I walked into Kimbilio Hospice like I have done so many times before. On this Friday afternoon, a premature baby wrapped in an oversized pink blanket had just arrived at the hospice. His mother’s body, which had given him life and space to grow and develop, lay next door in the mortuary, being prepared for burial.
For the past five days, this premature infant had survived, against all odds, on water alone. His mother had died in childbirth; his dad had been killed in a roadside accident.
The baby was the youngest of eight brothers and sisters. A relative, I was told, had named him Ryan Kibichii, meaning little king and survivor.
I held this baby wrapped in pink within my arms, and all I knew is that I wanted him to live.
“Titus, may Ryan come to our home when he is discharged from the hospital, at least until he’s stable?”
I knew it was a big ask.
In the end, Titus said yes.