Muthoni Thangwa

Tag: writing

  • The National Theatre as a stage for selling amnesia forward!

    Mashujaa in Tutu Skirts!

    Over the weekend, I attended Tales of Mashujaa at the National Theatre. Before the show began, a pre-event unfolded outside the venue, an unexpected yet captivating blend of opera and celebration. It was a refreshing reminder that the National Theatre can be more than a performance space; it can serve as a cultural crossroads, bringing together different expressions of our society.

    I was joined by a colleague from the Republic of Tatarstan, whose fascination with the performance enhanced my own experience. He had not expected to enjoy an opera performance, yet found himself completely drawn in. Moments like these remind us that art transcends language and culture, speaking directly to our shared humanity.

    Then we went in to watch Mashujaa and the fusion quickly turned into confusion. First, a mzungu delivered an unusually long introduction. Mashujaa wa Kenya introduced by a mzungu is, frankly, a mockery of the colonial question and of our ongoing struggle to define who or what a hero in Kenya truly is. Any enactment of our heroes or heroism in this land or any country that has been colonized, cannot and should never include any representation of the colonial memory, not even in skin colour.

    To make matters worse, the lady was dressed in a short, white skirt. I often wonder if performers realise that, on a theatre stage, the audience is quite literally seated beneath them. Eeeh, nitachia hapo!

    This particular skit was staged by Dance Centre Kenya, and I would give it a four out of ten. Three of those points go purely to the children, because, honestly, kids perform what they’re told, and they did so with commendable earnestness. The remaining one point? That’s for simply making it to the National Theatre, where, I imagine, some well-meaning bureaucrat stamped approval on the confusion.

    The so-called fusion of music was another story altogether, a tangle of instrumentals with drum sounds that refused to commit to any rhythm. I hesitate to call them beats, because African drumbeats, real ones, make your body move before your mind even agrees. These, however, were limp. If such a thing as a limp drumbeat exists, this was it.

    The children danced with ballerina steps throughout the entire play. Mashujaa drawn from our community mythologies gliding delicately across the stage, as if our heroes had traded spears to audition for a European stage. It was painful to watch. The play was said to have been produced by Kenyans educated in the West, which made me once again question what truly constitutes a “good” education.

    The entire production was filtered through a colonial lens and it didn’t even attempt to hide it. How else does one explain a white child standing with her foot over the body of a black child, spear in hand? It was a shameless display, perpetuating the same old stories that have long diminished us. To stage that in the name of Mashujaa was not just tone-deaf; it was tragicomic.

    It was also curious to note that this narrated, ballerina-mime; whatever that hybrid was, had mostly mzungu children carrying spears, while the African kids clutched sticks. I couldn’t tell whether this was a safety precaution (using again the mzungu lens) or a deeper metaphor for how power is still assumed to be distributed, even in play. Perhaps it was simpler than that; maybe African parents refused to buy spears for a theatre production. I know I wouldn’t have. My mother wouldn’t have either. And my grandmother? She’d have slapped anyone who dared ask for her spear to go on stage. As for the men, my father, my grandfather; let’s just say, for everyone’s peace, we’ll keep violence out of this conversation.

    Now, let me get to the worst part of the play. If it hadn’t been performed by children, I would have given it a negative one and that’s only because it was staged at the National Theatre. Which raises a serious question: how exactly do we vet who can or should host events in this national space?

    The narrators read the script like ten-year-olds cramming for an exam they didn’t understand. There was no passion, no lift of the eyes from the paper, not even for a heartbeat. It baffled me beyond belief. They sounded as though they were encountering the script for the very first time, right there on stage.

    But the deal breaker was the pronunciation of African names, twisted through the English alphabet until meaning and music were both lost. Mugo wa Kibiru was read literally, and Kimnyole arap Turukat nearly escaped my comprehension altogether until I checked the programme. The only African name pronounced understandable was Gor Mahia. I do not think it is because they respected the name, but because of the football team, we have all heard the name so many times it left no room error. I am sure those who watched the performance narrated by John Sibi Okumu had a much better experience here.

    The realization that art, in some sectors of our society, has become a mirror of the very power structures we claim to resist is unsettling. The National Theatre, once meant to be a space for imagination and truth-telling, now reflects our collective amnesia. When our children cannot re-enact our stories without borrowed footsteps or foreign-approved rhythms, we begin to erase the memory of our heroes. Perhaps it is time to stop clapping and start remembering. If neo-colonialism ever sneaks upon us, let it come through politics or trade, not through the quiet vessel of our children.

    We are selling amnesia forward, neatly packed as arts and progress.

  • Who Owns the City Centre?: Restoring Safety in the Heart of Nairobi

    Reclaiming security for the city

    There was a time when I recall Nairobi’s city centre feeling truly safe. Kenyans went about their business with the usual wariness that comes with any big city. The public operated relatively freely, accepting minor risks as part of the urban vibe and drill of life.

    That uneasy balance has now been dramatically altered by reports of gangs of youth and street families taking over the streets, even in broad daylight. In just the past week, several Kenyans have shared disturbing accounts of robberies in the Nairobi Central Business District, some brazenly carried out in broad daylight, particularly over the weekends. Knife-wielding goons and teenage gangs carrying human waste are now threatening the peace of commuters, shoppers, and visitors alike.

    What was once background noise in the city’s rhythm has become a loud warning alarm. A secure city is measured by how well it protects its people. Nairobi is rapidly losing its standard, and it is doing so quickly. Building security and freedom for city users takes a long time, but that confidence can be eroded in a few incidents.

    One of the biggest disadvantages of insecurity in the city for me is the constant fear it creates every time one has an errand to run. Walking around clutching your bag, often having to empty it to a bare minimum, is a stress-filled experience. A standard woman’s bag has many things that may never be used, but on the day one leaves them behind is the day we need them.

    The consequences are wide-reaching. Residents live with constant anxiety and they restrict their movement. Businesses lose customers as people avoid certain streets or those businesses close early for safety. Tourists and investors, already cautious, will start to see Nairobi as high-risk, damaging both the economy and the city’s reputation and image.

    One of the hallmarks of a great city is its ability to protect people; when that is lost, everything else, commerce, culture, and community, begins to crumble. Sadly, Nairobi is sliding down this path, losing ground on safety faster than many had expected. Fear is once again shaping how people use the city.

    The big question now is, does urban safety always have to be a balance between human protection and public order? In the last few years, Nairobi’s streets have been overflowing with hawkers and their merchandise, leaving pedestrians with little space to navigate their activities including walking. The streets were markets for fruits and vegetables, cloths and even electronics, that often blocked entrances to city building or made their access quite troublesome.

    These street markets made movement difficult and inconvenienced motorists as pedestrians traffic spill into city roads as shoppers tried to negotiate their way on the busy pavements. Thought the subtle danger of pickpockets lingered, the human population formed a protective shield against any real danger.

    City authorities have eventually pushed the hawkers back into designated city back streets, restoring order and flow of human traffic and motorists in the central business district. But now, in the absence of hawkers, criminal gangs are moving in to fill the vacuum. The question is stark: must Nairobi choose between disorderly but relatively harmless hawkers or gangs that openly threaten the safety of everyone who passes through the city center?

    Nairobi cannot afford to gamble with the safety of its people. A city that fails to protect its residents and visitors loses more than its reputation; it risks losing the very things that make it a living, functioning city: its people, its businesses, its culture, and its energy.

    The warning signs are already clear on our streets. Unless decisive action is taken to reclaim the city centre, insecurity will continue to spread, eroding public trust and driving both business and visitors away. The choice is simple: restore security now, or watch Nairobi’s heart collapse under the weight of fear.

    Reclaiming Nairobi’s security will require more than public outcry, it demands action. The city must increase visible policing, dismantle criminal gangs, and invest in better lighting and surveillance. At the same time, authorities need to work with each other, the policy and the county government, businesses and even hawkers to restore order while pushing the criminals into the shadows where crime thrives. Unless Nairobi confronts both the criminals on its streets and the weaknesses within its policing, the city centre will remain a place of fear rather than a hub of commerce and community.

  • The Day the Road Forgot My Name

    The Day My Father Forgot—Caregiving and Memory Loss in an African Family

    Prof. Bwisa was afraid. Not in the immediate, frantic way one fears fire or falling, but in the quiet, creeping manner of something unnamed—something the mind touches, then recoils from. He could not quite say what unsettled him. Perhaps it was the sudden stillness that accompanied retirement. Or the unnerving way days now folded into each other without the familiar structure of lectures, student consultations, and senate meetings.

    Back in 1982, when he first joined Kenyatta University as a young lecturer, the notion of retirement at seventy had sounded almost comedic. A distant line on the horizon. He had watched colleagues peel away—some to chase business ventures, others to write books they never finished, or tend to farms they had long neglected. To Prof. Bwisa, their departure had seemed premature, even indulgent. “I have found my calling,” he would say, with the characteristic certainty of a man for whom work was identity. “What could be nobler than moulding young minds at the summit of intellectual pursuit?”

    But now, seated in a small, unfamiliar restaurant with sunlight streaming in through grimy windows, that certainty felt as brittle as the rim of his teacup.

    Five months earlier, he had paid a courtesy visit to Dr. Wanguyu, his old colleague and long-time friend, on the eve of his retirement. “I’m leaving the university next week,” he had said with a casual smile. “Thought I’d get a full medical check-up before they cut off the staff insurance.” He had chuckled at his own foresight.

    Dr. Wanguyu had obliged. The tests had been routine—until they weren’t. At the tail end of the consultation, the good doctor had taken off his spectacles and looked at him with that unsettling mixture of compassion and caution reserved for delivering news that changes the axis of a life.

    “Prof,” he’d said gently, “I believe you may be experiencing the onset of dementia.”

    “Me?” Bwisa had laughed, incredulous.

    “Yes, you,” Wanguyu had replied, not unkindly.

    What the professor hadn’t realised was that during their conversation, he had repeated the same questions—word for word—several times. He would ask about his blood pressure, be answered, and then a few minutes later ask again. And again.

    Wanguyu had remained jovial, careful not to injure his pride. “I’m not putting you on anything heavy just yet,” he’d said. “But here’s a dietary recommendation that may help slow the process. Omega-3s, memory-friendly greens, hydration. Keep the mind stimulated, you know the drill.”

    The professor had folded the list without a glance and never spoke of it again—not to his wife, not to his children, not even to the trusted house help who had known him since the children were in primary school.

    Now here he was, five months on, staring into a half-empty cup of tea in a town he did not recognise.

    He had no idea how he had arrived here. The name of the place escaped him. He remembered leaving the house early that morning, briefcase in hand, intending to visit the post office. But somewhere along the way, his sense of direction, usually reliable to the point of arrogance, had betrayed him.

    Still, not wanting to look confused, he had walked confidently into the small café, taken a seat by the window, and ordered chapati and tea. The waitress had asked him something he hadn’t quite caught, and rather than admit it, he had simply smiled and nodded. It was only when she left that the cold panic set in.

    He did not know the name of this restaurant.
    He did not know the street outside.

    He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, placed it on the table like an offering. Maybe it would ring. Maybe a familiar voice would reset his mind, remind him who he was, why he was here.

    But the phone stayed silent.

    What arrived instead was tea and two chapatis.

    “I didn’t ask for two,” he muttered.

    He forgot he was lost and bit into one chapati. It was excellent. Flaky, warm. He finished it and ordered another helping. But when it came, a strange heaviness anchored itself in his stomach. He couldn’t eat. He stared at the food, unsettled.

    The waitress eventually came over with the bill. He looked at her sharply.

    “I didn’t eat your chapati. My wife, Eva, feeds me well. I don’t need chapati from strangers.”

    Two young men, seated nearby, had been watching. One of them, curious and a little concerned, came over. After listening quietly, he took out his wallet and paid the bill without fuss.

    Then he turned to the older man, gently:
    “Is there someone I can call for you, sir?”

    Professor Bwisa’s face twitched.

    “I don’t know, James. I have to get home before your mother starts worrying.”

    The young man paused, a lump forming in his throat. He looked down at the phone left on the table and pressed redial.

    “Dad, where are you?” a voice answered, on the first ring, urgent. I have been trying to reach you.

    “Dad, where are you?”
    A voice picked up on the first ring—urgent, breathless.
    “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
    “I’m not your father,” the young man said gently. “There’s an elderly gentleman here. He says his name is Professor Bwisa. He seems… confused.”
    “And where is here?”
    “A restaurant in Nanyuki.”
    There was a pause, then:
    “Do me a favour, please. My name is James Bwisa—his son. My father left home this morning to visit the post office in Lower Kabete. I have no idea how he ended up in Nanyuki. Would you stay with him? I’m driving up from Nairobi now to fetch him.”
    “Of course. My grandfather had the same problem before he passed last year,” said the young man. “I’m happy to help.”

    He turned back to the professor, pulled out a chair, and smiled.
    “My name is Oluoch—but everyone calls me Simba.”
    Something about that amused the professor.
    “Simba, as in lion?” he chuckled, suddenly at ease, as if Simba were an old friend.

    Simba called over his companion, and the three sat together.
    “So, Professor—what do you do?”
    That lit the match. The professor launched into stories—hilarious, winding tales about students who butchered grammar in exams, half-baked PhD theses, missing punctuation that had caused academic catastrophes. The boys roared with laughter.

    One and a half hours later, James arrived—having driven at record speed from Nairobi.
    His father looked up, eyes bright, face alive with animation.
    “James! Meet my students—the clever ones.”

    James watched them laughing — his father, animated, his arms slicing through the air as he recounted the tale of a student who once defined “epistemology” as a stomach condition. The two strangers were in stitches, encouraging him, prompting more. There was something heartbreakingly dignified about it all — a once-brilliant man slipping into confusion, yet still masterful in the realm he knew best. The world had shifted beneath his father’s feet, but his voice still carried authority, still lit up a room.

    He thanked Oluoch—Simba—and his friend. The handshake was firm, their eyes warm. “It’s nothing,” Simba said. “It’s what we do.”

    What we do.

    As he helped his father into the car, James felt the weight of inheritance—not land or wealth, but responsibility. And tenderness. On the drive back to Nairobi, the old man dozed off mid-sentence, his head tilting towards the window. James gripped the steering wheel tighter, unsure whether to cry or laugh.

    How strange, he thought, that forgetting could reveal a man so clearly. That in the unraveling, you see the threads that held him together all along.

    He reached for the volume knob, turned the music low, and whispered, “ I’ll remember for the both of us, baba.

  • Larry—This Is Not Your Battle Alone: Language, Power, and the African Voice!

    Mocking an African Presidents fluency in English is not a joke

    I came across a clip on social media of Kenyan journalist Larry Madowo, visibly puzzled that Donald Trump seemed surprised by President Joseph Boakai of Liberia speaking fluent English. Larry’s tone was dismissive—as if the real problem was Trump’s ignorance. But no, Trump doesn’t have a problem, in this linguistic instance. We all should be surprised when an African speaks good English—and nothing more. That surprise is not stupidity. It is a symptom of a world still held together by the logic of empire and linguistic imperialism.

    Let’s talk about Liberia for context. A country on the West African coast, often ranked among the poorest in the world by UN metrics. But these rankings—like speaking English, or writing in English, or being praised for fluency in the languages of any of the former colonisers—are scaffolds of neo-colonialism. They uphold a global order that rewards proximity to whiteness while erasing the trauma and knowledge systems of those whose ancestors lie at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

    Ironically, Liberia is often described as one of the two African countries that was never colonised. But that’s a half-truth dressed as liberation. Liberia was founded by freed African-American slaves—yes—but their freedom came at the cost of indigenous African land. The settlers, supported by the American Colonization Society, arrived with a mandate that mirrored every colonial project before and after: claim, govern, dominate.

    The result was a deeply fractured society—one where the Americo-Liberians attempted to rule over the indigenous people with the same racialised hierarchies they had escaped in the United States. Years of civil war followed, as if history itself refused to remain buried. The juxtaposition is uncomfortable but necessary: a people returned “home” only to recreate a system of exclusion. It is not unlike the founding of Israel—where memory, displacement, and land ownership collided violently. The cost of this “return” was paid, once again, by those who never left – those who were ‘lucky’ enough not to be captured by the slaver traders.

    The deeper question, perhaps, is this: Was Larry surprised that President Trump was surprised that an African American descendant could still speak English? or that they couldn’t speak anything else? If the enslaved lost their ancestral languages in the hold of slave ships, isn’t it remarkable that their descendants—those who returned to rule Liberia— did not lose their English prowess on the returned ship and instead continue to excel in the language of the captor? That surprises me too! Is English then, the language of eternity?

    And here Liberia’s identity crisis deepens, much like the linguistic and cultural trauma many colonized nations inherited and have refused to address. You cannot build a lasting peace on cultural vessels that are fundamentally in conflict. A nation that speaks the language of its trauma but has forgotten the language of its healing cannot be whole. The wounds are not just political or economic—they are linguistic, spiritual, and ancestral. Liberia’s unrest may not only be about war, poverty, or corruption. It may also be about what happens when a people cannot remember who they were before the world renamed them.

    President Boakai may feel offended and trampled on. But Presidents Trump’s condescension is not new—it’s a signature trait. He has routinely belittled leaders from countries he deems weak or chaotic. His treatment of Liberia’s President is not unlike his earlier treatment of Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelensky. The difference lies in what he chooses to attack. With Zelensky, it was his clothing—Trump mocked his lack of a suit, reducing a wartime leader to a fashion critique. But with Boakai, the target was far more insidious: language.

    Mocking an African president’s fluency in English is not a joke—it’s cultural assault. It reinforces the idea that African legitimacy must be earned through mimicry of the coloniser’s tongue. It’s a form of violence wrapped in surprise. It says: “You can only be taken seriously if you speak our language.” That is not just ignorance—it is the empire rearing its ugly head.

    So let me take a step back and speak directly to Larry. I understand the impulse—to defend, to correct, to be outraged on behalf of a fellow African leader. But we must be careful where we place our grief. I try, in my work and in my life, to draw an unsentimental line between language, memory, and identity—and the deep dissonance that arises when those threads are severed or replaced. Because weeh! this is a trigger for many Africans, especially those of us who have moved through international cultural spaces and felt the quiet violence of exclusion.

    I am associated with the International Council of Museums (ICOM), an organisation that claims to be global. Yet its official languages are English, French, and Spanish—European, all of them. Every attempt to introduce a language from outside that small colonial circle is met with the same excuse: budgets. The subtext is clearer than they admit—African and Asian linguistic blocs don’t pay enough in membership fees to matter. Never mind that French-speaking countries don’t have the numbers to contribute much either; the organisation is hosted in France, and so the language remains sacred.

    Meanwhile, the United Nations is hosted in Nairobi, yet Swahili is not required—or even respected—as a working language. The irony burns. Japanese, Arabic, Chinese, Russian, and yes, Swahili are among the most widely spoken languages in the world today. But it is only Africans who must show up dressed in borrowed tongues, with accents to match. Other cultures speak boldly in their own languages—what you understand is your business. Africans have made little attempt to use their own languages – with few exceptions – thank you Ngugi  – linguistic interference is frowned upon, often ridiculed, as if our native tongues are a threat to international decorum. Now it turns out even fluency is ridiculed. And with that, the final nail is driven into the coffin of cultural liberty.

    Larry, I feel your frustration. But I wonder if your grief is really about that single awkward moment between two presidents—men you do not know, and who have little bearing on your life. Or is it something deeper, shaped by your own long dance with linguistic performance in elite Western spaces like CNN?

    Maybe what we are witnessing is a mirror! A mirror of the uncomfortable truth many of us carry in global spaces. The weight of exclusion, the nuances of discrimination that do not scream, but which persists. And the impossible decision—to step away entirely, or remain in the room, bruised, limping, but still showing up! It’s tough Larry – but then again so is survival!

  • Saba saba!

    Kamukunji Grounds at peace!

    Today is Saba Saba.

    Funny how it only stirs something when you say it in Swahili. Say “the seventh of July,” and most people will blink and move on. But say Saba Saba—and something activates. The air stiffens. Memory stirs. Passions rise. It’s not just a date. It’s a scar. A story. A mirror.

    But this year feels… different.

    No placards. No sirens. No leaders bellowing into aging microphones.

    Just Kamukunji Grounds, wide and waiting under the Nairobi sun. And four strangers—young, unarmed, unbothered—walking in from the far corners of the country, like an accidental compass pointing to something new.

    Amina, a tech innovator from Garissa, is here to install an open-source WiFi node for schoolchildren—just one part of a dream she calls ShujaaHub.

    Kimani, grandson of a Mau Mau general, comes every year to this ground to remember. This time, he’s brought a drum.

    Chebet, a spoken word artist from Kericho, carries only her voice. She’s debuting a piece called We Are Not the Lines Drawn On a Map.

    And Odhiambo? A culinary artist from Kisumu. He’s lugged a pot of mbuta stew and enough ugali to feed whoever comes hungry—physically or otherwise.

    None of them were invited. None needed to be.

    The Convergence

    They meet at the old fig tree. The one elders say heard the first whispers of resistance. There’s no programme. No emcee. Just offerings.

    Amina sets up the WiFi and waves a small device at a group of kids chasing a flat ball across the dust. “Free Internet!” she calls out. They abandon the match without a second thought. Soon they’re gathered around her, learning how to upload stories to ShujaaHub.

    Kimani sits cross-legged, eyes closed, and begins to beat the drum. Not in protest—but in memory. In rhythm. His feet trace slow movements from long ago—the kind the resistance once danced in caves and forests. A few children try to mimic him, limbs flailing in joy. The sound carries.

    When he stops, Chebet rises. Tall. Graceful. Her voice slices through the air like truth:

    “We came from the Rift and the Coast and the Mountain and the Lake
    But what bound us was not land—it was longing.”

    Silence falls. Not out of reverence—out of recognition.

    Then Odhiambo ladles out stew, chatting up a boda boda rider from Kathonzweni who chuckles, “Aki, if I’d known this was happening, I’d have brought mangoes. Historic occasion, bana!”

    People begin to gather. Not for a march. Not for a spectacle. But because it feels right. A girl types out her grandmother’s story—about how she survived the Emergency—then uploads it to ShujaaHub.

    A teenage boy records Kimani’s drumbeat and makes it his ringtone. Then he airdrops it to anyone within Bluetooth range.

    A city council cleaner joins Chebet’s chorus with an old hymn. Two uniformed police officers stop—not to disperse—but to listen. No slogans. No t-shirts. No hierarchy.

    Just people. Just Kenyans.

    Memory. Possibility. Stew.

    On this day at Kamukunji, the ground remembered.

    And maybe—just maybe—so does the country.

    That the future of Kenya will not be shouted into existence.

    It won’t be forced through manifestos or fists.

    It will be made—quietly, defiantly, and together.

    But that is vision 2030 – what happened to that blueprint by the way? On this saba saba day, we are on the edge of hope. Hoping that the memories from today will part of the poems in 2030 and beyond.

    For now, I’m gobsmacked by Kenyans—and how much we mirror our politicians. We defy order like it’s a national sport. Last Friday, I was at the bank, ticket number in hand like a passport to the pearly gates, waiting my turn like a decent human being. Then in waddles a certain Kenyan—of notable presence—straight to the cheque counter. No ticket. No line. No shame.

    I wasn’t going to let that fly.

    I marched up to the counter and said, “Excuse me, I have a number. I’m in line.” Then I waved my hand across the banking hall like a prophet with a shepherd’s staff and declared, “All of us are waiting. One of us does not get to skip the wilderness.”

    The woman looked at me calmly and said, “I’m only here to check my balance.”

    “And I’m only here to shepherd my flock,” I replied. “But I’m ahead of you.”

    She opened her mouth for a retort, but the people nearest the counter burst out laughing. I hadn’t meant to be funny—only to make a point. About ethics. About respect. About manners. About the kind of order that doesn’t need a uniform to enforce it.

    Because weeh! This madness isn’t just at the top. It starts in the queues.

  • One misstep that led to a medical Emergency during the protests – chronic illness and emergency preparedness

    Real story, real danger – Why medical supplies should be your #1 Emergency priority!

    Mercy was always careful with her diabetes medication. Always. She lived alone in a two-bed flat in Langata. Though her cupboards were modest, her pill box was always perfectly arranged: morning tablets, afternoon injections, and evening doses.

    Mercy was a primary school teacher, gentle with children but quietly hard on herself. She first discovered she had diabetes during a routine medical check at a teacher’s wellness camp. The nurse frowned, pricked her again, and then again, as if repeating the test might change the numbers. It didn’t. Mercy sat there, numb, clutching the brochure they handed her. The words blurred: “Chronic condition. Lifelong management. Lifestyle changes.”

    It hit her harder because this was not unfamiliar ground. She had watched her mother fight the same battle — insulin pens, blurred vision, hospital nights, and finally, the exhaustion that settled into her bones – rendering her unable to participate in everyday activities for fear of getting an injury, that would turn into a diabetic ulcer. Now the weight had shifted to Mercy. A quiet grief settled inside her: not dramatic, but heavy, like a wet wool blanket over her shoulders. She felt betrayed by her own blood. And yet, she tucked it in, folded the grief tight, and told herself what teachers always do — keep going, the children are watching.

    What the children could not see was the heartbreak that came quietly, but it cut deep. She had met Peter — a biology and math teacher from a secondary school — at the National Teachers’ Conference in Mombasa. For a while, it felt promising. They shared long conversations about students, lesson plans, and dreams that could fit together. But when Mercy finally told him about her diagnosis, his warm attentiveness turned cold.

    A man trained in science, who should have understood the nature of chronic conditions better than most, instead saw it as a disqualifier. “You’ll struggle to raise a family. This will be too much,” he said bluntly. The words stayed with Mercy long after he walked away. Since then, Mercy had not let anyone else close. Not because there weren’t others — there were — but because Peter had shown her something bitter: even educated people, even those who should know better, could be small when it mattered most. His rejection planted a quiet doubt inside her, and that doubt built careful, invisible walls around her heart.

    She anchored her life on strict routines — balancing her sugar levels with the same precision she brought to her classroom work plans. Work, rest, medication, diet — all carefully measured. But life, in its familiar cruelty, has a way of testing even the most disciplined hearts.

    The national budget barely crossed Mercy’s mind that month. Budgets, politics — they belonged to other people’s worlds. Her world was simpler, smaller: maintain sugar levels, manage exhaustion, survive the day. But even in that small world, the weight of rising prices pressed hard. Groceries cost more. Insulin cost more. The city itself felt heavier somehow.

    When the protests began, she heard them first before she saw them. A dull chant rolling through Langata’s dusty streets — angry voices mixing with the hum of boda bodas. At first, it was easy to dismiss: young men shouting, boys with loud opinions – all marching towards the city center. But by the third day, something shifted. The crowds grew larger, the chants sharper. They called themselves Gen-Z now — and their rage was on wheels.

    By Wednesday, her flat trembled at night with the shriek of police sirens slicing through the dark. News clips showed burning tyres, broken glass, masked faces in the smoke. The youths swore to storm Parliament by week’s end.

    Mercy stood at her window that evening, watching the flicker of distant fires. She ran her fingers absently over her insulin pen on the kitchen table. She had enough for today. Tomorrow, she wasn’t sure. And with the roads blocked, with shops shut, with no way into town — one missed dose could tilt everything. Diabetes doesn’t wait for protests to end.

    On day three, Mercy’s blood sugar began to slide dangerously. She had been careful, always careful — but this time, life had outpaced her discipline. The last salary delay had forced her to stretch her insulin supply thinner than usual, postponing her pharmacy trip. She told herself it was only for a few days. She didn’t factor in a city under siege.

    By the afternoon, her hands were trembling. She tried to focus on her marking but the words blurred, swimming like fish on the page. She felt an odd, hollow dizziness behind her eyes, as though her head was no longer entirely attached to her body.

    By day four, the city felt like a war zone. Smoke rose in the distance as burning tires marked blocked roads. The police had sealed off most of the major arteries, and the smaller streets were swarmed by angry protesters. Even the neighborhood shops were shuttered. Mercy sat by her window, clutching her phone. She tried calling the pharmacy, even her neighbor. Nothing. The mobile networks were overwhelmed. The silent blinking of ‘call failed’ became a cruel rhythm.

    By mid-morning on day five, the weakness was no longer subtle. She could barely keep her eyes open. Her skin felt clammy. She reached for her water glass but missed it, knocking it to the floor. The crash startled her. She tried to stand, but her legs betrayed her. The fall was silent. No scream, just a soft thud as her body folded awkwardly onto the cold tiled floor.

    It was her next-door neighbor, Mama Judy, who heard the thud. She called out to her, but got no response. Mama Judy was quick-thinking. She didn’t waste time, she put her seven year old son over Mercy’s balcony seeing that the back door was open and asked him to go inside and open the front door. She did not bother to call an ambulance, everyone knew ambulances wouldn’t get through that chaos anyway. Instead, she called her nephew, Dr. Lameck, who run a private clinic in Ngei Three, within Langata.

    Lameck was off-duty that morning and had his old pickup at home. The backstreets within the Estate were not that risky, he knew them well. Within 20 minutes, he had navigated the barricades and reached Mercy’s flat.

    He carried her to the pickup himself, his strong arms surprisingly gentle, his voice steady:
    “You’re safe now. We’ll sort you out.”

    At the clinic, after stabilizing her with IV fluids and carefully administered insulin, Lameck sat by her bedside, monitoring her vitals. When she opened her eyes, dazed but alive, he smiled.

    “You gave us quite a scare, Teacher Mercy.”

    She tried to speak but her throat was dry.

    “Rest,” he said softly, adjusting her blanket. “There’s plenty of time to talk.”

    And there was something in his voice — not the clinical tone of duty, but a kind warmth, like someone who had found more than just a patient that morning.

    Mercy closed her eyes again, grateful and strangely comforted. For the first time in a long while, as her breathing steadied, the heavy ache in her chest seemed to loosen — just a little.

    You can’t control emergencies. Be prepared. Get you a book to guide your family here: : https://homedoctorbook.com/book/#aff=MuthoniThangwa]

    .

  • How a boy almost lost a leg! The price of medical unpreparedness

    Family Abandonment: The Hidden Emergency No One Talks About

    Tirop was 12 years old when he first faced the brutal possibility of losing his right leg. Not because of war, not because of a rare disease, but because of something far more common: neglect.
    The kind of neglect children inherit from the poor decisions of the adults around them.

    He lived with his grandmother, Mama Cherono, in a home that had long stopped being a home and had become a warehouse of broken promises. Five children — his younger brother, two cousins, and himself — all dumped into Mama Cherono’s lap like forgotten baggage. Not out of her free will. No. She was handed this burden by tragedy, cowardice, and the ruthless carelessness of grown-ups.

    Tirop’s two cousins were fatherless — their father had died young. The mother, barely a woman herself, had abandoned her sons in a cloud of shame and whispered curses, muttering something about Arap — sons of the dead. As if grief was something her young boys could carry alone.

    Then came Mama Cherono’s own daughters — both drawn to men who made promises like they were throwing pebbles into a river: easy to make, impossible to retrieve. Each left behind a child, as though their children were loose ends they no longer knew how to tie.

    So Mama Cherono, already old, already tired, already poor, became the reluctant guardian of five children who had done nothing wrong but be born into other people’s failures.

    The daughters claimed they needed to move to Nakuru town — to find work, to make money, to “build a better life for the children.” That’s what they said.
    But promises are cheap. They asked Mama Cherono to care for the children for “just a short time,” while they found suitable accommodation. A few weeks. Maybe a month. Two at most. That was four years ago for one daughter, six years ago for the other.

    They came back from time to time — polished nails, new hairstyles, cheap synthetic perfumes clinging to their skin — and always with fresh stories. Elaborate, theatrical stories.

    “Mama, the landlord says no children until we finish paying the deposit.”

    “Mama, my job keeps me working night shifts — it wouldn’t be safe for a child right now.”

    “Mama, the schools here are terrible. Let them stay a little longer while I sort things out.”

    The stories mutated, grew legs, changed shapes each visit.
    The truth was simpler: They had slipped into new lives where the burdens of motherhood had no space.

    And Mama Cherono, too decent to throw her grandchildren to the wolves, too proud to beg, and too old to fight, bore it all in silence — her back bending a little more with each broken promise.
    She fed them, clothed them when she could, watched them grow with tight jaws and a bleeding heart.
    The kind of injustice no one writes about.
    The quiet kind.
    The slow kind.
    The invisible kind.

    Tirop lived in the same compound with his father and mother. Technically, he had parents — both alive, both fully capable of raising him. He was not like his cousins, abandoned by mothers who vanished into town life. No, his case was worse in its own quiet way.

    Because Tirop, even at twelve, carried a kind of burdened awareness most adults around him lacked.
    He was a sensitive child. Observant. Thoughtful.
    And what he saw carved wounds into his young heart:
    The way his grandmother, Mama Cherono, had grown smaller over the years — not in body, but in spirit. How the spark in her eyes dulled as one grandchild after another was left behind.
    How her laughter, once strong and full, now dissolved into polite chuckles — like someone trying to make peace with grief.

    And Tirop saw something else too.
    He saw his parents — living yards away, yet turning their backs to the quiet suffering in the house , with which they shared a compound.

    His mother, always full of excuses —
    “Mama Cherono understands that I have so much on my plate.”
    His father, always busy with things that conveniently kept him at arm’s length —
    “The boys are better off there. After all, Mama raised us too. She can manage.”

    The hypocrisy stank.
    Every day, Tirop watched adults move like ghosts of responsibility — present in body, absent in duty. And so he began to help. Quietly.
    Carrying water, chopping firewood, fetching groceries from the market, soothing crying babies. He did the work of adults — not because anyone asked him to, but because he couldn’t watch the weight crush Mama Cherono while others stood by with clean hands.

    He shouldn’t have had to.
    But dignity is rarely distributed fairly amongst kin.

    Until the accident.

    It happened on a Wednesday afternoon. School had closed early, and Tirop, as always, hurried home to help.

    The rains had been cruel that season, pounding the tin roofs at night, turning the compound into a slippery mess of mud and loose stones. The family’s small pile of firewood had grown dangerously low, and Mama Cherono had murmured about it in the morning: “If this rain continues, we won’t even have dry sticks to boil porridge.”

    Tirop had heard her.
    He always heard her.

    So while the younger ones napped under the thin patched blanket, and Mama Cherono sat sewing an old dress by the fading light, Tirop grabbed the old panga and headed toward the edge of the compound. There, behind the granary, lay a fallen tree branch that had been too heavy for Mama Cherono to drag. Wet, but still usable. Firewood was firewood.

    The panga was dull. Its handle loose.
    He had told his father weeks ago that it needed fixing — but his father had dismissed him with a wave:
    “Don’t touch that panga again, Tirop. Let the adults handle it.”
    But there were no adults here when it mattered, and gogo would not be left to handle this matters alone.

    He swung the blade with awkward strength, trying to hack smaller pieces from the log.
    The branch twisted. His foot slipped on the wet ground.
    The panga veered off course.
    In a flash of pain and bright red, the blade sliced into his right shin — deep, ugly, raw.

    Tirop screamed.
    The world narrowed into pain and terror.

    Mama Cherono came running, barefoot, her eyes wide with a mix of panic and exhaustion that only the truly helpless know.

    The wound was deep, and blood pulsed through Tirops fingers as he tried to clutch it. The old woman pressed rags against it — an old shirt, anything she could grab. There was no clean gauze, no antiseptic, no sterile bandage. Only desperate, trembling hands.

    The nearest clinic was miles away. The main road had been blocked all week — trucks stuck in the mud, they said.
    The nearest matatus were more than two kilometers away.  Mama Cherono had no phone to call either his mother or father for help.

    And so they waited.
    They waited as the wound bled.
    They waited as the infection from the rusted panga crept in.
    They waited while the swelling rose like a poisonous balloon.

    By the time help arrived — a neighbor with an old bicycle who finally risked the ride into town — Tirop’s leg was hot to the touch, his fever climbing, his body shivering.

    At the hospital, the nurse shook her head.
    “You people… you always wait too long.”

    As they waited for the doctor, Tirop and Mama Cherono sat side by side on the hard wooden bench. His leg was propped up, wrapped hastily in soiled cloth. The pain throbbed, but for a moment, the room felt strangely quiet.

    Their eyes met.
    No words. Just a long, heavy glance.

    Both carried something unspoken in that moment — a shared knowledge of struggle. Each had tried, in their own way, to hold up the other.
    Mama Cherono, stretching thin the small coin she had. Tirop, too young to carry burdens, yet quietly shouldering the gaps adults left behind.

    They were allies in a silent war that others couldn’t see.
    A war not of violence, but of abandonment. A war of being made invisible by those who should have stood in front of them.

    They both knew: the others wouldn’t understand.
    Not the nurses. Not the relatives who appeared during holidays with gifts and loud voices. Not even Tirop’s own parents, who lived just yards away but had long outsourced their responsibility.

    In that glance, they held each other up.
    Because no one else would.

    This is how emergencies happen.
    Not suddenly.
    Not unexpectedly.
    But step by painful step — through carelessness, avoidance, and the indifference of adults who should have known better.

    You can’t control emergencies. Be prepared. Get your FREE Emergency Medical Checklist now Free PDF: https://muthonithangwa.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/my-10-point-emergency-medical-check-list-2.pdf

    Useful book: : https://homedoctorbook.com/book/#aff=MuthoniThangwa

    .

  • “Soulmates, Sketches, and Other Expensive Distractions: “I Bought a Soulmate sketch and Found Idris Elba… and a Tyre Guy in Kiambu!

    The face of my soulmate sketch—or was it Idris?

    I tried a soulmate sketch – this is what happened! It floored me!

    I was supposed to be doing something important on the computer. You know—something grown-up. Like paying bills, writing a proposal, or finding original spare parts for my Kwid. Does anyone ever try to find fake spare parts? Anyway!

    That little red slay queen is giving me more problems than dating—imagine. She looks cute in the driveway, sure, but maintaining her is like trying to love someone who keeps ghosting you, then showing up when your phone battery is at 1%.

    So, there I was, meant to be searching for a reputable auto-parts dealer, and instead I found myself thinking about soulmates. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the 17 open tabs. Maybe it was the fact that even my car is more demanding than my love life.

    But something in me whispered: “What if your soulmate is out there… but can’t find you because he’s using Waze in Nairobi?”

    And just like that, I fell down a rabbit hole. Not the kind Alice stumbled into—mine was paved with affiliate ads, slightly questionable testimonials, and an offer to receive a psychic drawing of my soulmate for a mere $29. A man I’ve never met, drawn by someone who has never met me. All via the internet. What could go wrong? Lol!

    The Woman Who Knew Too Much

    This thing of falling into rabbit holes goes way back—way back to the days when I used to mark student scripts in two weeks flat.

    Now, don’t get me wrong—it’s not like they were PhDs. Naaah. These were first-years. Introduction to Anthropology. Fresh out of high school, armed with confidence and vibes. But don’t be fooled. Even undergraduate scripts can wear you down. By day three your eyes glaze over, your red pen starts leaking into your coffee, and every sentence reads like a philosophical riddle wrapped in grammatical chaos.

    At the time, I had a neighbour—Betty. She was one of those highly competent, quinoa-soaking, herbal tea-brewing women who was trained in something expensive and mysterious called the Waldorf Method. She teaches children through storytelling, seasonal baking, and probably the gentle use of moss.

    She was also the unfortunate recipient of my emotional soundtrack: a constant switch between soul music and loud Kikuyu classics—whatever it took to stay sane while marking papers in which students responded as if armchair anthropologist was a type of furniture.

    I liked Betty. A lot. But at some point in our friendship, she sat me down and said: “Muthoni, I think you might be…easily distracted.”

    She said it kindly. Like a teacher breaking the news that your child eats crayons.

    Naturally, I denied it. I even built an internal fortress to resist the idea. Brick by defensive brick. But sitting here today, browsing a psychic art website instead of doing my actual work, I felt a small crack form in the wall. Betty, it turns out, was just seeing the kindergartener in me.

    The Checkout Moment (A Crisis of Faith)

    I won’t lie. The site was convincing. It promised not just a drawing, but a description of your soulmate’s personality, their energy, their life purpose. At one point, it claimed the sketch could bring clarity to my love life.

    I had questions.

    What if the sketch looked like my ex? Would I be expected to forgive and forget just because this time, he was delivered as a digital PDF?

    What if it looked like that one toxic boss I used to work with? The one who sat upstairs with a big stomach, for six whole years, and did nothing but ruin the energy of the entire organization just by existing? Because weeh!  Some people!

    It wasn’t just a purchase. It was a surrender. A small, whimsical surrender to the part of me that still believes in signs, serendipity, and psychic sketch artists working overtime on the internet.

    I was amused and mildly afraid. This was either an act of self-love—or a red flag on steroids. At one point, I even paused and asked myself, “How much does therapy cost again?”

    It might’ve been cheaper.

    That’s when I remembered Betty. And the rabbit holes.

    “Muthoni, stay focused,” I whispered.

    The Reveal

    The email arrived the next day. No ceremony. No cosmic lightning. Just a subject line: “Your Soulmate Sketch Is Ready!”

    I clicked. And there he was.

    A man. With eyes that had seen things. Eyebrows that meant business. A mouth that looked like it only spoke in riddles. He looked like the kind of man who fixes tractors in silence, writes poetry in secret, and cries during Finding Nemo.

    I stared at the sketch for a long time.

    Was he handsome? In a rugged, silent-type way, yes.
    Was he familiar? That was the strange part—maybe.

    I felt something. Not certainty, but curiosity. A flicker. A spark. The tiny, ridiculous possibility that maybe, just maybe, this internet art experiment wasn’t completely unhinged.

    So, naturally, I did what any self-respecting woman would do:
    I ran him through Google Lens.

    And lo and behold—the sketch matched fifteen different men.

    A tech CEO in Finland. A gospel singer from Uganda. A man who sells tyres in Kiambu. But the only one I was remotely interested in was—of course—Idris Elba.

    Weeh, sasa itakuwa aje? I asked myself, suddenly deeply invested in the metaphysical logistics of relating with a British actor who doesn’t know I exist. Although… a journey in search of the tyre seller in Kiambu is probably more viable.

    I considered printing it out and framing it. Just to confuse future visitors. “Oh, that? That’s my soulmate. We haven’t met yet, but I like to keep him close.”

    What Did I Learn?

    That we have the permission to be curious – like children with a crayon and no regard for lines. That not every decision I make will be strategic – I just have to find balance between strategy and the why not?

    And yes, Betty was right—I am easily distracted. But sometimes distractions are the only way the soul gets a break from the grind. Sometimes they lead to laughter, to strange portraits, to blog posts.

    If nothing else, I now have a picture of a man I can show my mother when she asks why I’m still single.

    “Here he is, Mum. He’s psychic-approved.”

    If you would like to try your own stretch, here is your chance: https://www.soulmatesketch.com/2-01721767000544#aff=MuthoniThangwa