I will never forget that chilly Tuesday morning at the Machakos Country Bus stage. I was running late for work, my mind on the day’s meetings, when a scruffy old man blocked my path.
He stared at me for what felt like forever, then in a raspy voice said,

“Young man, prepare yourself… you won’t live past Friday.”

I remember laughing, thinking he was either drunk or insane. I brushed him off and boarded the matatu. By lunchtime, I had already forgotten about the encounter.

That night, as I lay in bed, a sharp pain shot across my chest. I thought it was just stress. The next day, I began coughing at first dry, then with streaks of blood. By Thursday morning, I was so weak that my colleagues insisted I see a doctor.

The hospital ran test after test malaria, TB, pneumonia everything came back negative. Yet my condition was getting worse. By Thursday night, I was shivering, my lips pale, my chest burning. I remembered the old man’s words, “You won’t live past Friday.”
Fear gripped me in a way I can’t explain.

By Friday morning, I could barely stand. My younger cousin, Mercy, came to see me and was horrified at how fast I had deteriorated. When I told her about the old man at the bus stage, she went quiet, then whispered,

“This is not normal. I know someone who can help. We can’t just sit and wait for you to die.” Read more.