I have been dealing with a problem in my foot for almost two weeks. This might not sound particularly dramatic. It isn't cancer. It isn't an emergency. It isn't even the kind of pain that stops me from going about my day. Which is perhaps why I found myself hesitating. You see, I am a walker. Not the kind of person who takes a stroll every now and then. I walk for two to three hours most days. Walking is how I think, how I clear my head, and how I make sense of the world. If there is one part of my body I should be willing to invest in, it is probably my feet. Yet when I started calling podiatrists in Nairobi, I found myself doing mental gymnastics. The cheapest consultation fee I found was KES 5,000. Consultation. Not treatment. Not scans. Not medication. Just the privilege of finding out what might be wrong. By the time everything was done, the bill could easily reach KES 15,000 or KES 20,000. And suddenly I found myself wondering whether I really needed a podiatrist. May...
There is a disturbing moment in the novel Blindness by José Saramago when a man suddenly loses his sight while waiting at a traffic light. His blindness spreads quickly through the city. Drivers abandon their cars. Streets fall into chaos. Institutions crumble. Society begins to unravel. But the true horror of the novel is not the epidemic. It is the realization that the blindness did not begin with the disease. The blindness was already there. People could see. They navigated their lives, went to work, obeyed rules, and participated in society. Yet they failed to notice the fragile threads that hold a community together—responsibility, empathy, restraint. When those threads finally snapped, the collapse appeared sudden. In truth, it had been forming quietly for years. Sometimes I think about that when I look at everyday life in Kenya. We are remarkably skilled at diagnosing what is wrong with the country. Conversations are filled with sharp observations about corruption, inequ...