En 
Fr 
Ar 
Have you ever experienced the final hour of someone’s life? I have. I did everything possible to save her life but Corona snatched her away. Her tragic death is one of the reasons I am very passionate about Africa’s healthcare. Thousands of rural hospitals in Kenya, Congo, Sudan, Mali, Mozambique, and across Africa don’t even have painkillers. We must shame African governments into providing quality healthcare for Africans.
The first scream was loud and piercing. It caught my attention. My fingers paused typing and remained suspended above my laptop’s keyboard. The second scream was even louder. I shot to my feet, yanked open the door and raced down the stairs. Then I saw my neighbor and good friend Pendo pacing her doorway, screaming. Before I could walk up to her and console her, I saw my other neighbor Javan walking out of Ann’s door, speaking on his phone. I knew instantly that something must be wrong with Ann. So I dashed through her kitchen, turned left into her living room and left into her bedroom. What I saw and heard left me in shock.
About five days earlier, Ann had glanced at her phone and seen that it was her good friend, Mama Thiong’o, calling. The two had become good friends almost ten years earlier when Ann moved into her current house in Tena. That ground-floor house was one of seven units that were all owned by Mama Thiong’o.
After Mama Thiong’o vacated the main house in the compound, Ann became the unofficial caretaker. She always made sure that water was pumped at the right time and that the electricity units for the water pump meter were bought in good time. Every month, she would collect money from the compound’s six other tenants and buy the units. Every weekend, she would switch on the water pump and ensure that every tenant received water. She wasn’t being paid to do all this. She just did it because that’s the kind of person she was.
Five days after her phone conversation with Mama Thiong’o, on Saturday 3rd April at about 9.45 AM, Ann was lying in her bed. I watched her in shock. She was groaning and breathing in a rasping manner. Three hours later, a kind nurse at Metropolitan Hospital explained to me that this type of breathing is known as agonal breathing. Agonal breathing or agonal gasps have been described as the last reflexes of the dying brain. They are generally viewed as a sign of death.
I didn’t know any of this when I heard Ann breathing that way. All I knew was that we were going to do the best we could to get her to the hospital as soon as possible. I raced outside her house and up the stairs to my house, for my car keys. When I returned to Ann’s room moments later, I called out to Javan and Pendo to come and help me carry her out of the room. Her palms were cold. But her face was still the kind, gentle, light-complexioned face that I had known for the nearly ten years that we have been neighbors. Her eyes were open. She seemed to be staring into a far-off place.
Am on a mission to awaken and empower Africa through knowledge. If you would like to support our work, you can do so through: Paypal: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. Mobile money transfer number through Worldremit or MPESA: +254795591751
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Anne's New Car
Four days earlier in the evening as Ann was driving towards her gate, she beckoned to Isaac, the tall security guard. She greeted him warmly and asked him how his day was. She then requested him to wash her car, which he happily did. She seemed and sounded fine. She was her usual kind, cheerful self. That’s why he loved washing her car, because she treated him with dignity and kindness.
Anne loved that car. I remember the day she introduced it to me.
That morning, she called me to come and see something.
“What is it?” I had asked her, curious.
“It’s a surprise,” she said, “Just come.”
So I descended the stairs, wondering whether she wanted to give me a live chicken. A few years earlier when she discovered that I adored chicken, she would occasionally bring me some. Delicious, sumptuous kienyeji (organic) chicken. That’s the kind of person she was. Just spreading joy whenever and wherever she could do so. Although she was nearly twenty years older than me, we had become great friends. Family. She had almost become like a big sister.
I found the main gate open. I stepped through it. Lo and behold, there was Ann, smiling from ear to ear. She was leaning on a green car. I knew instantly that she had bought it.
“Wow!” I shouted, “umenunua gari!” You have bought a car!
Indeed, she had bought a new car. A greenish Toyota Ractis. She loved that car and used to call it ‘mrembo wangu.’ My beauty.
Fast forward to 2021, April 3rd, 10.15 AM. Javan, Pendo and I attempted to lift Ann from the bed. But we were unable to do so since she was too heavy. After realizing that we couldn’t carry her alone, I raced out of the house to Bariki’s grocery shop and requested all the four men who were there to follow me. There is an emergency. I told them. Among them was Bariki himself and Nesh, my longtime friend. Together, about five of us were able to lift Ann from Bed, through her bedroom door, then the living room door, and finally, through the narrow kitchen door. I fleetingly caught sight of Kian, Pendo’s five-year-old son. He adored Ann and could never go for a day without visiting her. Every day whenever she returned home from work, little Kian would dash to her house, a big smile spread across his baby face.
We then carried Ann through the gate and into my car. A Subaru Forrester. The Growler. I had collapsed the back seats to create more room. Wanja, who is Ann’s assistant at her workplace, jumped in beside Ann as Javan jumped into the co-driver’s seat.
Are smartphones making us smarter or dumber?
The Last Ride
Four days earlier in the evening as Ann was driving towards her gate, she beckoned to Isaac, the tall security guard. She greeted him warmly and asked him how his day was. She then requested him to wash her car, which he happily did. She seemed and sounded fine. She was her usual kind, cheerful self. That’s why he loved washing her car, because she treated him with dignity and kindness.
Anne loved that car. I remember the day she introduced it to me.
That morning, she called me to come and see something.
“What is it?” I had asked her, curious.
“It’s a surprise,” she said, “Just come.”
So I descended the stairs, wondering whether she wanted to give me a live chicken. A few years earlier when she discovered that I adored chicken, she would occasionally bring me some. Delicious, sumptuous kienyeji (organic) chicken. That’s the kind of person she was. Just spreading joy whenever and wherever she could do so. Although she was nearly twenty years older than me, we had become great friends. Family. She had almost become like a big sister.
I found the main gate open. I stepped through it. Lo and behold, there was Ann, smiling from ear to ear. She was leaning on a green car. I knew instantly that she had bought it.
“Wow!” I shouted, “umenunua gari!” You have bought a car!
Indeed, she had bought a new car. A greenish Toyota Ractis. She loved that car and used to call it ‘mrembo wangu.’ My beauty.
Fast forward to 2021, April 3rd, 10.15 AM. Javan, Pendo and I attempted to lift Ann from the bed. But we were unable to do so since she was too heavy. After realizing that we couldn’t carry her alone, I raced out of the house to Bariki’s grocery shop and requested all the four men who were there to follow me. There is an emergency. I told them. Among them was Bariki himself and Nesh, my longtime friend. Together, about five of us were able to lift Ann from Bed, through her bedroom door, then the living room door, and finally, through the narrow kitchen door. I fleetingly caught sight of Kian, Pendo’s five-year-old son. He adored Ann and could never go for a day without visiting her. Every day whenever she returned home from work, little Kian would dash to her house, a big smile spread across his baby face.
We then carried Ann through the gate and into my car. A Subaru Forrester. The Growler. I had collapsed the back seats to create more room. Wanja, who is Ann’s assistant at her workplace, jumped in beside Ann as Javan jumped into the co-driver’s seat.
This is a public hospital in South Africa. Yes, South Africa
Anne's Final Breath
Four days earlier in the evening as Ann was driving towards her gate, she beckoned to Isaac, the tall security guard. She greeted him warmly and asked him how his day was. She then requested him to wash her car, which he happily did. She seemed and sounded fine. She was her usual kind, cheerful self. That’s why he loved washing her car, because she treated him with dignity and kindness.
Anne loved that car. I remember the day she introduced it to me.
That morning, she called me to come and see something.
“What is it?” I had asked her, curious.
“It’s a surprise,” she said, “Just come.”
So I descended the stairs, wondering whether she wanted to give me a live chicken. A few years earlier when she discovered that I adored chicken, she would occasionally bring me some. Delicious, sumptuous kienyeji (organic) chicken. That’s the kind of person she was. Just spreading joy whenever and wherever she could do so. Although she was nearly twenty years older than me, we had become great friends. Family. She had almost become like a big sister.
I found the main gate open. I stepped through it. Lo and behold, there was Ann, smiling from ear to ear. She was leaning on a green car. I knew instantly that she had bought it.
“Wow!” I shouted, “umenunua gari!” You have bought a car!
Indeed, she had bought a new car. A greenish Toyota Ractis. She loved that car and used to call it ‘mrembo wangu.’ My beauty.
Fast forward to 2021, April 3rd, 10.15 AM. Javan, Pendo and I attempted to lift Ann from the bed. But we were unable to do so since she was too heavy. After realizing that we couldn’t carry her alone, I raced out of the house to Bariki’s grocery shop and requested all the four men who were there to follow me. There is an emergency. I told them. Among them was Bariki himself and Nesh, my longtime friend. Together, about five of us were able to lift Ann from Bed, through her bedroom door, then the living room door, and finally, through the narrow kitchen door. I fleetingly caught sight of Kian, Pendo’s five-year-old son. He adored Ann and could never go for a day without visiting her. Every day whenever she returned home from work, little Kian would dash to her house, a big smile spread across his baby face.
We then carried Ann through the gate and into my car. A Subaru Forrester. The Growler. I had collapsed the back seats to create more room. Wanja, who is Ann’s assistant at her workplace, jumped in beside Ann as Javan jumped into the co-driver’s seat.
This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.
I seek to awaken and empower Africa through knowledge. If you would like to invest in my work, you can do so through:
Paypal: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.
Mobile money transfer number through Worldremit or MPESA: +254795591751
Click here to see exactly what your money will do:
https://environmentalafrica.com/donate
