My name is Mary Wanjiru, and I live in Kiambu. I am a retired primary school teacher. I raised three children after my husband passed away over fifteen years ago.
My firstborn, Esther, was always the quiet and responsible one. After finishing her nursing studies in Kenya, she got an opportunity to go and work in the UK. That was six years ago.
At first, she used to call every weekend. She would send money when she could and always asked about her younger brothers. But as time went by, her calls reduced. She stopped replying to messages. Her phone would ring for hours without being picked up. At some point, her number even went off completely.
I thought maybe she had changed her number, so I waited. A few months passed. No call. No message. Not even an email. I called friends abroad who said they had not seen her.
I started getting worried. My heart became heavy every time I heard someone mention London. People around me started talking. Some even suggested that maybe she had died. I refused to believe that.
Years passed. My sons moved on with life, but I could not sleep. Every birthday, I lit a candle for her. Every Christmas, I cooked her favourite food, hoping she wreturn back. But nothing happened. I visited pastors and even a local chief to ask if there was any help. Nobody could help me trace her.
Then one day, during the protests in Nairobi on June 25th, I had travelled to see my niece. We were caught up in the chaos around the Kencom area. Tear gas was everywhere. People were running in all directions.
I got separated from my niece and ducked into a corner near a shop for safety. As I crouched down catching my breath, I turned and saw a woman also hiding in the same corner.
I looked again and my heart stopped. It was Esther. My own daughter. Her hair had changed, and she had grown thinner, but I would know her anywhere. We both just froze. Then tears came. We hugged and cried for so long that people around us thought we had been injured.
She told me she had gone through a lot in the UK. She had been hospitalised at some point and lost her job. Depression had taken over and she became ashamed of not being able to send anything back home.
She felt like she had failed me, so she disappeared. She had returned to Kenya quietly only a week before and was trying to get her life together.
I still cry when I remember that day. A town with over 100,000 protesters, yet we found each other in the same hidden spot. I told her it was no accident.
You see, one month before, I had reached out to Shaba Mangube Doctors. Someone at the market had told me they helped with family restoration spells.
I did not want magic.
I just wanted to feel my daughter’s presence again. They gave me a family connection spell. I was told to light a white candle, speak my daughter’s name daily for nine days, and pour clean water under the moonlight while asking the universe to bring her back.
I did it faithfully. I prayed. I cried. And when I met Esther on that random corner during a protest, I knew it was not random. It was a miracle.
We are rebuilding now. Slowly. She is staying with me in Kiambu. We talk daily. Laugh. Cry. Heal.
If you have lost touch with a loved one, please do not give up. Sometimes all it takes is a small spiritual push. Shaba Mangube Doctors gave me that. And now, my family feels whole again.
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