In my father's arms

It was twelve months since I made my way to Mathare. Most considered it a slum, but for me it was home. I had two elder brothers, seven and three. My mum and dad loved me as much as they loved each other.

However, it started three days ago. First it was the soiled pants. I kept latching. Two days later, the vomiting kicked in. it was relentless.

Mum was tired, she broke down. Dad took me in his arms. The look on his face, I had never seen before: scared. Nonetheless, his heartbeat gave me hope.

We were in a matatu. I could see the urgency in his face. People on kiambu road didn't care much for our predicament though. Rush hour they called it.

So I snuggled closer, fading with every breath.

He walked into the emergency room, catching the attention my doctor to be.

'Dak... Tari, help my son.' he heaved a sigh of relief.

The doctor unwrapped the pink shoal in anticipation.

He stared at me and was startled.

His face lost all its luster. Once his stethoscope fell on my chest

His eyes moved between dad's and mine.
Hoping he was wrong.

He knew, I had found my way home, in my father's arms.