12/09/2025
This 👇👇👇
“It is only prayers. My brother is going for today at XX Hospital. We know doctors treat but God heals.”
On August 14th, I came across this Facebook post while doom-scrolling. The words froze me. I had to intervene. With some knowledge about , , and even , I quickly inboxed the woman who posted — CL. “Kindly give me your number,” I wrote. She responded almost immediately.
As I headed to Naomi Gardens for a plate of ugali and fish after the 10 a.m news briefs - if you know you know- I called her. “What is the issue with your brother, A?” I asked. I knew him. He sells mandazi and tea at our village market. In primary school, he was two years ahead of me.
In my mind, I imagined a — perhaps from the boiling oil he uses daily. I was wrong. What CL described was not a sudden accident but a slow, silent disaster: a that had been ignored until the only option left was amputation.
When I finally saw him, his leg was bandaged, the smell of heavy in the air. The doctors had acted quickly. The foot, for now, was saved. He is currently awaiting a procedure at a Kakamega Hospital. His fate still hangs in the balance.
But A’s story is not unique. Across rural Kenya, families struggle with diabetic wounds in silence. There is little awareness of , few trained personnel to treat them, and a dangerous sense of — from patients who downplay small wounds, from caregivers too overwhelmed to keep up with , and from a health system that does not prioritize .
This apathy is deadly. It turns minor injuries into , and chronic ulcers into amputations. Each amputation is not just the loss of a , but of , , and . In markets like this, where people live hand-to-mouth, one wound can collapse an entire family’s survival.
A’s story is one thread in a much larger fabric — a neglected crisis that calls for urgent attention, not just prayers.
Note that I asked CL to call and stop the process. After fifteen minutes, I rang again to find out if she had. She didn’t pick the first call. When she finally answered, her voice was heavy with : “I cannot stop them. They’re already on the queue.”
“No, it is not too late,” I insisted. “Just tell them to step away from the line.”
I gave her the contact of a wound care specialist, urging her to seek guidance — not an amputation. All I could think about was his livelihood, his , and how one cut of the surgeon’s blade could sever not just a limb, but an entire future.
Now hopeful.