ya kitu kidogo. Kitu kidogo still lives you empty. We have an insatiable appetite for more. Insatiable is like when you were nyonyaring from your mama, and the milk in one breast was not enough. You get?

Pendo, all my talk has made me tired, because I’m thinking too much about a situation that I fear may not change. I still want to believe in Kenya, but at times it’s so hard. We as adults of Kenya often say we want to do good things for this country, but that is where it starts and ends. Child, I don’t want to be one of those people who only act with their mouths, and I know I am not alone. We just need to find one another.

Pendo, rest in your innocence. Rest in your peace, because you are the one who has gotten to see Canaan.

Kevo.

By Kevin Mwachiro

Kevin Mwachiro is a writer, poet, freelance journalist, broadcaster and activist. Kevin was diagnosed with a blood cancer called multiple myeloma in October 2015 and is currently on maintenance treatment (low dose chemotherapy) to manage his condition. Kevin has documented his journey on https://medium.com/@kevinmwachiro

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Reflections

Obviously They Are Fine With Mugabe

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When A Coup Is Not A Coup: Why The Removal Of Mugabe Will Not Change Zimbabwe

My identity straddles African borders.

I was born in Zambia to a Zimbabwean mother and a South Africa father.

Of the three countries, I carry South African citizenship.

On social occasions I have often been at loggerheads with my compatriots who self-identify as pan-African. There are, you see, African politicians they will not brook criticism of. And one of them is one Robert Gabriel Mugabe: truth-speaker to the West, the man who had enough gumption to take land back from the whites and whose truth-telling videos, in this age of social media, they shared every year after the United Nations General Assembly. Any attempts at telling these, my fellow ‘woke’ South Africans how rhetoric did not match action and how the man, his family and his political party had often treated Zimbabwe and its citizens with contempt was always met with disbelief and what my friend and writer Petina Gappah calls Zimsplaining from my fellow South Africans. Why, they would ask, was I taking aspirin for someone else’s headache? Obviously Zimbabweans are fine with Mugabe. If they weren’t, surely they would object, toyi-toyi and overthrow him? This was the criticism that brooked no comeback as it was something that I wondered secretly sometimes. I had grown up in a Zimbabwe that protested: not just university students full of pent-up early adult hormones but notably, the teachers’ strike of 1990. What had happened to that fire? And then last year I decided to have my 40th birthday party in my mother’s country en route to South Africa by road from the country I now call home, Kenya.

In Zimbabwe in the days after my birthday, I found out that the two currencies which had created some sort of stability, the US dollar and the South African rand, were now going to be scrapped. In their place would be bond notes which, on being brought in, would be valued one to one with the US dollar. The Minister of Finance, Patrick Chinamasa and John Mangudya, Governor of the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe had decided that the bond notes would be back in circulation in October 2016.

Already, while I was there, people had started hoarding their dollars and some shops were refusing to accept South African rands.

It was in this context that on the evening of August 2, 2016 I got a poster via WhatsApp from a friend reading:

Do you want to destroy your business that you have worked for all these years? SAY NO TO BOND NOTES. Join hands and march against Bond Notes.

Date: 03 August 2016

Time: 10AM

From: Cnr Julius Nyerere/Jason Moyo

To: Ministry of Finance

#pullingtogether #notobondnote #Tajamuka/Sesjikile

I had already dealt with a cash crisis in the week that I had been there. My cash crisis meant I could not go and see a lot of aunts and uncles as one cannot use a Visa or Mastercard on public transport. But my inability to visit relatives seemed minor when I heard some heartbreaking stories from people who live in Zimbabwe. I was, after all, just a guest in Zimbabwe and had other places to go. What of those who stayed there on a regular basis?

I thought of the unemployed university graduates working as vendors because of unavailability of jobs. I was thinking of a conversation with my friend Tapiwa who told me he interviewed five graduates, one of whom had twenty years teaching experience and another who had a degree in Architecture – married with children – to tutor his nine-year old twins for $200 a month. What would happen to the prospective tutor in a city where a reasonably neat two bedroom flat in the low density areas cost $500 a month? What would happen to the cab driver I met who had a car and wanted to survive with his four children but could only charge three dollars because no-one was willing to pay more than that for a five kilometer trip, essentially making his cab rides cheaper than Uber in Nairobi, Lagos or Johannesburg without cheaper foodstuffs? I was thinking too of my cousin Abisai telling me that because of a lack of cash, if business people needed a thousand dollars to do transactions, they had to do a transfer to illegal cash traders by the bus station for $1,200 so that they could get the $1,000 they wanted. And this was when the dollar was still circulating in the Zimbabwean economy but people were hogging it because of fear of the threatened bond notes.

This was a protest I would sign up toyi-toyi for.

With the Zimbabwean courts having ruled against the police and the government in their quest to ban people from marching against the return of the painful notes into the economy, taking part in the protest was the right thing to do. Half of my family is, after all, Zimbabwean and the bond notes would impact them.

I had no idea who was organizing the event but whoever they were, I agreed with the reason for their demonstration and I wanted to do more than verbally support it.

On August 3rd 2016 as my fellow South Africans went to the ballot box to vote in the municipal elections. I was north of the border at a march against bond notes.

I arrived at the march just before it began. After a prayer and the singing of the old Zimbabwean anthem Ishe Komborera Africa whose lyrics and tune were taken from the late South African Enoch Sontonga, the organisers informed us of the route we would be taking. I asked one of the fellow marchers why we were not singing the current Zimbabwean national anthem and the wit responded, “it would be like listening to a speech by Grace after reading one by Sallie Mugabe.”

Until he was forced to resign on 21st of November 2017, when talking to many Zimbabweans, it was never quite clear who they resented more: their then senior citizen President, Robert Mugabe who stubbornly held on to power way past his sell-by date or his flamboyant and vituperative wife, Grace. Further, I sometimes wonder whether the affection that is given to the late Sallie by Zimbabweans who talk of her fondly would still be there if she were still alive. I also wonder whether Mugabe would have retired gracefully if she were alive. Random musings.

But back to the protest.

The organisers informed us of the route we would be using and we proceeded to march.

I noted that the face of protests had changed drastically. Prior to 2016, most protests consisted of either members of the opposition party or employees of non-governmental organizations who sometimes were both. While many people my age felt the pinch, they were members of what I dub The Sandwich Parents. When asked to boycott bread because it had become overpriced, for instance, their response would be something akin to, “Ah manje, my children need sandwiches. If I boycott bread for a week, what will my children take to school?”

But now, knowing how this may hurt them, they were among those who were taking part in the protest. A friend in the banking industry called in sick so she could take part in the protest. I encountered some high school friends during the march, among them a former classmate who, not only had actively spoken of the abuse of power by the Mugabe administration but who got thrown in jail together with her partner and others for daring to screen the Arab Spring when they took place. For her actions, Tafadzwa and her comrades were charged with attempts to overthrow the government. They received a suspended sentence “if they do not repeat it” by a court system that was largely state-captured.

Another high school friend was at the march because her brother-in-law, a former Zimbabwean liberation war veteran, was arrested and charged for speaking out against abuse of power by the political leadership of the governing party. Saner minds in Zimbabwe’s High Court, which now seemed keen to no longer be puppets to the puppet-masters that are ZANU government, prevailed and the case was struck off the roll. I saw friends who had returned from the diaspora with their savings hoping to invest in the country. Among those in the crowd too were unemployed university graduates in their gowns and grandmothers. There was something about this particular demographic that I had not seen in previous marches in Zimbabwe. There was a certain unity of purpose across age, gender and class that seemed to highlight that people were fed up. I did not know it then but I had just witnessed the beginning of the end for the Mugabe leadership which would topple a little over a year later.

The government had attempted to ban the march. The organisers went to court and the courts allowed it. Knowing that despite the court ruling, the law will not always act lawfully towards protestors, flyers were handed to the police reading:

OPEN LETTER TO THE POLICE

We are not your enemies, but we are your brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers. All we want from life is to be able to feed our families and to be able to send our children to school so that they can get jobs and do the same for their children. We want them to work in Zimbabwe, not outside the country as it is now. We want doctors and medicines in our hospitals. When we stand up to ask our government for these basic human rights, do not beat us, rather stand with us as we want the same basic human rights. Above all, we are all Zimbabwean, let us unite in demanding these rights from our government.

It was doubtful that the police would really care. They were there to do the bidding of their masters but it was good to see an attempt by the organisers to wake them up.

In Zimbabwe, there seemed to be questions about the government’s relationship with China as heard from the popular song on the march:

Bobo, watengesa nyika kumaChina

Usazokanganwa

Tisu takakuisa, tichakubvisa

A song that accused Bob, the President of having sold the country to the Chinese and reminding him that they were the ones who put him in power and had the power to remove him. It was an entertaining song but I wondered just how much power these people with their energy had, to remove Uncle Bob from power.

By the time we got to Treasury, many had joined and there were now thousands in a march that began with a few hundreds. It was then that I realized that perhaps something had changed. Zimbabweans were not only talking in private about being fed up with Mugabe, they were coming out in the street and publicly declaring it.

And so, on 18 November this year, although I was at a literary festival in Nigeria, I locked myself up in my room for a major part of the day to root for and follow the #MugabeMustGo protest through updates on social media. Zimbabweans were showing, this time in the glare of international media, that they were done with their geriatric leader.

Mugabe is now gone. I heard this announcement in an anti-climactic moment while in Nairobi making dinner.

Mnangagwa is in the driver’s seat.

And I.

I am cautiously optimistic for my mother’s country as I reflect on the coup that was not a coup from my father’s country. I like to think that Zimbabweans have realized the power they have and will not surrender it easily now to any politician.

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Reflections

A Healthy Serving of Reality

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A Healthy Serving of Reality
Photo: Shutterstock

I never thought I would be on the receiving end of gratitude until cancer happened. This show of kindness has kept me on the other side of Kenya’s health care system. I consider myself lucky. I am able to afford chemotherapy drugs, monthly tests and doctor’s visits and supplements.

It is common knowledge that cancer is not cheap and this is universal. At the height of my treatment, I was spending 140,000 shillings a month on treatment, the cost of my bone marrow transplant has more zeros and commas. It is thanks to family, friends, colleagues and strangers that I was and still am able to afford my treatment. Acknowledging this fills me with a sense of humility. I struggled with the kindness that was showered my way. My therapist who helped me grapple with the many twists and turns of this journey told me to be ‘open to kindness’. Pride stood in my way, but the bitter truth was that I could not have done this alone. We as a family, could not afford this alone.

Our healthcare system is us! It will be us, the people, holding one another until we have a public healthcare system that will be able to provide universal, affordable and quality healthcare services. My diagnosis gave me new eyes to accompany this new normal. I was hugely aware of the shortcomings of our public healthcare system and once you experience it, it scares you. And if you have private medical insurance, you will appreciate the cover. But these health covers are not bottomless pits. If anything, they cushion and if it’s excellent, it offers restful nights. During the two weeks of my hospitalisation, I spent over six hundred thousand shillings of my one-million-shilling in-patient cover. Thankfully, NHIF, knocked off another 100k. My outpatient cover was going to be blown in sixty seconds and I was tapping into my savings.

Alice Membao Tawa, was my nyanya, my grandmother. Sometime in 1999, she was admitted to the burns unit of the Kenyatta National Hospital (KNH). She spent many weeks there until she passed away. The burns unit is not pretty, but we made our visits to the hospital hoping nyanya would get better. That period introduced me to the harshness of our public health system.

It is functional, though not wholly efficient. Kindness doesn’t come easily for some members of staff. There is a tough-love, ji-sort, hii-ni-kazi and uta-do attitude that is harboured by some of the staff.   I witnessed patients lying on mattresses on the floor, and there were patients sharing single beds. Beds were currency. There were no three-course meals like the Nairobi Hospitals, Maters or Aga Khans, the food was bland, stodgy and uninviting. It provided the most basic of nutrition. The hospital and the wards had a beaten and drab feel to them. They didn’t offer comfort or healing. I’ve been to Kenyatta many times after that, for several reasons, and there have been vast improvements, but it is far from perfect.

We work hard to able to afford private healthcare, but sadly not everyone in Kenya can access this. I don’t take this for granted. I was saddened by the many stories of patients being turned away or dying due to the lack of medical personnel during the doctor and nurses strike. I heard medics being described as selfish for downing their tools. I bet these critics made sure their health premiums were up to date nor had they slept or walked into a public health facility.

Let us not deceive ourselves, as we live in Kenya, we are not too far from experiencing the ‘other side’ of our health care. I keep on imagining what if I was to have an accident in public either in Nairobi or elsewhere? I would probably be rushed to public health hospital before my insurance provider is notified. I have thought about it constantly. What if the only place that I would have been able to afford or receive treatment for my cancer would have been from a public health facility? If I had to receive chemotherapy intravenously and not orally, I’d be making an early morning pilgrimage to KNH and camping on the hospital grounds as I wait my turn. It would be a process of waiting hours to see a doctor for minutes and hoping that on that day they would show up.

Over the last 24 months, I have met other cancer patients who have lived that experience of waiting, wondering and hoping. There was six-year-old Waithera who was scheduled for surgery on the day the doctors’ strike began. She was only able to get badly needed surgery when her father was informed about the Faraja Cancer Trust, but before this, the hospital in Nakuru had become a second home.

I learnt that it was faster and cheaper if you got admitted as an overnight patient at Kenyatta for chemotherapy treatment. I hope the new equipment at Kenyatta will reduce patient waiting times. I was told that it was faster for patients in the western part of the country to go to Uganda for radiotherapy treatment rather than coming to Nairobi. Yes, Uganda, whose only radiotherapy machine hit the global headlines when it broke down last year. Yet, there is a radiotherapy machine in Kisumu lying idle because there aren’t enough numbers to justify the cost of operating it. Apparently, there aren’t any oncologists in Kisumu. One must go to either Eldoret or Nairobi for treatment.

In rural medical centres, there are numerous stories of misdiagnosis because of some patients (some now deceased) were tested and treated for malaria or typhoid before the discovery of cancer or either a preventable or treatable malady.   I still get angry thinking about this. Early diagnosis of breast, cervical and prostate cancer make these three cancers treatable and affordable. Being diagnosed with cancer doesn’t necessarily mean death.

Our healthcare system is us. ‘Naomba serikali’ does not cut the mustard anymore. The mode of referrals for specialists, surgeons, pharmacies, and hospitals both in Kenya and abroad is word of mouth. I created a spreadsheet of the different outlets that I could source my medicine from and the phrase, ‘naenda kutafuta dawa‘ became real. There was one time I went to three hospitals looking for a drug because it was in short supply. That was when I realised that there are many of us on this journey. A journey to find the best possible healthcare that our money can afford to buy.

I followed the doctors and nurse strike keenly, read the Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA) and cried tears of joy when an agreement was reached. We need to put more into our public health system. I am sure we know of cases of patients being transferred to KNH from private hospitals because it was cheaper cost wise. Remember those bottomless pits? They don’t exist. We have a cadre of men and women who are passionate about their work in public health. We can only reward their duty by making sure that they work under the best possible conditions. I have seen it work in the UK, through the National Hospital Service. It is not perfect, it has its critics, but it works. I look forward to the day when we will have a system that we too can boast of. One can dream, right?

But until then, our healthcare system will continue to be us. Where we look out for one another, attend medical harambees or give towards Mchanga campaigns, share a referral or WhatsApp messages on cancer, diabetes and blood pressure cures! We cannot afford to have a health system that ‘others’ individuals or provides care that is dependent on the size of one’s purse.

For we all know that death and disease do not discriminate.

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Reflections

Counting People in a Broken Health System

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Counting People in a Broken Health System
Photo: Shutterstock

I remember, a young woman, a freshly minted teacher named Leah- who was very fond of my father. I was a little boy then. She looked up to father as a senior teacher and a mentor to help her grow into the profession. My father and mother were fond of her and she was a common visitor to our house. In our young minds, age sets were binary: you were either nyithindo or jomadongo, children or adults. Children were the people you could play with, the people you called by their first names and complained about to your parents. Adults were a whole other matter, separated by a chasm that moved through time. They were people who even when informal in their manner, had to be treated with the formality that adulthood conferred.

Leah was confusing for my binary world. She was at a stage my elder siblings had not gotten to yet, somewhere in between a child and an adult. When she was around she cooked with us, referred to my mother as “mama”, and seemed more at ease with my teenage sisters and cousins. Yet she held adult conversations with my parents and could gently disagree with them in conversation. I probably had a little puppy crush on her. She straddled that space with some aplomb. My parents loved her. My elder brother’s eyes never left her swaying hips as she navigated the ten metres or so between our detached kitchen and the main house holding a tray of food or kettle of tea in her hands. My sisters could not wait to be her- she had all the big girl privileges: she could choose her own clothes, she wore jewellery, and she earned a salary at the end of the month!

Even after she moved to a different school further away, the warmth of her company whenever she returned to visit did not change.

One day, word arrived that Leah had died. The whole family was left reeling. My sisters cried. My brother went off to the simba- my second to last unmarried uncle’s house- lost in a daze of disbelief. Although my parents were stoic, they could not hide their pain. Nobody wanted to explain death to a little boy. Up until then death was an exciting and rare occurrence associated with screams tearing the bucolic night air from the direction of the home of an ailing elderly man. They were not people I knew. In my little sheltered, small town rural existence, I had never met anyone who later went off and died.

Leah died. She was the first person I had met, known, even loved, who died. She had died during childbirth. One moment she was full of life and carrying the promise of a brand-new life, the next moment she was dead. Cause of death. Maternal mortality. Leah had come up against maternal mortality and lost.

Maternal mortality is a sterile pair of words. It is impersonal and jarring. I did not know who the father of Leah’s child was but I felt for him. Maternal mortality is the sudden shot between the closed eyes, blissfully sucking on the lollipop of life. Maternal mortality is a rusty serrated knife piercing your back. One moment you are tingling with excitement and looking forward to holding a new life in your hands and looking at the incomparable poem of joy that is the face of a new mother. The next moment you are planning a funeral.

A woman went out, and two coffins came in. A big one and tiny little one.

I did not know these things then. But, I know them now. I became a pharmacist. Then I drifted, a journeyman into public health with a penchant for math. So I count things. I count ratios and rates, odds and people’s chances. I create pivot tables and run scripts. I find blips and upticks and trends. And to stay human I try not to think of counting Leahs and little babies who have not had the chance at a name. A simple name.

2017 has been a rough year for mothers, babies and families across the country. The year opened to a doctors’ strike that was a month old and would continue into March stretching for a 100 days. Public health facilities were on their knees. Clinical officers and nurses did what they could and sent those they could not handle to private health facilities, which sometimes is the same as being sent home to die. After a brief respite, the health system would once again go into the convulsions of massive labour unrest with the nurses’ strike. That strike would last 5 months before getting called off.

If doctors are the analytical mind of the health system, nurses are its beating heart. A formidable nurse-doctor team, with the backing of a working health system, is what makes maternal mortality quake in its shoes. For the better part of 2017, there has been no team. No team means that Caesarean sections and assisted deliveries are not happening. Blood transfusions and resuscitation are nowhere to be found. Incubators are not whirring; bleeding mothers are not stirring. Ambulances are running across the land blaring sirens of death.

One of the simplest pieces of health data that indicates the health of the health system is vaccination coverage rates. It is simple because vaccines are given at predetermined intervals and ages. When a baby is born they get BCG- the tuberculosis vaccine- and the polio vaccine. Kenyans have about 30 babies for every one thousand people every year. If there is a community of about 5000 people then we expect that a baby is born every two days or so and 12 children get birth vaccines every month. Vaccine coverage responds quickly, positively or negatively, to failures in the health system- when people cannot get to the health system for reasons such as flooding, when medicines or syringes are not available, when there is no energy supply for refrigeration and when staff are not at their posts because they are on strike.

Vaccine coverage has dropped precipitously in communities that rely primarily on the public health system. Less than 5% of Kenyans have private health insurance, so this means almost every mother who is not on Facebook. Vaccines protect children individually but also as a group in what is called herd immunity. The chances of a vaccinated child getting the infection they have been vaccinated against is lower than for an unvaccinated child and if they do get the infection it commonly runs a shorter course and is less severe and less likely to lead to death.

This means that they are less likely to spread it to other children who also, if vaccinated, are less likely to catch it. Vaccination is therefore equivalent to children locking arms and standing shoulder to shoulder against vaccine-preventable diseases. Unvaccinated children are a big hole in that wall- their own risk rises massively but they also increase the risk for vaccinated children.

More ominously still, falling vaccination coverage is an outward sign of an ailing health system. For four years of my working life, I kept verbal autopsy tables: Excel sheets where in a community the size of a small district it was my business to know who died, where, when, and why. I learnt what makes people die. In what seasons people killed one another and when people killed themselves. I got to know intimately how the health system fails babies, children, mothers, and other people and how the consequences are felt in communities are far removed from tables and graphs.

As the Kenyan health system convulses, children are dying from immunizable diseases. People are missing precious doses of chronic medications such as diabetes and HIV medicines. Women are bleeding to death in ambulances and that is one Leah, too many.

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