My grandmother died of ovarian cancer after a series of misdiagnoses two years before the new millennium. There was hardly any public awareness then and little was known of the disease.
I was named after my grandmother, I barely remember her as she passed on when I was seven. But there was more than just a name that linked us and it was the BRCA 1 mutation we shared. I had known she was sick; in the hazy manner children know things. She was a retired primary school teacher though her true passion was farming. My grandmother had kind hands and a beautiful voice, always humming hymns as she tended to her kitchen garden. But hardly got the time to live out her retirement. From the memories my late mom shared of her through storytelling, cancer first came for my grandmother’s ovaries and then for the rest of her, a fate that befell my mother years later, beginning with her breasts.
This bleak history had haunted two successive generations of my family, creeping up and snatching a life as it bloomed, before we realised it was an inside force rooted in our bloodline that passed from generation to generation unseen. My mother was diagnosed at the age of 40, a tragedy as the cancer was already at an advanced stage. The oncologist advised us to look into palliative care as there was little else to be done; at least she would be comfortable for the six months she had left to live. We resisted this truth. How can another human being know with certainty how long someone has to live? Isn’t that a truth only known to God? This denial set us on a desperate course and after six months, the heartbreak that befell us left us lost. How can someone deteriorate that fast? Her hair thinned, she lost weight, her skin burnt.
The night my mother passed away, I woke up in the hush of the night with an ache in my heart. It felt as if something had broken off. I had visited her three days earlier and she had seemed better. We had even had a conversation, unlike the other times when her responses were just fading sounds. The glimmer in her eyes was back. In our culture we believe that you know when death has come for you; it lingers first, leaving clues for those left behind to pick over as they grieve. The glimmer in her eyes was to help us remember her as full of life and hope even to the end. Death sometimes announces itself. For us it was through the oncologist but our refusal to believe in science made death seem like it had arrived in the cold of night cloaked in darkness. My mother passed on in her sleep. In the days that followed we felt like we had been uprooted. Even the sun shone differently; we could see the light yet we didn’t feel the heat. The colour had seeped out our canvas, we had been ripped apart, everyone on their own. We didn’t know how to be together in sorrow.
After my mother’s demise, there were murmurs that the disease was a curse, with some implying that our family needed to do something to expunge it. Could it be true? For there was a clear pattern of ill health. My grandmother had been pious, one of the many characteristics my mother mirrored. After the seven days of mourning that followed my mother’s burial, we held a prayer ceremony after which we the bereaved stepped back into society. The fact that my maternal grandmother had also died of cancer was not lost on us and I vividly remember the pastor who was presiding over the ceremony quoting a verse from the bible that spoke of generational curses. It says that God visits the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children’s children, to the third and the fourth generation. I was the third generation. Did God hold me liable for something someone else had done? There was hope, according to the pastor; prayer and fasting would lift dark pall that hung over us.
I was now partly an orphan and that is how, with my good grades, I qualified for a scholarship in the United Kingdom. But I was not sure that the void I would leave behind would be felt, that I would be missed when left for London. Moving away helped though; it made me more detached. I read somewhere that the weight of a death is assessed by its aftershocks, and mine did pile up. I went through my undergraduate studies in a haze, focusing only on what was important — keeping my scholarship. I finished my degree in statistics and operations research and went to graduate school as I worked part-time and this is when I met Anna, a molecular biology graduate student.
I dreaded talking about the thing that had killed my mother, but Anna got me to open up about it, only for me to realise how raw my buried emotions still were 11 years after she had left us. As I explained to Anna my family’s history of cancer, she suggested that I get tested for the BRCA mutation, but I was not ill, not yet. If cancer was a curse, there was hope. But a faulty gene? That was beyond my ken. A year later, I was ready for the test that would give me a chance to get ahead of the defective gene if it was in my body.
I had to book an appointment for a risk assessment before I could qualify for the test on the National Health Service. My risk assessment suggested a BRCA mutation; I had a family history of ovarian and breast cancer, and both my mother and grandmother had been diagnosed before the age of 50. I went back for the blood work the following day. You are too young, the genetic counselor said, and she was right. I was 28. The results came back two weeks later and they returned positive. BRCA 1. A gene that produces tumor-suppressing proteins that stop cells in the breasts and ovaries from growing and dividing too rapidly thus preventing the growth of tumors. BRCA 1-positive; a person with a mutation to his or her BRCA 1 gene, meaning either that the gene is altered or broken, impairing its ability to suppress tumors.
I was that person.
Genes work in pairs and we inherit a copy from each of our parents. One copy of my BRCA 1 genes was faulty, most probably the pair I got from my mother. And that was not all; this meant that I was at increased risk of breast and ovarian cancer. This information was paralysing. And even though going into the test I knew I had a 50 per cent chance of being a carrier of the defective gene, I hadn’t thought through what I was going to do if the test came back positive. I preferred to take it one step at a time. With a family history that clearly indicated that my mother might have had the mutated gene, I was working with 1:2 risk ratio yet I still felt the universe owed me some good news. It was disheartening. I felt forlorn. The results gave me a glimpse of what awaited me, my possible future as I reflected on my mother’s death. For the next few months, as I tried to understand what this meant for me, it felt like I was walking into a void engulfed and knotted by uncertainty. Having the BRCA 1 mutation redefined who I was, my old self peeling away. I didn’t just have a mutated gene; I had a 75 per cent risk of developing breast cancer. How do you go through life with this hanging over your head?
The test was a mark of privilege, a possibly altered fate, a choice both my mother and grandmother had not had. I was lucky, yet I still needed to do more.
Having a double mastectomy, the surgical removal of all breast tissue, is draconian to say the least. But cancer is a word too loaded for me to unpack; memories of my mother before the cancer, and what was left of her after, had me on edge. I needed to talk to someone who made me feel at home, my maternal aunt. But whatever had bound us together untill then broke when I mentioned the surgery. For my aunt, to go ahead with the surgery would be to mock God, my faith, her faith and my mother’s, and she wanted nothing to do with it. No one in my family wanted anything to do with it. They thought I had been brainwashed.
The most effective precautionary measure is to remove the organs that are at risk at a young age as the risk peaks in your thirties. In my case, it was my breasts. Self-preservation, removing some parts to save others, that is what kept echoing in my mind as I lay on that surgical table before I drifted off. Post-surgery was brutal and my impatience to get quickly back to normal did not help. For ten weeks it felt like time had slowed, the earth had lost its form. I had done the right thing, I knew that. So why did it hurt this much? Anna got me post-surgery bras and lots of teas. I was a foreigner in a foreign country. Having a mastectomy because of a faulty gene made it worse. There was no support group for me; I had to walk this perilous journey alone. I am glad I qualified to have the test and the surgery on the UK’s National Health Service — their version of Kenya’s National Hospital Insurance Fund; the costs would have floored me.
Do I sleep a little bit more soundly? Yes, although a lot has changed for me. The test and the surgery did not remove the mutated gene; it will always be a part of me and so will the consequences of my proactiveness. I lost my breasts, and my body aches for that loss. Before I could afford reconstructive surgery to regain a semblance of what I had lost, I needed to adjust to not having a part of what so greatly defines being a woman. The first time that I tried to get intimate with someone after surgery and before reconstruction did not go well; the look on his face made me feel like I was an imitation of my old self, that I had duped him. That night I mourned the loss of my breasts, sobs racking my body until I couldn’t breathe. I must have passed out; when I woke up it was morning. After that day, things began to change; I had not gone through all that to sulk and take pity on myself. I wanted to live; I was not willing to die for my breasts. I had reconstructive surgery and this time round I had more support — from the man who would later become the father of my child. I had had the surgery for myself; it lowered the risk to 5 per cent. I have made a few lifestyle changes: I am vegan; I don’t take alcohol and have a fitness routine. Awareness is power, although that power can be overwhelming.
As for the fourth generation, my daughter, I think of my 5-year-old who may have inherited the gene. A child of a BRCA 1-positive person has a 50 per cent chance of inheriting the mutated gene. When the time comes, I will definitely talk with her about it and urge her to go for the test even as I remain hopeful that by then non-surgical preventive measures will be available. The test was not just for me. It was for my daughter as well, my way of breaking the curse, freeing the generations to follow. Our first step out of the darkness.
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Stealth Game: The Proverbial Has Hit the Fan
The report of the Oakland Institute is simply saying what I have been saying since 2016. That “Community” Conservancies Devastate Land and Lives in Northern Kenya.
Many of my friends, particularly those from outside the conservation sector have been puzzled by the silence that has followed the release of the Stealth Game report by the Oakland institute.
This, my friends, is because you people mistakenly imagine that conservationists in Kenya are normal, functional human beings. They are NOT, and the rational ones are fewer than five per cent, the scientific threshold for statistical significance. For those of us who know them well, we can read and interpret this silence to a high level of accuracy.
First of all, rest assured that everyone who needs to see the report has seen it, including government officials at both county and national level. I personally forwarded it to an official at the highest levels of government, and the response I received was “thank you”—at least an admission of having seen the report. Interestingly, two senior county government officers also forwarded the report to me, leaving me wondering what exactly they see as their role in the whole scandal, as opposed to mine as an individual. The silence is only in the public sphere. I have direct contacts in a lot of private spaces where the Oakland report is causing a lot of wailing, gnashing of teeth and breaking of wind.
The key point we all need to understand here is that people are in trouble—bringing to mind that uniquely American expression about faecal matter hitting the fan and splattering everyone in its vicinity. Here’s why: A couple of years ago, a few colleagues and I visited the US House of Representatives in Washington DC to present a memorandum on human rights abuses in central Africa committed by the WWF under the guise of conservation, an issue we also brought to the attention of various European legislatures. It has taken time, but the cosh has come down on the WWF, culminating in a Senate hearing earlier this year, which has severely tightened the screws on them. Therefore, the consternation that has greeted the report is disingenuous, because none of this information is new—it is simply saying the same things that a few colleagues and I have been saying since 2016.
The conservation sector in Kenya routinely dismisses any questions from black Africans and the consternation is because the report is coming from an American institution, and cannot be dismissed on racial grounds. An amusing anecdote I’ve heard from one of the conservation groups is, “This is just the usual noise from Mordecai Ogada. . .” But when another member says, “No, it’s from the Oakland institute in the US,” all hell breaks loose with people crying “Oh my God! What are we going to do?” In another forum, a senior participant (who obviously hadn’t read the report) dismissed it as lacking credibility, “Since the only source of such information is Mordecai Ogada (again!!??). When another participant pointed out the report was the result of over two years’ research she changed tack, attacking the author Anuradha Mittal based on her racial and family background. The strange thing is that this woman is also of the same racial background as Mittal! Many people will find this bizarre, but I don’t. Our conservation sector is so steeped in racial and ethnic prejudice that it is shameful. Apart from dealing with people who don’t want to hear me because I am black, I’ve had to deal with indigenous Kenyans who routinely tell me to keep off wildlife issues in northern Kenya because I am a Luo from western Kenya!
The key issue of rights violations is studiously avoided by conservationists to a ridiculous degree. I’ve seen conversations where The Nature Conservancy’s communications director is asking a whole group of conservation professionals how they can “counter Mordecai Ogada’s narrative”. A couple of years ago, the Northern Rangelands Trust hired Dr Elizabeth Leitoro as “Director of Programmes” and one of the key expectations was that she would somehow “control” Mordecai Ogada (yes, again) since over 20 years earlier I had been her intern when she was the warden at the Nairobi National Park. Dr Leitoro asked to meet me, and my son was patient enough to sit with us as we talked. She later launched a racial attack against me and my family on social media in defence of the NRT (she deleted the tweet and blocked me, but I still have a screenshot; the NRT got rid of her). This shows the neurosis bedevilling conservation in Kenya.
These conservationists will scream, shout and make personal attacks and noise about everything EXCEPT the problem at hand. Secondly, they are obsessed with appearances, so you will never hear a word said by any of the foreigners who run the show. It is always the ill-advised, ill-prepared but well paid locals who come out in robust (if somewhat foolish) defence of their captors. Right now the national government, the county governments, and conservation organizations are all tongue-tied because they don’t know how to dismiss criticism from the US, where their lifeblood funding comes from. USAID is the biggest conservation funder in Kenya, and the biggest grantee is the NRT, which confers on them God-like status here. All the other conservation voices like the Kenya Wildlife Conservancies Association (KWCA) or the Conservation Alliance of Kenya (CAK) that receive small-change grants cannot say a word against their “leader”, the NRT. That is why five days later, the CAK claims to be “still reading the report”. They are waiting to see which way the wind is blowing before they make any noise or break any wind in defence of their fellow Kenyans.
Mark my words, these people have colossal reach; that’s why even the government has said nothing. There was a major press conference in Nairobi on 17th November 2021 about the Oakland report, and all the major media houses in Kenya were present, but the story has been “killed”. They have a huge PR machine, and if anything in the report were untrue, they would have torn it to shreds. Their bogeyman, Mordecai Ogada (frankly I’m a bit flattered!), is not in the picture, so they cannot point fingers at me anymore, and must now address the ISSUES. I am informed that some heads have already rolled. They are big, but not big enough to kill the story in the US public policy space. The WWF learned that the hard way. There shall be wailing, there will be hypertension, some hyperacidity, diarrhoea and other stress-related illnesses, but it looks (and smells) like change is coming.
This silence isn’t of the golden kind, it’s the silence of sick, trembling cowards caught in a big lie. I have nothing to add to the Stealth Game report, but wherever and whenever I will be asked to say something about it, I will not let anyone get away with trying to look shocked. I will always state just how I told them about this injustice five years ago, but it never mattered then. Because I am black, if truth be told.
I Know Why God Created Makeup
I am an economic migrant without the luxury of choice. I am not ready for Kenya yet so I must wake up, put my makeup on and take up my station by the dialysis machines.
It is half past five in the morning and your eyes are heavy with sleep. It is fascinating that they should be this lethargic, yet they would not close for a wink or two in the past eleven or so hours of the night. Lately your body seems to be operating on a paradoxical circadian rhythm– sleep when you shouldn’t and stay awake when you ought to be sleeping. You are a nurse and constantly tired. Translated, it means that you are one patient away from a mortal accident. You slap the alarm clock into silence, eyes half open set another alarm for half past six on your mobile phone, which has permanent residency under your three pillows.
You have been using three pillows for a while now. There does not seem to be one single shop in the world that sells decent pillows. The pillows in this city are as thin as a tongue. The lowlife of pillows. They smell of dying hope and unhappy thoughts. They are the sopranos in the pillow choir. Irritating but necessary. We therefore use three of them to allow them to accord each other some moral support. You miss fluffy pillows. Pillows like the ones you lay on at that posh hotel in Naivasha during your disastrous honeymoon a few years ago. Nostalgically, you go back to Naivasha in your sleepy mind.
There is a hazy recollection of that honeymoon. It was not meant to be because the wedding was not to be either. But they both happened. You know they did because you can hear yourself screaming in agony as another harsh word lands on your soul. But despite the honeymoon’s calamitous ending, you miss the pillows. They took to your torrential tears like a babe to its mother’s breast. They soaked the tears up perfectly and left no traces. He never once stirred. He was so drunk he could have been half dead. You had wished for the latter before you met Jesus. We do not think such thoughts nowadays and if we ever do, we will blame it on these scandalously uncomfortable pillows.
The summer morning’s sun tears precisely through your curtains like a surgeon’s blade. You love summer but you don’t like the glare of the morning sun. It is too bright. Accusatorily bright. Like it came to remind you what a slob you are for snoozing your alarm. It stands there, hovering over you like your mum when you wouldn’t complete your homework but wanted to read a Harry Potter novel instead. Mum would not go away, nor will the sun. Begrudgingly you wake up. Legs dangling onto the side of the bed, you will the rest of the body to join them on the peach-coloured bedroom rug on the floor. You miss the days when peach was just some fruit.
Eyes still closed, you head to the bathroom. You are startled into alertness by the girl staring at you in the mirror. She is as hopelessly worn out as a politician’s promise after campaigns. She looks like a thousand trucks ran over her and a group of snow-white owls perched on her hair. The wild hair tendrils falling on your face are a pasta disaster. My God, the lint from those pillows! You whisper. It is however more than just lint. Your eyes are red and puffed up. Like you hid two baby donuts under the eyelids and now the world can see your secret eating habits.
You are expected to be at work by half past seven, nursing patients. The COVID-19 pandemic rages on and you are not sure how much longer you can keep it together. Take that lovely patient yesterday, for example. She stood out from the first time you met her. She allowed you to needle her dialysis fistula as a new nurse. She was welcoming. Showed you pictures of May, her cat. Always had a joke for everyone. She entertained the unit with great panache. She had perfectly manicured nails which put your grooming routine to shame.
For fifteen years, kidney failure never took her life. But she died yesterday. She contracted COVID-19 and passed away. This is not an isolated case. The story keeps repeating itself. Like a repetitive bad dream, the carrousel of mortality keeps coursing through the hospital. Too many dialysis patients have been lost to the coronavirus.
Nobody acknowledges it but your colleagues are gutted by her death. Their demeanour is typically British though, they are long suffering. They wear resilience on their faces and spot plastic smiles to hide the pain. British nurses are averse to complaining. They take it all in their stride. Either that or quit. What would you not give to be able to quit nursing right now!
On the other hand, you are an economic migrant in the United Kingdom. Your life in the UK is governed by the terms and conditions of your visa. The terms say you are to be a nurse for the remaining period on your visa. You cannot leave. You risk being deported to Kenya if you exit nursing at the moment. You are not ready for Kenya yet. You envy Amy and Moraine. Two highly skilled kidney nurses from Scotland. They recently quit nursing altogether. Amy went back to university to study accounting while Moraine has started a coffee shop. The luxury of choice.
You take a quick shower, scrub your hair so hard as if you were shaking your brain from a lingering nightmare that it half hurts. Six and a half minutes later, you are staring at yourself in the dressing mirror. You have been in this flat for a year now and have never once used the dressing mirror like you want to use it today. To glam up the top half of your face.
Following a YouTube tutorial, you start applying acres of ridiculously expensive products on your exhausted face. Your patients are expecting a buoyed-up nurse; that is what they must get. This is why God created makeup. You pay close attention to your eyes. The windows to the soul. These windows needs some maintenance. The eyebrows are up first.
Your eyebrows are a strange phenomenon. The hairs are few and far between. You can never shape them perfectly to save your life. You scribble and doodle with some eye pencil YouTube influencers swore by and finally manage to draw two diagrams of West African evil spirits chasing after one another. Your signature mismatched eyebrow look. Feeling accomplished, you open your eyes wide and, stroke after stroke, you apply mascara on your eyelashes. The damage is then covered in some dark eye shadow. Only the top half of the face matters. The face masks and visors worn at work have rendered the lower half of the face irrelevant. Who wants lipstick smears on their face mask? Not you, you conclude.
At twenty minutes past seven, you are at work already. You are helping prepare the dialysis machines. Jean, your nurse colleague streams in. She has had her eyes done too. She is wearing some glittering eyeshadow. Her eyebrows look like what yours would be like when they grow up. You can see a hint of foundation on her forehead. You let out a sigh of relief. God created makeup for tired nurses, you surmise.
The Charles Mugane Njonjo I Knew
Much will be said and written about Charles Njonjo. The Charles Njonjo I knew was a steadfast friend and a man of his word without hesitation.
A lot has been written and a lot more will be written about the late Charles Mugane Njonjo who has passed away. I would like to tell my own personal story. I never knew him as a bureaucrat or politician. Indeed, our paths crossed immediately I left high school in 1983. Together with colleagues, we had written a play and planned to perform it for the public. We searched our minds for a public figure who would agree to come as guest of honour on opening night. We sought someone who would attract public attention to what we were doing, but more importantly for us 17-year-olds, someone who would agree to show up. Charles Njonjo’s name was all over the news at the time. His political career had just been truncated amid the prolonged political drama of the “traitor affair”. He was a figure of great public fascination for a variety of colourful reasons. We also had the names of other public figures on our list and I was tasked with reaching out to them.
Frankly, I wrote to Charles Njonjo not expecting to hear from him. He replied immediately, though, and accepted the invitation to be guest of honour at the opening night of our play, The Human Encounter, at Saint Mary’s School in Nairobi. Once he accepted the invitation, we excitedly proceeded with preparations for the opening night. A few days later, however, we were informed that, unfortunately, the authorities had deemed Mr Njonjo’s presence at our event unacceptable and the decision was not negotiable. I informed my colleagues and we decided that since we had worked hard on the production we would obey the orders from above and proceed with our play without Mr Njonjo. There was no need for a fuss. I then had the embarrassing duty of disinviting Mr Njonjo when he had already accepted to be our guest of honour.
I spent a whole night drafting the letter and in the end, my late father told me not to agonise excessively, “Njonjo likes to be told the truth directly.” So I wrote the disinvitation letter as clearly and as respectfully as I could. I asked a friend of his to pass it on to him and did not expect to ever hear from him again. The message I received promptly back surprised me. Njonjo expressed his deepest appreciation for the invitation and explained that he fully understood why it had been withdrawn. He asked that we remain in touch. I was deeply relieved. Over the years, he would reach out to me through family and friends and we would interact jovially, remembering the letter I had written retracting his invitation as guest of honour. “No one has ever done that to me,” he would joke over tea.
In the early 1990s, as political pluralism was returning to Kenya, violence broke out in Nyanza, Western and Rift Valley provinces. At one point, hundreds of thousands of Kenyans were displaced as our elites arm-wrestled for power. I travelled to Laikipia and then to Burnt Forest and was aghast at the state of the internally displaced that had been forced from their homes by the violence. Together with Dr David Ndii and Mutahi Ngunyi we launched the “Kenyans in Need” appeal. The then chief editor of the Daily Nation, Wangethi Mwangi, gave us free advertising space to mobilise resources for the displaced – especially those in Ol Kalou who had been evicted from Ng’arua in Laikipia. The late Archbishop Nicodemus Kirima of the Archdiocese of Nyeri agreed to use the relief infrastructure of Catholic Church to distribute any donations that came our way. Laikipia fell under Kirima’s remit.
The response to the appeal was surprising in its scale. People donated second-hand clothes, books, shoes and cash to the appeal. We received around KSh1 million worth of donations over the following months. We delivered the first batch directly to the philosophical Archbishop Kirima at his official residence in Nyeri, unique because of its specially built library full of the books he clearly loved. Our biggest and most consistent donor throughout the entire enterprise was Charles Njonjo. He was not keen to have his name mentioned but we would sit at his home drinking tea and reflecting on the political situation in the country.
When I joined government in 2003, Njonjo remained one of my steadfast providers of moral support. When news broke that I had been moved from the Office of the President to the Ministry of Justice, the first call I received was from Charles Njonjo. “You’re going to resign immediately, aren’t you?” he asked in his typically direct way. In the end, I didn’t. I sometimes wistfully recall his advice at the time. We kept in close touch.
When my situation in the Kibaki government went belly up in 2005 – as he had predicted to me many times – and I found myself in exile, Charles Njonjo became an even more steadfast friend. He stayed in touch and whenever he called, he would always enquire about my personal circumstances. He was a most interesting person in that way, loyal to his friends to a fault. Once you were his friend, he stood by you no matter how atrocious the circumstances. He would call to tell me he was coming to London and we would spend the day together simply walking the city, chatting and drinking tea. Back home I found out he was in constant touch with my family, offering moral and any other kind of support that might be needed.
When I returned from exile, one of the very first people to invite me for tea and a catch-up was Charles Njonjo and we took up from where we had left off in 2005. His observations on politics and about certain politicians were often wryly hilarious. His capacity to read people accurately was something I learnt. We would sit in his Westlands office and I would seek his opinion on this or that political interlocutor and in typical fashion he was always direct – “solid fellow”; “believe only half so-and-so says”; “take that one seriously”, etc. He was particularly dismissive of ethnic chauvinists and insisted that they held Kenya back in fundamental ways.
Charles Njonjo and I kept our friendship quiet. In part, this was because some of his diehard enemies were also my very good friends – the late legal giant Achhroo Ram Kapila SC among others. So, we didn’t discuss his enemies; he advised me on mine. Much will be written about Charles Njonjo and even though there was much we totally disagreed on politically, the Njonjo I knew since I was a teenager was a man of his word. He was a dear friend in ways I have never been able to share. There is not a personal problem that I raised with Charles Njonjo that he didn’t immediately seek to solve in his no-nonsense style. Njonjo could be a very funny man, full of jokes and insightful observations without a taint of bitterness. To me he was funniest when he joked in Gikuyu, which some people thought he couldn’t speak.
As I have said, much will be said and a lot will be written about Charles Njonjo. The Charles Njonjo I knew was a steadfast friend and a man of his word. I have lost a dear friend and wish his family succour as they mourn him at this time.
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