My dad gave me the pet name Mamy, a term of love and respect, and my mum did everything for me—bathing me, wiping my bottom and putting me to bed, helped by my brother and sisters. No child could have been more loved and cherished by their family than I was by mine.
My family became very sensitive to my difficulties, but not all of my relatives understood my condition so well. I used to have long hair and one of my earliest memories is of sitting uncomfortably on the knee of an aunt while she plaited my hair in cornrows. Sitting in that position caused me great pain and I began to cry.
‘That girl’s body is aching all over. Don’t hurt her more by plaiting her hair,’ my dad said.
Although at that time I wasn’t fully aware that I was disabled, I was aware that I was different from other children and my parents spent a lot of time reassuring me. They told me that I was a beautiful, intelligent girl who would succeed in life. ‘Don’t listen to what anyone else says. You’re beautiful on the inside and the outside and everything will be fine,’ my dad often said. ‘Your middle name is Olympia and your destiny is to be great.’
When he returned home at the end of the day he always called out, ‘Where is my rose flower?’
My heart lifted when I heard him utter those words.
When I first went to Kabete I didn’t pay too much attention to the other patients, but by the time I was four I began to notice that there were others like me at the centre. I became friendly with a little girl called Rosa who also had polio and we used to play together at the hospital.
When I was four-and-a-half years old the staff at Kabete decided that I didn’t need to be in plaster any longer. The day I heard that news I clapped my hands together and whooped with joy. I thought that at long last my body would be left in peace. For a few months, it was. But my relief was short-lived.
‘It’s time to fit you with some callipers, Anne,’ the staff told me. I’d no idea what they were talking about, but I didn’t like the sound of it.
I cried when I was fitted with my first pair of callipers and crutches. They felt almost as restrictive as the plaster. I felt cheated. I had simply exchanged one prison for another.
The aim of the callipers was to keep my legs straight and help me to walk, but I could only wear them for an hour at a time at first because they hurt me so much. They were clamped to the whole of my legs, with an extension for the lower part of my ribcage. The metal was held to my legs with leather straps. The whole contraption was very hot and uncomfortable, totally impractical for use in a hot African country.
My right leg was a few inches shorter than the left and I was given ugly black polio boots to wear, one a few inches higher than the other to balance my uneven legs. I hated wearing these boots almost as much as wearing the callipers. I looked longingly at the other children of my age who ran around barefoot or in flip flops.
I did enjoy the gentle, relaxing physiotherapy treatment on offer at Kabete, but sometimes the physiotherapists pulled my tendons to stretch my legs and it was so painful that I used to scream. I grew to hate doctors in white coats and associated them only with pain. I tried to accept my situation, but I had reached an age where all I wanted was to be like the other children who ran around the barracks in nothing more than a few flimsy clothes.
When I was four-and-a-half years old my dad found out about a boarding school for children with disabilities called Joyland School for the Physically Handicapped and decided that that would be the best possible place for me to go. English missionaries from the Salvation Army ran the school and the standard of education was said to be very high there. For my dad the school combined his love of education and of all things English, so he was delighted when I secured a place there.
There were actually two schools—one in Thika, near Nairobi, and one in Kisumu, about four hours’ drive from our village. It was decided that I would attend the latter.
I was devastated when my dad broke the news to me. I was used to being close to my mum day and night and the idea of being separated from her was too much to bear. My mum did everything for me—how would I survive without her? And how would I manage without my sisters? I was sure that nobody else would be able to play games so well with me.
‘Please don’t make me go. I’m scared. I can’t manage without all of you,’ I sobbed. I was surrounded by love and suddenly that love was going to be snatched away from me.
‘You can come home every three months for the school holidays,’ my dad said.
I had no concept of how long three months would last for, but I didn’t like the sound of it at all. And I didn’t want to be away from my family for even one day.
But my dad insisted. ‘You know I only have your best interests at heart, Anne,’ he said, stroking my hand. However much I cried, he remained determined I should go to school.
Finally the day dawned and my mum and dad took me to Kisumu on the bus. I sobbed throughout the journey and my mum spent all her time trying to hush me and wipe away my tears.
‘This school will be very good for you,’ she said, ‘and you’ll be coming home in the holidays, so we won’t be apart for too long. We are fortunate, too, that the Salvation Army makes no charge to attend the school.’
I wasn’t convinced.
‘I’m expecting great things from you, Anne,’ my dad said gently, ‘and how will you achieve in life if you don’t go to school? We’re lucky to have found such a nice school for you. They are used to looking after children like you and your life will be much easier for you than at an ordinary school. You won’t have to struggle here and so you can really concentrate on getting a good education.’
‘I don’t care about my education, I just want to be at home with all of you,’ I said.
Nothing my parents said could console me and when we arrived at the school my face was crumpled from so much crying. My dad carried me through the gates and then put me down in the grounds.
I became hysterical because I knew that I was about to be parted from my mum and dad.
Also, the school looked huge to me. I’d never seen anything like it. It was much worse than I’d expected. I’d thought maybe it would be a little school, not a massive place like this. I was sure I’d get lost all the time. And how would I ever be able to walk across the enormous grounds in my crutches and callipers? I could see some of the staff and older children walking around and they all looked like giants compared with me.
Joyland was actually a modern, sturdy building surrounded by beautiful gardens and everything about it was peaceful and well ordered, but even if it had been an exact replica of paradise it wouldn’t have impressed me at that moment. I clung to my mum’s legs and started to wail. I couldn’t imagine life without the woman who lovingly catered for my every need.
Some of the staff members came to greet us and advised my parents that it would be best if they left so that I could get used to my new life.
My mum and dad hugged me and whispered once more that I’d be home for the holidays very soon.
‘Please don’t leave me,’ I begged, but they walked away.
Feeling completely bereft, I stared helplessly at their disappearing backs. I felt completely lost and alone. How could my parents abandon me like that?
I looked around in absolute bewilderment. I was surrounded by strangers.
Then one of them, a well-built, bubbly woman with very short hair, came up to me.
‘I’m Mama Salome,’ she said, beaming. ‘I’m the house