Every year, like clockwork, I drag myself to the annual health check—a grim ritual that feels like being summoned to court for crimes against my own body. My family doctor, ever so enthusiastic, sits me down, pokes, prods, and siphons my blood with the precision of a mechanic diagnosing a problematic engine. Then, with the solemnity of a prophet, he delivers his verdict: how much closer I am to shaking hands with my creator. Bwana, let me tell you, I only endure this ordeal because it’s necessary. If I had even the flimsiest excuse, I’d bolt faster than a chicken being chased by a Luhya on an empty stomach.
Tonight, as I sit here waiting for tomorrow’s appointment like a condemned man awaiting trial, I can’t help but marvel at the strides in medical practice. It’s a bittersweet appreciation, though sweet because it saves lives, bitter because, well, prostate exams. Let me take you back to the dark ages when this procedure was the stuff of nightmares. Back then, it involved a doctor with gloved fingers and an unwavering commitment to finding things out the hard way. I’m not saying it was traumatic, but let’s just say the experience was… unforgettable.
I’ll never forget the story my friend once shared about his first prostate exam. Like Zachariah after his encounter with the angel, he came back from the appointment looking like a man who had seen the gates of heaven and hell simultaneously. After much coaxing, he finally admitted, “Boss yangu, hako ka feeling si kabaya!” . And then, as if struck by a divine epiphany, he added with a straight face, “Nimeanza kuelewa wale wase wa boot!”
We laughed so hard that day we could’ve easily landed in the hospital ourselves.
And that, my friends, is how medicine left no stone—or sensation—unturned!
