The Great Tripod Heist:A Tale Of Faith And Financing

The year was 2018, a time when the sun seemed hotter, the politics louder, and the faith healers more ambitious than a Silicon Valley startup. My father, a man whose stubbornness was only rivaled by the structural integrity of his favorite mahogany walking stick, had suffered a stroke. It wasn't a "dramatic movie" stroke where he fell into a vat of soup; it was a "I’m just going to lean against this wall for three days" kind of stroke.

The doctors at the local clinic prescribed physiotherapy and patience. But my Auntie Tabitha, a woman whose WhatsApp status was permanently set to “Fire of the Holy Ghost,” had other plans. She arrived at our house with the intensity of a hurricane and the scent of expensive anointing oil.

"Physiotherapy is for people who don't have connections in high places!" she declared, pointing a manicured finger toward the ceiling. "We are going to the Prophet. The one who makes the blind see, the deaf hear, and the wheelchairs turn into Ferraris!"

My father, who just wanted to be able to hold a spoon again without it vibrating like a structural failure, agreed. Thus began the pilgrimage to the Prophet Owuor’s crusade

We arrived at the grounds in a rented van that smelled like old upholstery and desperation. The air was thick with the sound of a thousand vuvuzelas and the rhythmic chanting of the "Repent and Prepare the Way" crew.

My father was loaded into his high-end, heavy-duty tripod walker—a sleek, aluminum piece of engineering that cost us a cool 10k. It was the Mercedes-Benz of mobility aids, featuring ergonomic grips and rubber tips that could probably grip the surface of the moon. Beside him sat our neighbor, Mzee Juma, in a wheelchair that looked like it had been salvaged from a World War II scrap heap.

The Prophet appeared...