A few years ago, while visiting Mwisho wa Lami, my cousin Kizito came to see me.
“Bro, as you know, age is not on the side of my mzee, Alphayo,” he began. “He has to visit the hospital every now and then. Since I live in Nairobi, there are times I may ask you to take him. You are the only person he trusts to accompany him.”
In 2022, I accompanied Mzee Alphayo to Kakamega General Hospital. Yes, Kizito paid the fare and hospital fees, but he didn't add anything on top, and even the lunch we took came from my pocket. When he called me a second time, I decided to give him another chance. After all, I genuinely enjoyed Mzee Alphayo's company.
As always, Kizito wanted updates every step of the way, and he would send me only the exact amount needed. He didn't even include withdrawal charges. At one point, the doctor recommended an X-ray. I called Kizito several times, but he never answered. Since I wasn't willing to spend my own money again, we went home without the X-ray.
“No, bro, you should have done the X-ray,” he called later, clearly unhappy.
“Mzee's health is important to me,” he said. “Surely, what is Sh1,500? I would have refunded you. Next time, just do it if you can't reach me.”
In 2023, while at the hospital with Mzee Alphayo, some drugs were prescribed. Once again, Kizito wasn't picking my calls. I went ahead and paid for them myself. They cost me Sh2000. I asked him to refund me for weeks. He kept promising to send the money.
“I checked, and those drugs cost Sh400 in Nairobi,” he eventually told me, claiming he felt conned.
“Those were the prices at the hospital pharmacy,” I explained, even sending him the receipts.
“You should have gone to the pharmacies outside. Hospital pharmacies are always expensive. I spend a lot on Mzee. We need to save whatever little we can.” He grudgingly sent me Sh1,000. After I insisted, he added another Sh500, but not before telling me he still believed I had been conned. Upset, I sent back the Sh1,500 and vowed never to take his father to hospital again.
Fortunately, Mzee Alphayo recovered and remained in good health for quite some time. Until this year.
“No, bro. Not again,” I told Kizito when he called asking me to take his father to hospital. “Not after what happened in 2023.”
He must have reached out to another cousin, who accompanied Mzee in February. I don't know what happened, but afterwards the old man refused to go with that cousin again. Since I had also declined, and Kizito was unavailable, Mzee went to Kakamega alone. Remember, he is over 75 years old. He got lost several times, was almost knocked down by a matatu, and instead of boarding one back home, he boarded one to Mumias. He only found his way home the following day! So, when his next hospital appointment came, it was Mzee himself who begged me to accompany him. I only agreed because he was the one asking—not Kizito. We travelled to Kakamega last Wednesday. As he waited for his turn, I went to sort out some issues at the county education office.
About half an hour later, I got a call from Kizito.
“Uko wapi, Bro? Mzee anadai ako pekee yake,” he said. “You know the last time he got lost. I don't want him getting lost again. Don't leave him alone.” Imagine that! A man who had never taken his own father to hospital, and who had once left the old man hundreds of kilometres away, was upset with me for being away from Mzee just half a kilometre away. I said nothing. After the doctor examined him, he was referred to the laboratory. As we walked there, he entertained me with fascinating stories from his youth. His name was called, and he was handed a small bottle.
“Bring a stool sample,” the lab attendant instructed.
About 20 minutes later, the unmistakable stench of human waste hit my nostrils. I wondered where it was coming from.
Then I saw Mzee Alphayo emerging from the toilet carrying an old handkerchief. Wrapped inside it was what can only be described as an industrial-sized stool sample. Flies had already volunteered themselves as an escort.
“What is this, Mzee?” the laboratory assistant exclaimed. “We only asked for a small sample. We don't need all this!”
“How will you know what disease I have if you use only a small piece?” Mzee asked quite logically. “My sickness is serious. You need to examine it properly.”
When he was asked where the sample bottle was, he calmly replied that it had fallen into the toilet.
At that moment, I prayed for the earth to open and swallow me. Instead, Mzee happily pointed straight at me.
As I stood up, the old handkerchief tore open, and the entire load spilt onto the laboratory floor. Ladies and gentlemen... I have never experienced such a smell in my life. Patients are scattered in all directions. Even those who had looked critically ill suddenly discovered they could run.
“Kijana, you will have to clean up the mess your father has created!” shouted the lab assistant.
Fortunately, I managed to sweet-talk one of the cleaners into helping us. I asked whether they could salvage a small piece for testing, but they said the entire sample had already been contaminated.
“This time supervise your father,” the attendant warned. “We don't want another incident.”
Every eye in the laboratory was fixed on us as we walked away. Later, when I narrated the whole ordeal to Kizito, do you know what he said? “Surely, where were you? I know you're a busy cousin, but when you take Mzee to hospital, just focus on him. You should have shown him exactly what to do. You’re always on your phone.”
Maybe even some appreciation in the form of an M-Pesa message. Instead, I was blamed. That was the day I made my final decision.
