In the village of Gitithia, life was simple, and so were the people’s ailments. The villagers rarely worried about diseases beyond the familiar malaria and flu. For generations, they had relied on traditional herbs like Wanjiru wa rurii and boiled blue gum leaves, passed down through the elders, to treat these common illnesses. The concept of a hospital was distant and almost foreign to them.
If someone ever needed more than the village’s remedies, the destination was Rukuma Hospital. The journey from Gitithia to Rukuma was a long one, but it was a rare occasion when someone had to make it. Rukuma, in those days, was a place of healing. It was a functional hospital that served the villagers well, though few ever needed its services. The journey on foot to Rukuma was a communal event; the sick person would be accompanied by family members and at times neighbours, their spirits lifted by the chatter along the way.
There were no chemists or pharmacies in the village. The idea of buying medicine over the counter was as distant as the stars. Instead, general shops, known for selling everything from salt to sugar, also offered basic medicines. The villagers didn’t see a need for specialized stores when the herbs from the nearby Lare forest had been curing their ailments for as long as anyone could remember.
However, there was one exception to the village’s self-sufficiency: the children’s clinics. Every month, nurses from Kijabe Hospital would travel to Gitithia, bringing with them a sense of modernity that both absorbed the villagers. They would set up their clinic at the old Mabati AIC church, where mothers would bring their babies for check-ups and vaccinations.
On clinic days, the old church became the heart of the village. Mothers with babies strapped to their backs or clinging to their chest would gather, creating a long queue that snaked the grassy grounds. But these mothers were not always the first to arrive. Instead, they sent their older children ahead, clinic cards in hand, to reserve their spot in line. They entrusted these cards to Njoroge Wagathari, a kind-hearted man who had become a fixture in the village’s daily life. He knew every family, every child, and he arranged the cards with a fairness that earned him the respect and love of the entire village.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the mothers would finally arrive, relieved to find their place in line secure. Njoroge would greet them with a smile, handing back the cards and ushering them into the clinic with a wave of his hand. The nurses worked tirelessly, moving from one child to the next, their white uniforms standing out starkly against the grey iron sheets of the church.
But times began to change, as they always do. The arrival of the Gitithia dispensary was met with excitement and pride. For the first time, the villagers had a healthcare facility of their own, one they could walk to without the long trek to Rukuma. The dispensary was fully functional and run by the SDA church, whose members took great care to maintain the facility and serve the villagers.
The dispensary thrived for a while, becoming a beacon of hope and progress for Gitithia. The villagers no longer had to wait for the Kijabe nurses or walk miles to Rukuma. Health care was now within their reach, and they embraced it wholeheartedly.
However, the peace and harmony that had characterized the village began to unravel when local politics seeped into the running of the dispensary. The SDA church, united in its mission to serve the community, did not entertain the village politics. Petty rivalries and power struggles took root, and before long, the church left the facility to guard its reputation, taking the heart of the dispensary with it.
Without the leadership and unity that had once kept it thriving, the dispensary faltered. The villagers watched helplessly as the facility they had once been so proud of slowly fell into disrepair. The doors that had been open to all now remained shut, the once-bustling rooms spookily silent.
And so, life in Gitithia continued as it always had, with the villagers walking the fine line between tradition and change, their faith in the old ways undiminished even as the world around them shifted in ways they could scarcely understand.
If someone ever needed more than the village’s remedies, the destination was Rukuma Hospital. The journey from Gitithia to Rukuma was a long one, but it was a rare occasion when someone had to make it. Rukuma, in those days, was a place of healing. It was a functional hospital that served the villagers well, though few ever needed its services. The journey on foot to Rukuma was a communal event; the sick person would be accompanied by family members and at times neighbours, their spirits lifted by the chatter along the way.
There were no chemists or pharmacies in the village. The idea of buying medicine over the counter was as distant as the stars. Instead, general shops, known for selling everything from salt to sugar, also offered basic medicines. The villagers didn’t see a need for specialized stores when the herbs from the nearby Lare forest had been curing their ailments for as long as anyone could remember.
However, there was one exception to the village’s self-sufficiency: the children’s clinics. Every month, nurses from Kijabe Hospital would travel to Gitithia, bringing with them a sense of modernity that both absorbed the villagers. They would set up their clinic at the old Mabati AIC church, where mothers would bring their babies for check-ups and vaccinations.
On clinic days, the old church became the heart of the village. Mothers with babies strapped to their backs or clinging to their chest would gather, creating a long queue that snaked the grassy grounds. But these mothers were not always the first to arrive. Instead, they sent their older children ahead, clinic cards in hand, to reserve their spot in line. They entrusted these cards to Njoroge Wagathari, a kind-hearted man who had become a fixture in the village’s daily life. He knew every family, every child, and he arranged the cards with a fairness that earned him the respect and love of the entire village.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the mothers would finally arrive, relieved to find their place in line secure. Njoroge would greet them with a smile, handing back the cards and ushering them into the clinic with a wave of his hand. The nurses worked tirelessly, moving from one child to the next, their white uniforms standing out starkly against the grey iron sheets of the church.
But times began to change, as they always do. The arrival of the Gitithia dispensary was met with excitement and pride. For the first time, the villagers had a healthcare facility of their own, one they could walk to without the long trek to Rukuma. The dispensary was fully functional and run by the SDA church, whose members took great care to maintain the facility and serve the villagers.
The dispensary thrived for a while, becoming a beacon of hope and progress for Gitithia. The villagers no longer had to wait for the Kijabe nurses or walk miles to Rukuma. Health care was now within their reach, and they embraced it wholeheartedly.
However, the peace and harmony that had characterized the village began to unravel when local politics seeped into the running of the dispensary. The SDA church, united in its mission to serve the community, did not entertain the village politics. Petty rivalries and power struggles took root, and before long, the church left the facility to guard its reputation, taking the heart of the dispensary with it.
Without the leadership and unity that had once kept it thriving, the dispensary faltered. The villagers watched helplessly as the facility they had once been so proud of slowly fell into disrepair. The doors that had been open to all now remained shut, the once-bustling rooms spookily silent.
And so, life in Gitithia continued as it always had, with the villagers walking the fine line between tradition and change, their faith in the old ways undiminished even as the world around them shifted in ways they could scarcely understand.
