April 4, 2018


“deep down I believe my year was a special year: it produced me.”  ― Ned Vizzini


My birth story is one for fairy tales. It sounds like the fiction really.
My mum was 22 weeks pregnant with me when she went into labour. They had travelled to the village aka Ushago for a family function. With the terrible roads those days, all the bumps and potholes could be blamed for the early labour.

I was born at 22 weeks in the village where there was no electricity leave alone a decent hospital that could handle a premie. My mum decided to take a big risk and take me back to the city (Nairobi) for medical attention. This is where the story gets interesting.
There was absolutely no way of transporting me to Nairobi, so she got creative.
She took a jug stuffed it with towels, put me in it. Put a lid on it and wrapped it with more towels for heat and more protection. We set out on a 13-hour journey to Nairobi. 

13 hours later we arrived in Nairobi. My parents took me straight home put me under an electric blankie and by the fireplace for extra warmth. (By this time I was out of the jug obviously). Nothing worked I was almost dead at that point.
They set out for the hospital. The first two hospitals rejected me saying I was already dead. 
Lucky enough the third hospital to a chance on me. 5 Months later I was checked out of the hospital.

My dad tells me on that day, the hospital came to a standstill. All the nurses, All the doctors escorted me out singing, dancing and praising the Lord and with sooooo many gifts. I was the worst case they had seen. I was the miracle baby.

My birthday is not just an ordinary birthday. It's pretty darn SPECIAL.