A Home Built on Love, Destroyed by Betrayal
Meg, today I speak directly to you—from the deep void you left in my life and in the lives of fifty-three children. Our children. My children. I look at the ruins of what was once a sanctuary of love and hope, and I can’t help but ask: How could you? Did compassion ever find a place in your heart?
I founded that home not for profit or publicity, but out of necessity. I built it because I needed a safe place for children who were turned away everywhere else. Every door I knocked on was shut in my face—“We don’t take children with HIV,” they said. They saw disease where I saw life. They saw a burden where I saw destiny.
So, I created a refuge—a place where rejection had no address. It wasn’t just another children’s home. It was a heartbeat of hope in a world too afraid to care. It was where our boys and girls could dream again, where the next man or woman of Kabila could be nurtured, healed, and seen.
And yet, you broke it. You scattered fifty-three souls who had finally begun to believe they mattered. I hear the whispers, the cruel rumors—that I profited from the home. I dare anyone, including you, to step forward with proof. Show the ledger, the receipts, the evidence. Because every shilling that ever came my way went into medicine, food, school fees, and survival. I lived and breathed for those children. Their laughter was my salary. Their dreams, my reward.
You held power, Meg. You had the authority to protect. But you used that office to crush. And when I hear that Maina and Njoki Kiko are no more, I break all over again. They were not numbers or files—they were dreams in motion. To lose them is to lose a part of myself I will never recover.
Then came the day you stood before cameras, launching Beyond Zero. What irony. How could you smile beneath that slogan while the home you destroyed lay in ashes? Was “Beyond Zero” meant to erase their existence? To rewrite compassion as convenience? You wore your elegance like armor, but it could not conceal the cruelty of your choices.
Sometimes I wake up at night and speak to the heavens, asking my Big Dad to handle what my human heart cannot. Because when you hurt the orphan, you provoke their Author. And that office—His office—never leaves justice undone.
Meg, I need you to understand this: when you took down that home, you didn’t just destroy a building. You crushed fifty-three stories of survival. You erased futures that were finally beginning to shine. You struck at mothers’ wombs and at the God who gave those lives purpose.
I hold no malice for your daughter, but I will never forget how her visit—meant to fight jiggers—ended up uprooting the very soul of the man of Kabila. The wound remains open, but so does my faith. I’ve placed this matter before my Big Dad’s court. And His verdict, unlike human rulings, always stands.
So, Meg—really, Meg—think again. Because power fades, offices close, and campaigns end. But the cry of a child wronged echoes in eternity.
Have a day of reasonable compassion.
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