At just 8 months old, Rahenza’s tiny body began to convulse—eyes wide in fear, limbs frozen and shaking. In my village, we believed it was a spiritual disturbance. I turned to every traditional remedy I could afford. But nothing helped.

Working as a housemaid, I saved every cent to bring Rahenza to the hospital. That’s when doctors told me it was epilepsy. Rahenza needed daily seizure medication and physiotherapy twice a week. But with only $2 a day in income, how could I manage that?

Still, I tried. I sold my late father’s land. I pawned everything of value. I borrowed from relatives, even when it shattered my pride. For two years, I fought to keep the treatment going—until I couldn’t anymore. There was nothing left to sell. I had to stop.That decision haunts me.

Without treatment, Rahenza’s condition worsened. His body grew stiff. Seizures returned, stronger than ever. His legs twisted painfully into an X. His eyes remained open, but stopped responding—like the light inside was fading.

Then came the cruelest moment. Another hospital visit confirmed the truth: cerebral palsy and microcephaly. The damage had grown. My child’s brain had been slowly shutting down—and I had run out of time, and money.

Now, we live in someone else’s rented house. I earn what little I can ironing clothes. Most days, I can’t even afford porridge. There is no land left to sell. No jewelry. Nothing but prayers.

#KindSouls, doctors say there is still hope—if we can continue therapy and medication. But I can’t do this alone anymore. Please, help me fight for Rahenza. Help me give my child the chance they still deserve.

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