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...
I was reading The Last Letter by Rebecca Yarros when one of her twins, Maisie, started complaining about a pain in her hip. At first, it did not seem serious. The kind of thing you monitor. The kind of thing you take seriously, but not urgently. Her mother did what any careful parent would do—she took her to the hospital. Then again. And again. Tests were done. Results came back clean. Until they did not. At a bigger hospital, something finally showed up, but even then, it pointed in the wrong direction. The markers looked like leukemia. It fit the pattern doctors were used to seeing. Except it was not leukemia. It was neuroblastoma, a cancer that usually affects children much younger than Maisie. She did not fit the expected profile, so it was not the first thing anyone thought to look for. And when her mother tried to make sense of it all— but we have been here before, they checked everything —the answer she got was simple: They didn’t know what to look for. While reading that scen...