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A Trip Neither Map Nor Heart Could Fully Prepare For
◷ 5 min read
By Kinya Kaunjuga with Paul Musyoki
You know you’ve wandered past the reach of ordinary life when even the place names echo because there’s nothing else around to make noise.
Logo-Logo. Hula-Hula. Marsabit.
Our bus hurtled across the savannah, kicking up dust and confidence in equal measure. With mile after mile of stubborn thorn bushes clinging to dry earth, it felt like we were extras in a National Geographic “Big Cats” episode—except instead of hunting, we were the ones being observed by whatever creatures blended perfectly into the thorny wilderness around us.
I had to hand it to our bus driver, he handled the Marsabit terrain like a man who had long ago made peace with it. He drove in a kind of desert-monk trance. Sleep was a forbidden indulgence—with antelope flashing across the road, cheetahs in fierce pursuit, and bandits lurking somewhere nearby—every fleeting blur and snap of movement insisting that we were absurdly tiny, gawking spectators in a kingdom that paid no attention to humans.
Meanwhile, the roof of the bus was stacked so high it looked like a mobile garage sale gone rogue—beds, mattresses, second hand twenty liter jerrycans, vegetables, potatoes, and an entire delegation of chickens. Their constant clucking made it sound like they were en route to their northern Kenya summer home, and we were simply the dust-covered humans caught moonlighting as poultry transport.
When we arrived in Marsabit town at 3 a.m., a thick, white fog swallowed the street. I couldn’t see a building, a light, a soul beyond the dim shapes of the buses lining the terminal.
Martin, the clinical officer at Kargi clinic, had messaged me the night before: find a place to sleep; Kargi is another day from there. Out-of-towners arriving at this hour were apparently not unusual, and a boda boda rider emerged from nowhere as if he had been waiting to ferry anyone with business in the fog. He carried me to a hotel that looked as if it had sprouted overnight from the drizzle.
The next morning, Martin called with instructions: only two trucks would head toward Kargi village, and I should be ready. I found a seat near the truck driver, who eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. From somewhere behind, I heard someone say, “Huyu ni nywele ngumu. Sio wa huku.” (This one has hard hair; he’s not from here). It was a small, almost comical reminder that northern Kenya had its own markers of belonging like their wavy soft hair, a trait of the Cushite nomadic tribes. A Bantu from eastern Kenya, I was clearly an outsider.
The truck left Marsabit town at 4:50 p.m., after six hours of waiting. Seats had been removed, replaced with sacks of maize, tins of oil, and whatever else could be stuffed in. We sat on top of it all, squashed together and our feet dangling over the edge of the truck.
Kargi: Where the Night Has Wings and the Day Declares Itself
Arriving in Kargi past 10 p.m., a guesthouse waited with the generosity of one thin sheet on the bed and a window that rattled politely under the assault of grasshoppers auditioning for a metal band.
The single sheet made perfect sense—heat like that demands minimal fabric—but the closed window puzzled me. Heat plus sealed room equals slow, sticky demise. So, in a moment of optimism (or stubbornness disguised as bravery), I opened it.
Within seconds, the room transformed into a grasshopper convention centre. Long ones, stubby ones, neon-green acrobats, elders with wings that sounded like tiny helicopters—each one claiming real estate on the walls, the pillow, my soul. I spent hours shooing, swatting, negotiating for peace, until finally I surrendered, sealed the window, and whispered an apology to whoever had known better.
Morning came with the kind of sunlight that doesn’t rise so much as declare itself. I stepped outside and realized I was standing in a desert oasis stitched together by human hands: a clinic, a school, and water tanks that drew from a borehole, powered by solar energy. I was in my country, yet it felt entirely new, and for the first time, I understood the vastness, resilience, and hidden corners of Kenya.
Where Technology Finds Its Feet in the Desert: Young Kenyan Medics and the Rendille
Inside the clinic, I was met by a team I hadn’t expected. I had imagined a remote outpost staffed by a minimal crew—perhaps older health workers who had grown accustomed to long separations from family. Instead, every member of the staff was under thirty—young, fearless, and astonishingly competent.
Edith, the nurse, coordinated patient care. Martin the clinical officer, doubled as lab technician. Adelight handled nutrition. Collina managed records and finances. “Check the vitals again. BandaGo needs real data now,” Edith called across the clinic. Martin grinned. “Already done—look at this entry!” They laughed, swapping tips, moving with an ease that seemed impossible for such a remote posting.
Each of them picked up BandaGo in less than half a day. I watched them run simulations. I’ve never seen learning this fast. This isn’t just skill—it’s hunger, it’s commitment, I thought. By the end, the live system was running flawlessly. By October 31—within less than 48 hours of learning the software and going live—they had logged their first 39 patient visits, entered patient records, updated their entire medication inventory, and documented lab services.
The medic’s work extended beyond the clinic. They carried out home health visits and led conversations about health and prevention. They lived in houses within the manyatta villages themselves, integrating into the community. Children came to them for advice; villagers relied on their medical skills more than on a larger hospital in town.
As Banda Grows from 150 to 1,000 Communities, We Have Two Priority Needs: Talent and Funding
As Banda grows from serving 150 communities to reaching 1,000, two needs rise to the surface.
First, we are seeking a Senior Software Engineer (Java/React/SQL) willing to serve as a volunteer/missionary, helping strengthen and scale the systems that clinics rely on every day.
Second, we are raising the remaining $20,000 of this year’s budget to expand clinic capacity and an additional $250,000 to deploy our AI solution next year for clinics without doctors—technology that can mean the difference between delay and diagnosis, distance and care.
If you’re interested in exploring the software role, or partnering financially through PayPal, stock gifts, DAF, check, or cryptocurrency, we’d love to hear from you. Please reach out to Steve Letchford at steve.letchford@bandahealth.org.
Together, we can help bring quality care within reach of the world’s most remote communities. Thank you for doing this with us! Giving is about believing in possibilities.
Paul Musyoki
Paul, one of our implementers, starts your BandaGo journey, walks with you and makes sure you enjoy every step. Before joining Banda he worked as an adult educator. He holds a Bachelor’s degree in Computer Science.
Kinya Kaunjuga
Kinya, our corporate storyteller, is a Texas A&M graduate, and has lived and worked in Africa, Asia and North America. She’s met people from almost every part of the world and believes everybody has a story worth listening to.