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AN OPEN LETTER TO YOUNG AFRICAN WOMEN

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 In the wee hours of the Idd-ul-fittri  my sleep was suddenly cut short by a loud thud in the backyard. My siblings and I rush to check out what was amiss. On top of the mabati roof on our neighbour’s house laid a bundle wrapped in an old shawl. Peering closer we found what we least expected. Covered in amniotic fluids lay a premature baby girl and a fresh umbilical cord still attached. She had just been delivered. Next to her lay a placenta, her only connection to her unknown mother. 
My mother a medical practitioner, immediately picked the baby and delivered fast aid checking for injuries. Luckily, she was hardly hurt.  Investigating further, we realized that the baby had been dumped from the fourth floor of a nearby flat.

‘HIV/AIDS AND CANCER WILL NOT HOLD ME DOWN!’

 

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A strong stench of raw sewage, crowded tin houses, dilapidated roads and hordes of weather-beaten faces welcomes us to the heart of Mathare slums in Nairobi. In the crowd, we spot Beatrice beaming with joy. She walks towards us, her gait radiating strength, the only hint of her condition being the slight limp on her left. Beatrice is a strong woman who has defied great odds. Being able to stand on both feet is nothing short of a miracle.