Dear Boy,
I don’t even know how to feel about you anymore. There was a time I thought you were a man of reason—guided by wisdom, anchored in compassion. But that one day, that one thin, thoughtless decision, destroyed KENWA Children’s Home.
When the news reached me, I moved faster than my tears could fall. From one office to another I went—pleading, explaining, begging for help. I knocked on the Women Representative’s door, spoke to county officials, anyone who could intervene. But the answer was the same everywhere:
“We can’t spare it. The order came from above.”
Above.
Above what? Above humanity? Above mercy?
When I tried to ask—maybe sounding naïve—they silenced me before I could utter a third word. That was the moment I realized the decision was final. And it was devastating.
How It All Began
It started so innocently.
Your daughter—mighty, fearless, admired—had come to visit our children’s home. I was thrilled. I thought it was a blessing to have such a high-profile guest, someone who might see our work and perhaps support it.
I still remember how the home mothers described her arrival—how her car drove in, how proud they felt that our humble shelter for children living with HIV had drawn such attention.
Little did I know that her visit would mark the beginning of the end.
Our Home — Our Family
KENWA wasn’t just a “home.” It was a heartbeat. A sanctuary for 53 children—all living with HIV.
We had rented a small but strategic space, just a few minutes from the Maragua CCC, so the children never missed their clinic appointments. The rooms were small, the space was crowded—but love filled every corner.
A kind German school provided food supplies. I paid the home mothers myself—women with hearts far bigger than their pockets. Kakuzi Company donated firewood to keep our kitchen going. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.
It was family.
Then came your daughter’s visit. And soon after, our downfall.
The Order That Broke Us
Maybe she meant well. Or maybe the devil whispered that day. Because somehow, a report reached you—perhaps over a fancy dinner, perhaps during polite conversation and empty laughter.
Whatever she said must have painted us in the darkest light, because not long after came your order:
“Close the home.”
And just like that, everything we had built crumbled.
We lost three children shortly after—two of them siblings. If there’s a word deeper than heartbreak, I haven’t found it yet. I cried myself to sleep for nights that turned into months.
People don’t understand—when you run a children’s home, those kids become your soul. They are your mornings, your laughter, your prayers. When they’re taken away… what remains?
My Cry to Heaven
I told my Big Dad—the only Father who listens when the world closes its ears—
“I’m not forgiving this one. Please, handle it. Take care of business and let me know.”
And I believe He did. He always does for His daughter, Asunta.
Not that I’m perfect, but His grace is sufficient.
Even when someone later offered us a fully built home to continue our mission, the officials still said no. They insisted we had to “scatter first.”
Imagine that—scattering children who were each other’s only family.
When Power Fades
And now I hear that you, mighty Boy Child, are suffering. Do I celebrate? No. My heart has learned too much pain to rejoice in another’s misery.
I only read the news—about your struggles, about our Women Rep’s scandals—and I think: So this is how power fades.
But you, son of Kabira—do you remember? You have only one life. And in your pursuit of authority, in your desire to please your daughter, to prove influence and control, you destroyed over fifty innocent ones.
We never asked for money. We never asked for favors or recognition. All we wanted was space—space to nurture God’s little ones, to help them live, love, and laugh despite the virus in their blood. But even that, you took away.
A Hope Rebuilt
So, as you lie there recovering—and I truly wish you healing—I hope you remember those children. Remember the ones you displaced, the lives you ended, the hope you dimmed.
Because when my Big Dad decides it’s time to settle accounts, everyone will know.
Tell your daughter this: even the mighty bow before my Big G Dad. Even the proud must kneel before mercy.
We are rebuilding—slowly, painfully, faithfully. Gathering the children again, piece by piece, heart by heart. Because what is meant by God can be delayed but never destroyed.
A Final Prayer
I’m not sure I’m sorry anymore. Maybe I’m just tired. But I’ve learned one truth:
Never tamper with what God has placed under His care.
Let this be our reminder—especially for those who hold power: learn compassion.
And may we dedicate one day each year to something greater than ourselves.
Let it be called Compassion Day—for those who lost, for those who loved, and for those still learning to live again.
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