This public hospital has been Moha’s home for 34 years

Mohamed Khalid, 66, outside a kiosk which he runs in the compound of National Spinal Injury Hospital in Nairobi. (Photo: David Njaaga/Standard)

Outside an old kiosk inside National Spinal Injury Hospital in Nairobi, Mohammed Khalid cuts the perfect image of a man at home.

And why not, he has called this home for the last 34 years. But is this his home or is it simply home away from home?

At 66, Moha, as he is fondly called here, has seen generations of spinal injury patients come and go since he was first admitted to the hospital in 1981.

In fact, many patients — and he refers to them as "my patients" because he counsels them — often gather at his "home" where he regales them with tales from years lived at the hospital.

They could be getting entertained, but Moha is the master of distraction. He runs the show from his wheel chair and enjoys being the centre of attraction.

Even though he has some sort of an answer to every question, his patients rarely interrupt him.

Moha loves changing story lines, to throw inquisitors off track, just to avoid giving a straight answer to a simple question.

He refers to the visitors as his patients, but in essence they are his customers. And debtors too.

His kiosk is stocked with snacks and other basic necessities such as toothpaste, tissue paper, soap, and the like.

Moha was once a patient at the hospital. But when he was discharged years ago, he refused to move from the grounds for reasons very few know, and which he is also cagey about.

Everything about Moha seems shrouded in mystery, including the exact year he was discharged from the hospital, nay, from the ward.

He says he was born in Mombasa, the second child in a family of nine. He was last at home in 1974, then left for Dubai where he worked on ships.

He also travelled around the world he says, then got involved in an accident.

"He has refused to go home. Something just got into him after the accident and it is as if he decided he will never come back," says his 34-year old nephew, Abdiaziz Mohammed, who lives in Mombasa.

He says his uncle has always been at the hospital ever since he knew him. "He calls home to ask how everyone is doing, who is sick, who has died and such things, but he can't come back," Khalid reveals.

When asked why he is staying in the compound, or why he does not want to go back home, Moha answers by asking questions.

"Why do you want to know? he poses. "Why are you insisting?"

He comes across as a person who is least bothered by what you think about him.

Asked how he acquired the kiosk, he mumbles an answer, and immediately reverts to telling his entranced "patients" stories about their lives. Because his life must remain a mystery.

He claims he was allocated his "home" by a senior politician in the 80s. His claim could not be verified.

"I own property outside this compound," he reveals, as an after thought, probably to dispel any thoughts you had that he is poor. And desperate. "I have flats in Nairobi."

Why would he then live in a hovel, behind a kiosk, on a parcel of land that belongs to the government?

Blank stares. Dead silence. His face gives away nothing. But then he remembers something, and his face lights up.

Moha is the man with a master plan. A project — and he even has blue prints.

"I want to build a Wheelchair Village Resort in Mombasa," he says, as he wheels himself into the kiosk, and emerges with a sheaf of papers.

"This is how the resort will look," he points to drawings on his papers. They are brown. Aged. His plan is not new.

"I will form and run the Kenya Wheelchair Club," he adds, and does not elaborate.

This resort will be for people in wheelchairs. People who, like him, have suffered injuries that confined them to wheelchairs.

Where will funds come from? Which part of Mombasa will it be built? Moha clamps up — in deep thought, probably wondering how silly you are.

"For all these years, who funds my life? he poses.

You would think that Moha can open up to someone who should be his best friend, but he does not budge.

The story of his life must remain a secret. A well-kept secret that only he can tell. Or never tell.

Kamaljeet has known him for over 30 years, visits him regularly and has even visited his family in Mombasa. But even he does not know why Moha does not want to leave the hospital grounds.

However, he knows that Moha has a bad temper. "Do you really know Moha?" Kamaljeet poses. "He is a very nice chap but you will see the other side of him when he gets angry."

He adds that Moha is referred to as Governor, because he is very popular. Or probably because he is powerful.

Kamaljeet says that he always tells Moha not to use his power to antagonise the people in the hospital, since, they are always at loggerheads.

And he is right. The hospital administration wants nothing to do with him. Nobody in authority at the hospital who would know about him wants to talk about him.

When Sunday Magazine contacted Dr Soren Otieno, the Medical Superintendent of the hospital, he was not willing to talk about him.

"I will not comment on Mohammed because he is not our patient. He was discharged several years ago so do not even mention the hospital when you write a story on him," Dr Otieno said.

Even the former superintendent, Dr Maurice Siminyu, who headed the hospital for ten years, does not want to talk about Moha.

Dr Siminyu found him running the kiosk within the hospital, and left him there.

"I will not talk about him because he has many issues of his own. We tried to remove him several times, but he refused to leave," he says. "He has made the place his home and I have no idea how he acquired the kiosk."

Moha drops the name of a top politician whenever he is asked how he acquired the kiosk, and the necessary documents needed to run a business.

We could not verify his claims, but he is unfazed, and the fact that he can stay in government property, with impunity, shows that there is must be a bigger force, political or otherwise, behind him.

A signage on the structure announces that the "canteen is kindly donated by Lion Lady Ramaben PC Shah and Family and Lions Club Nairobi North, to the Management Committee of the Spinal Cord Hospital in Memory of....."

The name of the person whose memory the family was honouring is covered with a poster of a mobile phone service provider. Inadvertently.

It is not even clear when the structure was donated to the hospital, but he admits that it was there before he checked in, as a patient.

He says that according to the law, proceeds from his kiosk are exempt from tax, since he is a card-carrying member of the National Council for Persons with Disability.

It was never his wish to carry that card, he says. He had a car accident in Dubai in 1978, and was brought back to Kenya for treatment.

He visited several hospitals, but ended up at Spinal Injury Hospital in 1981, and he has not left.

He did not even attend the funeral of his father, who died in 1991. His nephew, Abdiaziz, says his mother is still alive, but she has given up hope of Moha ever going back home.

Even though there are times when he asks Abdiaziz for supplies, such as fish, from Mombasa, the nephew believes his bond with his family is weak and it is too late to take him back.

The family has tried to persuade him, and even tried to use force, but Moha did not budge.

"It's better if he just continues living at the hospital because he is used to it and he will never be the same if he comes back now," Abdiaziz says.

The family may have given up, but there are questions that the evasive Moha are still to answer: who is the force, the power behind his continued stay in a government facility, with such impunity, and what is it that he does, which is so lucrative, enjoyable, and profitable within the compound, that he cannot move out?