Thursday 3 December 2015

Seasons of Madness- Divine intervention from Pastor Ng’ang’a... the ravenous wolf.



 Mathew 7:15 "Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves. 16"You will know them by their fruits. Grapes are not gathered from thorn bushes nor figs from thistles, are they?…



Hey, do you know the pain and trauma associated with raising a child with disability? Many people often say, “I understand” when a parent of a child with disability tries to explain the struggles  they are undergoing . Don’t say that unless you have had a similar experience in your life or you REALLY do understand. Instead, be compassionate and listen empathetically (I have learned this with time.) Just shut up and listen. Follow through in the conversation and say things like, “I may never understand what you are going through ,but if there’s anything I can do to ease….”
Don’t pity me either, it’s an equivalent of throwing me into  a pit and shoving some warm crap to bury me alive. I’ll rot in there! Sympathy is pathetic and helpless. Empathy is trying to fit into my shoes.

Dealing with autism at first, is like walking bare-feet on hot coal, before you can reach the cold water. We were going through a season of madness, dealing with the challenges that come with the condition. Pendo had difficulties with gross motor skills. At two and a half years, she still could not walk or hold a cup to feed herself despite weekly physiotherapy sessions at KNH. She was non verbal and made no effort to speak either. Crying and yelling was the most common form of communication she could use to express herself. She literally spent sleepless nights in a row due to insomnia. I sat up most of these nights and rocked her on my laps and chest. She just couldn’t sleep. Then there were food allergies: ; no dairy products, no red meat(white meat only-you know the cost in Nairobi), nothing with soya, nothing with wheat, honey for sugar,no spices in food,only specific fruits would be eaten…the list kept growing while alternatives kept shrinking. Anytime she developed an allergy, we rushed to the hospital and withdrew the food from her diet. Her stomach was so sensitive I combed Githurai market for varieties of local foods,fruits and vegetables . I became a frequent customer at the poshomills and learned how to mix different types of flours for her porridge. Her young body needed proper nutrition and I had to be the nutritionist. I don’t know how I’d have managed without my siblings’ support.

It was not easy juggling between studies and nursing Pendo. Sometimes I thought I was sleep walking in broad daylight while in K.U and began hallucinating due to lack of sufficient sleep. I could hear her cry during lectures. Crossing Thika road from Kahawa Wendani to head to K.U for classes became a difficult task. Once I heard a lorry hoot as I tried to cross and almost stopped midway to confirm where the sound was coming from when someone held my hand and pulled me from the road. It took me some minutes to discover how narrowly I had escaped the wheels of death. While the son of a gun numbed his pain with alcohol and excuses, I took it raw and drank plenty of water. I did my sports activities(skill development)  like a pro and wore a smile on my face. Sometimes I thought I had turned into a robot. My system adopted certain patterns of doing things to cope with the stress. My daughter was suffering and she needed some form of divine intervention- so I thought. The stress was accumulating and I needed a touch from heaven too!

I began watching TV programs that preached about healing. There was plenty of healing happening in different places. There was the likes of Pastor Muiru (now Bishop) of maximum miracles…I needed that miracle. Then I watched the miracles performed by the ‘powerful’ Pastor Maina Ng’ang’a and made up my mind to visit his church. I would take Pendo to his pulpit and with a touch…she would be healed. The year was 2006.

Do you ever get this ‘funny’ feeling when you are about to do something you are not sure about? A little silent  voice that keeps asking you to stay away? Some people call it intuition, others call it the holy spirit, others say it’s the subconscious mind. Well, I had one of those moments when I felt I shouldn’t bother my little girl with the drama of perhaps rolling on the floor and getting demons slapped out of her tiny body. I instead, would go and pilot the church and witness how painful exorcism could get (that's what they do to demons right?), before bringing in my Pendo. If the Pastor would agree to heal her through me,I would gladly take the slaps for her and walk home smiling.  I shared my thoughts with the son of a gun, who, after days of thinking, agreed to accompany me to the centre. We both agreed the little needed some sleep at night and a variety of foods on her plate. I allowed my intuition to guide me and left Pendo behind. I was not going to take chances with her. I was going for a go-and-see-first  session. I wanted the healing by faith experience.
It was a weekday when we visited the popular Neno Angelism Centre on Haile Selassie Avenue. I was seeking divine intervention for my daughter so I could heal too. There were a number of expensive vehicles parked in the compound. Judging from the cool land cruiser parked on one corner of the compound, I knew the ‘man of God ‘ was already in the church. The church was filling up very fast, so we sought to sit in the area around the front rows so we could grab a chance to reach the Pastor and catch a miracle or book an appointment- whichever would come first. Women flocked in numbers, many I noticed, carried children with disabilities on their backs. I could tell most of the conditions were cerebral palsy, down syndrome and autism. The women looked exhausted and desperate and looking at their general appearance, they came from humble backgrounds. Perhaps I should have brought Pendo with me, I thought to myself.

When the church was three quarters-full, the service began and Pastor Ng’ang’a took to the pulpit with his guitar. He is good with the instrument and strums it passionately like a pro. The crowd was ecstatic and sang along the praise and worship songs that filled the air ,dancing and whirling around the little available space. We (son of a gun and I) were raised in churches that kneel more than dance so we clapped and sang along, as I swayed diligently to the words of the song. With the majority of the congregation consisting of women (I have never understood why women make the biggest population in churches. Is it that we are always spiritual or always possessed?). It sounded like a deep-voiced man (Pastor) inciting women to scream. The guitar wizard kept strumming the instrument and leading the songs while the sopranos drowned the rest of the tones in response. I looked around for the cameramen that covered his sessions-none was present. I thought they always had coverage for all days and seasons. I felt glad that my miracle would not be broadcasted to the world (I don't like the attention) .

The session began by warming the hearts to get into the mood for the spiritual session. Ushers started preparing the offertory baskets as the music slowed down before the Pastor stopped playing the guitar and only the pianist played a few keys to go with the ongoing activities. There was a pile of small books on a table just in front of the pulpit. Pastor Ng’ang’a welcomed his flock and gave a testimony of his journey from a sinner to a saint, prisoner to saviour. He told the congregation to prepare their pockets and support the work of God before we could get into prayer and healing. His little books were being sold at a minimum of 50 bob ($ 0.5) and the congregation was encouraged to buy at a higher price. It was more of an auction.

“I will look at you and know how much you can contribute to this word of God. Only a few poor people here will get this at 50 bob. No coins please.” He said. At first, people were slow at reaching into their pockets. Most held the fifty shilling note in their hands and stretched their hands so that they could get the book and a blessing. On noticing the amount in their hands, Pastor Ng’ang’a posed and decided to lecture his flock. He did it in Swahili, but I’ll do the honour of translating into English, so I don’t have to repeat the entire conversation.

“Listen here you people. I do not want to see that little money you are holding in your hands. I am a powerful man of God and you cannot come here to embarrass me and your God. Look at me, look at how I'm dressed.Do I look cheap? Have you looked at the car I drive? Will that amount fuel it? I need to move and spread the word. Stop joking around with me.” His holy smile had vanished and replaced by a smirk. People dug into their pockets and produced a second similar note. I pretended not to notice the disappointment on his face. I didn’t take out any money either. I was going to give an offertory, not buy a book. 
“Haraka haraka ndio tuendelee!”(Quickly, quickly so we proceed!)He said as he continued auctioning. The flock dug dipper and dipper to get the little book of 'miracles.' I wanted my miracle to be air borne, not carried in a book, so I watched the sheep buy from the shepherd.
He sold the books, demanding for more money from those who looked ‘able’ as the money was being thrown into a basket in exchange. I could hear the sound of coins fall into the basket too. He was good at expediting his religion business activities. I pitied the women with children on their backs as they struggled to calm their children. When he was through with the books the offertory baskets were brought forward.

“ You will remove money from where you are hiding it. I am not a beggar. I am a powerful man of God. I should be living like a President, not like a beggar. With all the miracles that I perform here, I deserve more from you than what I am getting. I heal people from all over this country because I have the power. I need to have more body guards and good security around me. Money is needed for all these things. ” He spoke in an arrogant businesslike tone, with a flare of anger in his voice. “I do not want coins! Do not bring me coins!” He yelled, looking among his flock and pointing at one of the poor women with a child on her back.”

“You woman, where have you come from?” He asked her.
“Busia.” She fearfully replied.
“You bring me a mad kid possessed by demons from Busia for deliverance and what do I get in return? Fifty shillings. have you bought the book?" He challenged her. She shook her head to say no.
 "How much does it cost you to travel from Busia?” Hecontinued.
“ I spent one thousand shillings on the bus.” She looked down and replied. She looked sad and ashamed.
“And that is only one way. So you spend more than two thousand shillings to get to Pastor Ng’ang’a with a possessed child and only give him a few coins in return. Is that fair?” He asked her smirkingly.
“Bring that fifty shillings so I can help you with the book for free.” He said sarcastically as the woman untied a little knot on her lesso and pulled out a badly crumbled fifty-shilling note. She handed over the money and was given the little book. My guess-she couldn’t read at all, leave alone in English.

He turned back to the sheep “I know there are many of you who have traveled across the country to get here, why don’t you go to those other churches for free healing? I’m not asking for payment. I am asking you to support the work of a servant of God.” He went on. The congregation clapped and laughed. I sat in my chair as if in prayer and froze my thoughts. I just covered my face with my open palms and stared between my fingers at my feet. This was absurd. That woman did not deserve to be embarrassed for seeking divine intervention. What Pastor Ng'ang'a was doing was humiliating. This place felt like a robber’s den!

He picked his guitar and the music began to play again. I stood up as the offertory song was sung, the basket passing around in rows, with the ushers monitoring its movement. I looked behind and noticed a bunch of street kids in the extreme back row. They had walked in, sniffing their bottles of glue. They seemed to be following the proceedings. I still wondered to myself; where’s the damn camera crew? Someone needed to cover this session from start to finish. When everyone was done, all the little bags were emptied into the main basket. There was the sound of coins.
“This is noise!” he shouted. “This coins are making a lot of noise to God!” he went on, digging his hands into the basket and fishing out the ‘noisy’ coins. He threw them through the crowd towards the entrance. That is when I understood why the street kids had come in numbers. The dived for the coins,frantically pushing each other to collect as much as they could.

“I don’t want coins in God’s basket! This is poverty! God saved me from poverty many years ago. Do not try to take me back. I serve him now at a higher level. Coins are poverty.” His arrogant tone vibrated with the violent shove of his hand as he fetched the coins from the basket and threw to entrance. When  he was sure that the coins were gone, he blessed the notes and prepared for his next session. The street kids picked all the coins and excitedly ran out of the church . They had received their blessings for the day.

 “Some of you want me to visit you in your homes to pray for your households. How will my convoy manage to access some of those poor places without good roads for my vehicles. You must know I have greater power that attracts masses when I woke in public. I will cause unnecessary traffic jam if I have to get to your  small houses and flats. If you want prayers, make your own arrangement to get here. You should come to the servant of God. You cannot afford me in your little houses” He morosely stated. The women cheered and clapped. Who bewitched us women!?
He picked his guitar for a few more songs. The prayer and worship session was approaching. The flock sang from their hearts some crying from what seemed to be anger and disappointment. My concentration span had been interrupted by the coin saga. I was astonished at how people remained calm and helpless; I can almost swear there was tension in the congregation. They sang solemnly  with their heads bowed and eyes closed. I felt an uneasy air around me every time I closed my eyes. People were already praying but I felt some kind of darkness surround me. The son of a gun was seated with his head bowed; maybe he was praying, or maybe he felt the same tension I did.
“We are going into prayers and I want all those with problems to come forth. If it is your body, touch the part that is ailing and believe. If it is a child, touch that child and believe. If it is….”
A young woman screamed, interrupting the man of God. She was crying hysterically with her hands in the air. The Pastor walked from the pulpit and went to her.
“Sema jina lako!” (Say your name!) He commanded.
She said her name.
“What is your problem.”He asked
Young woman: “Nimeshindwa kuoleka.” (how do you say it in English…I haven’t been married? Marriage is impossible?) In short, she narrated how every time she was about to get married, something nasty happened to her fiances. It had happened four times and she couldn’t date any more. The pastor touched her and prayed. I will not describe how he touched her but perhaps the words that followed could confirm what was being exorcised from her. “Nakemea Pepo ya usherati! Nakemea Pepo ya usherati! Nakemea Pepo ya usherati ipate kushindwa” he rebuked the demon of prostitution.
The young woman fell to the floor and rolled around screaming and yelling. She received a good spanking and when she couldn't bare it anymore, the demon flew out of her.
The women with their children stepped forth  to stand at the front of the church for prayers. I took a step of courage and followed. All this time, the little voice kept asking me to retreat and leave. I ignored it and matched forward. I needed a miracle.

When I first stepped into this centre, I knew I wanted to be touched directly so that the power could flow throw me and heal my daughter at home. After the series of events, I wanted to be very far away from Pastor Ng’ang’a's hand. He could as well wave his hand and let the power fly across to me. I let the women scramble for the front space and found myself a place a little far from the ‘man of God.’ I wanted 'my space'... just in case.

I am strong believer in worshiping in truth and in spirit. When you ask for the spirit of discernment from God, He gives you exactly that. God protects His own and watches over them even in the darkest of hours and moments. I closed my eyes and believed as the congregation continued singing worship songs. I started going into the presence of God, humbling myself and asking Him to reveal Himself to me and see inside my heart and heal my daughter. I felt my spirit go into the spiritual realm. Something strange was happening around me. People were falling on the floor and screaming. Some were speaking in strange tongues as they prayed. Pastor Ng’ang’a was moving in the small crowd and touching people who I felt dropping down to the floor. The closer he got to where I was, the denser the air around me felt. There was a presence of something very dark. I expected to have an experience of mystic self-transcendence so I kept my eyes closed and asked for God’s power to cover me. 
A dark human-like form stood behind Pastor Ng’ang’a like a body guard. I can almost swear I saw an undertaker-like human form in a black hooded cloak towing over him as he reached out to touch people. I sank on my knees and hands crawled back, rebuking the demon and asking God to cover me and protect me. The Pastor left my place immediately and moved to the extreme end, the dark form in tow. Everyone was laying on the floor, saying strange things as he went on with his exorcism. I was on my knees and asking God to hide me from him!


Maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me, maybe I was hallucinating- but i know what I saw was not an angel of God. A spirit from the underworld was walking with Maina Ng’ang’a in the crowd. I couldn't distinguish features such as eyes, the face or limbs. It was just a human like figure in a black hooded cloak. It must be what was causing hysteria and strange tongues.
When everything finally calmed down and returned to normalcy, I tip toed to a chair closest to me and sat. I did not want any more of the devil’s share. This was not the spirit of God and I hadn't been watching any horror movies. I never watch horrors of any form. This man was using dark powers and they trailed behind him.

When I returned home after what seemed to be a dramatic morning and strange encounter; I opened my Bible and read: Jeremiah 23:16
This is what the LORD Almighty says: "Do not listen to what the prophets are prophesying to you; they fill you with false hopes. They speak visions from their own minds, not from the mouth of the LORD. 


This was a false prophet in sheep’s clothing. He is a revonous wolf that I encountered on my journey through the valley of shadows of madness.
That night, I knelt beside my bed and prayed for my daughter. Pendo was not going anywhere for anything. I had the spirit of God in me that guided me and protected us.  I made it a habit to pray and that God for everything, including the challenges I was facing.

On 25th April 2008, after more than three years of physio and occupational therapy, Pendo alighted from the sofa set in the living room and walked to my bedroom, unassisted. She had never crawled, or walked on her own. It was the Easter weekend-on a Good Friday. A miracle had just happened before my very eyes! I was going to hold Pendo's hand and together; we would walk out of the season of madness.

Saturday 14 November 2015

Seasons of Madness- The horrors of KNH before the diagnosis



The following morning when I woke up, the six weeks I spent on admission at the KNH hospital with my baby girl replayed in my head repeatedly. The more I thought about her treatment, the more I wondered if the drugs had triggered the condition. Pendo had been readmitted a few days after being discharged from the same ward where we had spent a week. Returning here for a second time was depressing. One week had felt like eternity- I didn’t know how long this second round would last. Twenty four hours at most-I hoped. But the hours ran into days, days into weeks and before I knew it, a month had crawled by. Then I stopped counting: instead I snapped my knuckles every day and said to Pendo, ‘tomorrow we’ll get out of here alive’. It’s all I could do to keep the candle of hope burning. Having called off my K.U studies to attend to her, I would be here as long as she needed me to be. I just wanted her out of the ward alive and kicking.

I remembered the cold night after night, scrambled up on the floor, stretched on carton boxes for a nap with neither blankets for warmth nor pillows for support; in the midst of wailing sick babies and frustrated nursing mothers. The midnight and early morning call to queue for drugs to be administered to babies were the scariest hours of all; men dressed in green caps, mouth masks, white coats, hand gloves and green gumboots whisked corpses on trolley beds through the corridor-just outside the children’s ward as they headed for the emergency exit door. We stood in deathly silence and watched the overdressed men pass outside the door almost on a daily basis. It was horrifying to say the least.

Witnessing babies die in their beds, their mothers trailing behind, wailing in tears and agony as nurses pulled the beds of the ward was traumatizing. Within the six weeks, four babies who’d shared the same bed with my daughter had passed on. At some point I began doubting if Pendo would leave the hospital alive. The smell of death surrounded us; it felt like a dark angel was roaming in KNH in search for the weakest souls. Mothers were mostly sad and subdued, each holding a solemn prayer for their child. I was no exception.


For six weeks in a row, I sat on a plastic chair by day, and slept on the floor by night, watching my baby bedridden and frail, fighting for her life that had just begun. She was only four months old. I prayed and hoped, day and night that all would be well. “Tomorrow we’ll leave this place”… I kept saying, patting her little scarred arms. The scars were as a result of numerous pricks in attempt to get ‘good’ veins to insert cannulas for medication. She had tiny scars all over her hands, legs, neck and head. Half her head had been shaved for insertion of these cannulas. Every time a vein blocked and medicine could not be administered, I had to hold her down so they could find another vein for the same. Every prick and insertion sent a shiver down my spine. I could tell she was in excruciating pain from the expression on her face. Sometimes I wished I could wrap her up, hide her in the bag that contained her clothes and make an escape through the fire exit-but she was too weak and frail.

Several times I locked myself in the hospital bathroom, prayed and cried in pain for her healing. She was my first child- I was supposed to be a happy new mom nursing her new born; not this wary young woman with stress bags under her eyes, surrounded by somber expressions everywhere she turned. I just wanted to go home, away from all the wailing, pain and sadness in the hospital.

Then there were these rowdy women (majority hailed from Mukuru Kwa Njenga and Kibera slums in Nairobi). They stayed in the ward due to unsettled hospital bills surmounting to thousands of shillings. They had made the hospital their home and even assigned each other roles to welcome and familiarize new admissions with the ward’s daily schedule. Their babies kept catching new infections due to the living conditions in wards with the sick. The women looked comfortable, almost as if this was their second home. They were not in a hurry to leave the ward either. They bullied newcomers and ate their food. They snooped around the ward looking at other women’s items and gossiped about visitors coming in to see the sick. It was the only way they could pass time in this place.

Sometimes mothers would quarrel over missing pieces of carton boxes: These were our improvised bedding as KNH did not provide hospital beds for parents of the sick children. We were warned that some of us would get ‘too comfortable’ and forget to return to their slums. It was said that life here was far much better as compared to that in the slums. The hospital officials had no kind words for patients in the general wards- they were poor people and deserved no mercy for their poverty. Only patients in the private wards were treated with dignity.This was hell in a  National Hospital!
The ward was crowded as the number of new arrivals and referrals kept increasing. One bed would be shared by three children of different ailments. The food was terrible yet many scrambled for it as the only source of energy. Whenever I couldn’t eat, a mother would book my food; I would queue and secretly give her my share so she would not be publicly shamed (by the bullies/cooks/matrons) as greedy.

I was dispirited at the hospital’s condition. It almost felt like a mental rehab center. Some women were bitter with life and cursed all the time. They were irritable and scared off anyone who tried to approach them. Some openly disagreed with their spouses, sending them away with whatever they had brought to the ward. Some were never visited, they never socialized either; they just sat by their babies’ beds in silence, day in day out until they were discharged. Others didn’t care; they would leave their babies, walk out of the ward and disappear for hours before returning with smiles on their faces. They had no apologies to make for the negligence towards their sick children. I was lucky to receive visitors, among them,my younger sister. She came to check on us as frequently as she could.. It felt good to sit with family and chat about everything and nothing in particular.

Sometimes I stood at the large closed windows and stared at the moonlight in the dark sky. The smile-shaped crescent moon seemed to mock me. We were like prisoners jailed in a hospital.
I missed the sound of laughter. I missed the smile of the morning sun and its warm caress on my skin. I missed the smell of fresh air and the sound of sanity. Every evening I looked through the large windows and stared at the sky, watching it darken as the sun sank. Sometimes I saw clouds gather and form patterns before downpour. The rain drops looked like tears drops to me. I wished I could stand outside and soak my worries in it. From the fourth floor where the ward was located, I could see the hustle and bustle of both vehicle and human traffic as Nairobians went about their business oblivious to the world in a building a stone throw away. I imagined the freedom of playing with my daughter; walking in the crowd, rushing home or to some place and chatting with friends and family.

One day, a woman came in with a six month old baby girl (Mukami). She looked too old to be the biological mother of Mukami. She was always aggressive and abusive to anyone who came close to her child. Nurses did not escape her frosty words and negative attitude either. I was however surprised at how warmly she spoke to me and kept crossing over the beds to come and sit next to me and chat about nothing in particular. She became so motherly to me, I began to feel comfortable around her. After some days of frequent chatting, she came over and started a conversation.
Mama Mukami: “How old are you?” she enquired
Me: “Why?”
Mama Mukami: “You look very young. Girls of your age are out there having fun and enjoying their youthfulness while you are stuck here with these old women and nursing a sick child. Is this your first born?”
Me: “Yes. Why?” I stared at her suspiciously. I didn’t understand where this conversation was heading.
Mama Mukami: “She is so beautiful I would pay anything to have a baby like her. You need to go out there and meet the world. Don’t stay locked up here while you can have your freedom. I can offer you some assistance.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Mama Mukami: “You look exhausted and sad. I doubt you even have experience raising a baby. I can do it for you while you grow a little older.” She smiled charmingly. I didn’t smile back. I wasn't amused and one of my eyebrows began to curve up as my hands went akimbo.
Me: “Are you insulting me Mama Mukami? What do you mean do it for me?” Why would she want to be my nanny? She looked too uptight, too aggressive and too negative: Qualities I didn’t like in a woman leave alone a nanny.
Mama Mukami: “No. I don't mean it in a bad way. What are you currently doing with your life?”
Me: “Am a student in K.U but called off my studies to attend to her” I pointed to Pendo with my thumb then regained my posture-hands akimbo.
Mama Mukami: “The more reason why you should let me have this little girl and take care of her. Who pays your University fees?”
Me: “My mom, why?” I drawled.
Mama Mukami: “You must be a real burden to your mother my dear. Kwani baba mtoto hakulipii? (Why isn’t the child’s father paying?). You should be able to support yourself. Sell this baby to me and let me cover all your fees until you are through with K.U. I’ll pay you a lump-sum and in excess for  your upkeep. I’ll give you all the money you need in exchange”
My eyes popped wide open in shock. I gagged my mouth in surprise.I took a step back to have a better view of her face. It matched her words-stupid.
Me: “What! Are you crazy? Who does that? And why come to me out of all these women here?” I whispered loudly. The women around me must have overheard as they all turned around and stared at us. She noticed and reacted.
Mama Mukami: “What are you staring at you busy bodies!” She shouted at them, then turned back to me.
She leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “I desperately want a child. I delayed childbirth my dear. I was building my career and by the time I was getting into marriage, it was too late.I lied about my age so my husband expects me to have children. Pesa ninazo my dear, mtoto ndio sina (I have the money my dear, a child is what I don’t have).  You can have many more children when you grow older unlike most of these women here. Why are you acting so surprised? We’ll walk out together like friends then we exchange: Cash for the baby.You’ll forget very fast once you get back to study and move on like she never existed. Just assume you had an abortion. Girls of your age do it all the time. Take cash and stay away, I’ll take very good care of her. Think about my offer.” She winked at me, patted my shoulder and made a ‘shut up’ signal with a finger to her lips before walking back to Mukamis’s bedside.

I cringed at her absurd suggestion. I wanted to hit her backside with something as she walked back and wished I could shoot her with my eyes.

My head refused to understand what she had just said. I sat in my chair, leaned back in shock and closed my eyes. I told myself, “This conversation has not taken place.” I looked at the woman: Mukami was no doubt bought from someone. Cash for my daughter? Absolutely not! There was nothing to think about.
That night, I clutched my little Pendo in my arms and slept on the floor, with her frail body close to my bosom. Nothing under the sun could ever compare to her. Nothing was going to separate us. She was priceless.
That night, Mama Mukami terrorized nurses on the night shift, accusing them of incompetence and negligence. She claimed she was heading to Nairobi Hospital for better services, and that baby Mukami should be discharged.
The next day, Mama Njeri passed by my bed with a handbag and opened it so only I could see inside. She had bundles of cash (in currency of thousand Kenyan shilling notes) stashed in a transparent plastic bag, hidden under Mukami’s clothes. She forcibly hugged me and slipped a note into my jacket; spanked my bottom and winked at me. “ Good luck and call me.” She said with a smile on her face.Some women stared at me and smiled. They didn't look surprised. They knew what was going on. The note had her phone contacts and two words ‘piga hesabu.’ (do the maths).  I neatly folded the paper and put it into my mouth, I chewed and spit it outside the window. It was a closed chapter.

For the next few days after Mama Mukami’s departure, I sat in my plastic chair and dozed off the entire night, with my hands touching Pendo so that any movement would wake me up. I feared someone would steal her. It was an uncomfortable posture so I switched back to the floor and dozed with my eyes half open.  I started having nightmares triggered from witnessing the loss of lives and watching mourning mothers leave the ward without their children. Two young women (my age mates) walked out of the hospital and left their kids, never to return. An overweight woman slept on the floor with her little son breastfeeding. She fell asleep and suffocated the poor thing to death with her large breasts. Men and women of God (as they claimed) flocked into the ward: Some to pray; others to prey (they exchanged cash for babies from vulnerable young girls/women).

By week four the carton boxes could not cushion my tired body-the exhaustion began to take a toll on me.At one point I developed a splitting headache. I could not stand the light from the bulbs. Everything seemed to spin around me  and my body felt so weak. I was shivering nad sweating at the same time. There were voices in my head-all incoherent I could not make sense of anything. I was feeling ill with my baby still bedridden. I thank God for my sister’s presence. She had come to visit us when she found me looking sickly. I needed medical attention as my entire body was in pain. I thought I was going mental.

A nurse on duty checked me and advised that I seek medical attention while my sister looked after Pendo. By the time I got downstairs from fourth floor, the lift had spun my head around and made me feel like my soul was flying with my feet on the ground. I was hysterical and saying all sorts of things. I noticed some nurses laughing at me and some young doctors shaking their heads. I wasn’t amused, I was in pain and didn’t understand what the laughter was about.

“ Where are you from?” A Doctor asked.I lifted my left hand; a white tape had been stuck behind my wrist to indicate that I was some sort of a mother with a patient in the ward. 
Then, with many body actions and facial expressions,I tried to explain:
“ Ward four. My daughter and I are living there. Four weeks now Doctor. Four weeks. can you imagine? Inject me with something. Anything. I’m in pain. A lot of pain Doctor. I’m dying. My daughter is also dying. My head is bursting. Everyone is talking, I can’t hear well. Take me to a quiet…’ He held my hand and helped me up the diagnostic bed. My thoughts were interrupted. The Doctor remained silent and seemed to be doing something like a check up. I thank God for that tape on my wrist- I would have been bundled up and whisked into the mental ward and injected with God-knows what to calm me down.I was still shivering and sweating.
“I am tired. I just want to sleep on  a bed. A real bed. Bring me my baby, they will steal my baby…I” I saw the syringe in the Doctor’s hands. Under normal circumstances, I’d have sobered up, jumped off the bed and bolted for the door. I couldn’t: I wanted the pain in my head and body to stop. I watched helplessly as he pulled my pants low, wiped my  gluteus maximus with a sterile cotton wool swab, then… sting! I felt the pain spread in my large muscle, before darkness crept in and my eyes shut. Finally, there was some peace and quiet. I don't remember how long it lasted before I was taken back to the children's ward- a different room where the bed was larger and I could climb in and sleep some more. My sister was already there, sleeping on a wooden bench with her eyes open. It was an uncomfortable site and I felt sorry for her. She smiled on seeing me. I tried and smiled back.
................................................................................ I survived whatever it was.
Walking out of  KNH after six weeks of madness, I felt like an alien from some outer space. Outdoors, it felt strange that life was going on as if nothing else was happening behind the hospital walls.  I thought everyone was staring at me strangely as we boarded a bus home. I held tightly to my little baby and felt a sigh of relief that she was still alive. She was six months old but looked like a newborn- tiny and very light skinned. They had recommended weekly visits for intense physiotherapy to get her into shape as her muscles had weakened from weeks of lying in bed without any form of exercise.

We had attended physiotherapy for three months until she turned nine. It was during her nine-month clinic that I was referred to the specialist who eventually broke the news that Pendo had autism.

I looked at Pendo and wondered-What if I had sold her to Mama Mukami? How would she have have taken on the news of the condition? Would she have looked for me and claimed for a refund? Would she have abandoned her in the hospital corridors and disappeared or would she have sold her to another woman more desperate than herself? 
There are seasons of madness and I had just run through one.