ART CHECK: The women making Kenya tick

Last Saturday, I found myself at a hospital owned by Kenyan Indians who revere Guru Nanak. My body, once a vessel of poetic musings, had become an arena of agony.

The pain nestled at the base of my spine, a relentless whisper of discomfort that had perplexed not only me but also the mothers of my children.

I had gone to bed with no pain whatsoever, only to wake up the next day with my body in pain all over. I was reminded of a Kafkaesque transformation, where the protagonist of Kafka’s famous tale “The Metamorphosis” went to bed only to wake up at dawn as a horrible bug!

With cautious steps, I made my way to the hospital. Like any ordinary Kenyan, I filled out the required forms, a task ingrained in our education system from childhood. I waited my turn, sitting beside a tapestry of Kenya’s ethnic and religious diversity. We were all bound by a common frailty, yearning for relief.

At triage, a young Gen Z nurse measured my height and weight with effortless efficiency. One earbud dangled from her ear and four earrings adorned its lobe. She inquired about my pain with a keen curiosity, using the word “corpus” instead of “body”.

I smiled at her word choice, knowing well its etymological kinship with “corpse” and “corps”. As a teacher of literature, words are my daily bread, and even in intense pain, I could appreciate their nuance.

I sat among my fellow sufferers, hoping that the Nigerian doctor on duty, whom I had encountered before, would attend to me. But fate had different plans.

“Next!” called a voice from a nearby consultation room. My name was summoned. With the Gen Z nurse's assistance, I rose and made my way inside.

There, seated before me, was a tall Somali-Kenyan doctor. This, I would soon realise, was the heart of my story.

She welcomed me with a gentle smile, her eyes reflecting both intelligence and empathy. Despite observing Ramadhan, she was here, tending to the ailing with an empty stomach and an unwavering spirit. I shared my tale of abrupt pain, my nocturnal metamorphosis.

She listened, truly listened.

Her gaze, framed by thin spectacles, remained fixed on me, nodding thoughtfully as I spoke.

“It’s not your kidneys,” she said with certainty. “They are positioned higher. Banish that worry. You’re not in grave danger.”

Her words, simple yet profound, peeled away layers of my anxiety. I had long feared kidney failure, a silent thief that once stole a beloved teacher from my life.

She sent me for lab tests, X-rays and a CT scan, later prescribing medication and scheduling a session with a physiotherapist. “Your career is demanding on your posture,” she explained. “The prolonged sitting, the endless lectures, the writing — they have consequences. This is wear and tear, a conversation between time and the body.”

As we spoke, a nurse peeked into the room, whispering an urgent question:

“A Somali mother is asking if it is Haram to give her baby water during Ramadhan.”

A flicker of exasperation crossed the doctor’s face. With a voice firm yet kind, she replied, “Give the child both water and painkiller syrup. The fever is at 39.4 degrees.” Then, turning back to me, she said, “The Almighty is not just compassionate; He is all-knowing and understanding. Do you agree?”

I nodded, humbled.

This woman, this healer, was a reflection of the brilliance and resilience of Kenyan women in professional spaces.

In her, I saw the embodiment of modern Kenyan womanhood: dedicated, knowledgeable and compassionate, yet unshackled by dogma. Her faith was not a chain but a guiding light, illuminating her path without dimming her reason.

Women like her sustain this nation, their contributions spanning medicine, academia, law, business and beyond. From Prof Micere Mugo, who wielded words like a warrior, to  Chief Justice Martha Koome, who shattered ceilings with the gavel of justice, Kenyan women continue to redefine excellence. They are the quiet architects of progress, their labour often unseen but indispensable.

In hospitals, they soothe the suffering; in classrooms, they mould minds; in courtrooms, they champion justice; in fields and markets, they sustain economies. Yet, their triumphs are often muted, their struggles rarely acknowledged in the grand narrative of nationhood.

As we celebrate International Women’s Month, let us not merely offer perfunctory praise. Let us, instead, amplify their stories, advocate for their rights and recognise their indispensable roles.

This fasting doctor, unbothered by dogma and driven by duty, is but one among countless heroines. She embodies the spirit of the Kenyan woman: unwavering, nurturing, formidable. And though she may not seek accolades, her existence itself is an ode to what is possible when women are empowered.

As I left her office, prescription in hand, I felt lighter. Not merely because of the medication but because I had glimpsed the best of humanity in her. In my pain, I had found poetry. Not in ink but in kindness, in a healer who, even on an empty stomach, nourished the world around her.

To be unwell is to encounter imbalance. To be cared for by a woman of such brilliance is to witness balance restored, not just in the body but in the very fabric of society.

And that, I believe, is something worth celebrating.