By Shem Onderi
In the village, mucus falls freely.
Sneezes scatter into open air.
Noses are blown without care,
spittle slick on the paths—
passersby slipping on what should never be shared.
The sidewalks lie stained and dull.
Cough is here.
The local health facility groans,
its benches swollen with bodies and breath.
Yet cough cannot be the fate of a people,
cannot swallow a village
and silence a generation.
Sunny season or cold,
it lingers, unrelenting.
Cough has taken over.
Each member coughs while greeting too close,
breath against breath.
The cough monitor was to walk the homesteads,
to knock on doors,
to detect infection early
and gently lead the sick toward treatment.
He needed to come with kindness—
with masks in hand,
perhaps food as comfort—
so villagers would not turn away.
But the cough monitor would tire,
foot-worn from compound to compound.
He too was at risk.
He needed protection,
insurance his employer did not always have.
Cough became the common denominator,
masking other ailments beneath its noise.
Then the cough monitor faded,
having caught the very cough he tracked.
No one reported his illness.
And cough, seizing its moment,
spread unchecked—
with no one left to monitor it.