The Moth - Live from Johannesburg: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: August 25, 2026

In this hour, we bring you to Johannesburg for a special live edition of The Moth Radio Hour. Stories of invention, beauty pageants in the time of Nelson Mandela, and finding balance. This episode is hosted by Moth Executive Producer, Sarah Austin Jenness, with additional live hosting by Lebo Mashile. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media.Storytellers:Brian Turyabagye tries to have his cake and eat it too.Lebo Mogashoa is determined to become Mr. South Africa.Lisa Muchoki realizes the true dangers of her job. Podcast # 999

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin Janice. This episode was recorded live in Johannesburg. The theme of the show was We Rise, with storytellers from Uganda, South Africa, Kenya, and Nigeria. The Johannesburg audience, as you'll hear, is one of the liveliest we've had. Johannesburg Moth shows are sold out and standing room only,

and that's because of our friend, publicist, fashion designer, DJ, style icon, who knew absolutely everyone, Maria McCloy. Maria passed away shortly after this event and this episode is dedicated to her memory. Thank you for everything, Maria. So live at the University of Johannesburg, here's our host, poet, playwright, artist, maker,

and one of Maria McCloy's dearest friends, Lebo Michila. Thank you so much. A very good evening to you, ladies and gentlemen. days and dams. Welcome to the Mo! Pleasure and honor to be your host once again. My name is Lebo Maschila. I've been entrusted with the wonderful responsibility of helping all of us navigate these waters tonight. You sold out this show in record time.

Storytellers from across our beautiful continent, we are here because we believe in the transformative power of storytelling. We believe that we will be injected with hope. and inspiration and the fuel that we need to go on and do the things that we've got to do with our lives tonight. So are you ready to get started? I asked each of our storytellers one question. We can all fall down. Everybody does. But what is one thing that you need in your toolbox to stand up, to rise up?

When I asked our first storyteller who comes all the way from Uganda, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, but what's one thing you need in your toolbox to rise up? And Brian Turiabagia, I'm sad, Wi-Fi. When a girl is about get married, the bride's family normally have what they call the give-work ceremony, where they formally hand her over to the groom's family. And this is normally followed by the wedding ceremony like after a week or so. So my sister's wedding was the one big function who were holding at home in over 30 years. And me being the little brother, the whole event felt so emotional for me.

As it brought back all the little childhood memories like, how she used to boss me around and I pretended not to care. At that time, I was 25 and I was fresh off quitting my banking job, dead set on becoming an entrepreneur. My dad was already on the edge. First of all, between the giveaway ceremony, the wedding logistics, and now his son willing walking away from a job, which had just tripled his salary.

To him it was like watching someone sell a luxury car for a wheelbarrow and just smile about it. Former employment was his love language. So at that point when I told him I was quitting my job, the whole thing felt like I was joining a count. But deep down, I wasn't just being dramatic. Pneumonia is a disease which kills over 1 million children every year, and most of these in no resource settings. And to me this wasn't just a statistic.

My own grandmother had died because of pneumonia. And it was out of that conviction that I had to quit my banking job because I was a telecom engineer to focus my energies on innovating a technology that could help in detecting this pneumonia. So me and my group, I had invented a pneumonia detecting jacket that could be used by health workers by simply listening to the lang sounds from the chase, but also analyzing them and all letting health workers when it is still too early. So I was all in for this new technology, but when at that point when an opportunity came in for me to go to South Africa right in the middle of the wedding week, I found myself at crossroads.

First of all, I could be the reliable groomsman to my sister's wedding or else I could take this once in a lifetime opportunity to advance my invention. Niemonia. So what did I do? I decided to do the most optimistic thing a 25-year-old can do. I decided to do both. Besides, the wedding was going to be like within two to three days, so I realized I had a lot of time. It could be back in time.

So I secretly boarded that flight to South Africa while I was pretending to be actively involved in the wedding preparations by a text. And while here in Johan's bag, the meetings were very productive but also exhaustive. I mean I explained my technology to all these investors, demonstrated them how the piece of the difference technology was working from E to Z, but even showed them the different case studies that we had done with the technology. My trip in John's mark was like a make-or break because my business was young, and this kind of finding is what would drive my invention forward.

So after a series of those meetings, I went back to my hotel. And on the last day as I was checking out, the fan that casually asked me, like, hey, I would like to offer you an extra night. Would you be in for it? Well, at that point, at 25, the extra night meant nice beddings, the fluffy towels, and most importantly, the three nice breakfast buffet, the next day. So this was a no-brainer for me. The next day, the Friday, I woke up to my breakfast and I just ate like a king. Pancakes, more pancakes, and whatever else could fit on my plate. I had timed everything perfectly, that is to finish all my breakfast,

but also make it just in time for my flight. And five minutes before my Uber could arrive, he texted an accident. At that point, I started panicking. Every minute became like an hour. And I quickly rushed onto my phone, and I had to order for another Uber and to take me to the airport. Which miraculously came on time. Things were looking good until realized I couldn't check in online

as I was heading to the airport. And at that point, my only hope was to find the airline's counter open. As soon as I reached the airport, I was made by distant airline officer, who with zero emotion told me I was five minutes too late. Five minutes? I begged. I pleaded. Nothing.

Instead, he just pointed me to the rebuking desk and told me that I would have to pay a hefty cancellation fee. And on top of that, that my flight would be arriving the next day. I was doomed. Now for those of you unfamiliar with African geography, the distance from Johannesburg to Kampala is like a six a two-hour drive. So there's nowhere I was even going to use. And remember this was my sister's wedding,

who had always been there for me. She even helped me with upkeep when mine ran out when we were in boarding school back then. And much more than that, she had asked me to be a groomsman, and now I was nowhere to be seen. And to my dad, he was still angry at me for having quit my backing job, focus on what you call those jackets. And my entire family had always been the humble, reliable person. I was the last person they would expect to pull off across border disappearance act just in the middle of a wedding way.

And at that point I realized I was just on my own. So I quickly panicked and started searching for alternative flight and get me back in Kampala. And luckily I was able to land onto an option which would work for me. So quickly I booked it up and I was ready to get through my checking formalities. So I checked in, went through and after reaching the gate, I just sat down thinking of the entire miracle that had happened to be, being able to make it for the wedding at that point in time. As I had just all done, I just double-checked this cheapest ticket which I have just bought. And that's when I noticed that the ticket I had both had a 10-hour layover in Tegali Rwanda before going to Kampala Yuga. At that point I felt like the entire world was me.

I started remembering all the time I'd been busy pretending to my family that I was involved in the wedding preparations. I was very far up. But anyway, I set it on for the flight. By the time I was in Rwanda, I was already too exhausted, and I decided to just take a nap on those airport chairs, which I think were clearly made by someone who ate human beings. Sleep was just impossible. I couldn't sleep.

But in the middle of that confusion, I thought came into my mind. What if I get a bus from Higali Rwanda, which is next to the western part of Uganda, I could make it in time. So determined, I rose up, went and convinced the airlines officers and also the airport formalities and who were able to actually let me through. And just like that, I was on a bus. Just like a miracle of miracles, I arrived in the wedding area 15 minutes before the wedding could start.

At that point, I was very dusty, hungry and purely running on adrenaline. And I decided to rush into the nearest barber shop to work on my hair so that I could fit well into my groomsman rock. And as soon as I pushed the door open, there he was. My dad. He sat calmly in the baba chair like he had all the time in the world. So he looked at me in the mirror. He's like, hey, uh, you, where are you coming from? Of course I had all my luggage and all my bags.

He couldn't lie anymore. It's like South Africa, long story. He's like, ah, so you went to South Africa just in the middle of a wedding week without telling me? At that point things were becoming hard. And I decided to be helping me. invested in my side, but then just before the papa could brush the last hair off my neck, I glanced onto my phone and I saw a text from my sister. It's like, hey, we couldn't get a hold of you, so they had to remove you off the groomsman list.

Sorry. At that point, I was gutted. Not just because they had removed me from the groomsman list, but my whole entire dressing plan was bent from the groomsman suit. So at that point, I had nothing formal to wear. But anyway, I went on and just attended the church service in what I was putting on. And just when the church service had ended, we went out for the official photos. And that's when I looked down on my t-shirt and I realized that what I was putting on,

probably screamed, I love free Wi-Fi. At that point, there was no way I could risk being in my sister's lifetime family photo with such a t-shirt. So I just decided to stay in the park and I took a selfie as the only evidence that I had attended that wedding. free breakfast felt like betrayal on a plate. But I led it to the wedding. That meeting here in Johannesburg, which I had come for, eventually secured the funding that I desperately needed.

And that same funding has been critical in advancing our invention that now is being used in over 500 families who have been infitting from it and are able to save more life. My sister, well, let's just say that there is that invisible secret treaty between me and her. That every time I travel, I have to carry something for her to atone for my disappearance, and also for ruining the entire groomsmen. And to my father, he finally forgave me, not just because I turned up play,

but because he can now look at the impact that my invasions have had. He no longer dismisses them as those jackets, but he now calls them my son's invention. Ian Toyabage and his family live in Uganda. His jackets have saved hundreds of lives so far, and they can now detect other respiratory diseases alongside pneumonia. To learn more and to see that epic photo boasting I love free Wi-Fi, go to the moth.org. In a moment, civic duty and South African beauty pageants of the 90s, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin Janice. This show is live from Johannesburg, where the theme was, we run. Here's our host, artist Lebo Mishila. It's from right here at home. And when I asked them, the same question, we can all... What is that one thing that you need in your toolkit to rise? ...and Tossa and FKA Twigs. Africa's own LeBohan Mujah, Suá.

In 1995, Nelson Mandela is president, and there is this sense of transformation, newness, hope in South Africa. And that feeling is all over my village in Limpopo. People are trying new things. There are these youth groups that pop up. People are doing ballroom dancing, beauty pageants, drum majoress. One night, my mother sits as down, my father, my cousins and I, and my baby sister. And she announces that she is going to run in the local government elections. The first ones, as a counselor, is not asking, she's telling us. Because that's exactly the kind of woman that my mother was. When she decided to do something, she would get up and do it herself. If it was

part of the road that was flooded, she would pick up a wheelbarrow and then go and start working. If you join her, fine. If you don't, it's okay. But on Saturday morning, you don't sleep in. Lean in, and I say, family, since we're making announcements, I have decided to participate in a beauty pageant. I am going to join one of these child pageants, and I'm going to win. My mother looks at me, and she's like, look, I know you love things, you know.

when we use our generator to watch TV, I'm the one who doesn't want it to stop. I want to be inside the TV. I want to be with the glamorous people. I go through all the magazines. I want to be in there, and I love pageants. And my mother says, but you're so shy. You don't know how to stand in front of people.

Don't you prefer to be at home telling your stories to the trees and our chickens? And I say, no, I'm going to do it. And when I win, when I become Mr. South Africa, you are going to be the one who's proud that you encouraged me. And so I go into my first pageant ready. I rip off pages from magazines. I learn how to pose.

I learn how to smile like the beauty queens. And I start learning to walk like Naomi Campbell. I invite my friends. My girlfriends and I all practice together. And by the time we arrive as, the page and the organizer looks at us and she's like oh you don't need my help I mean she has to help me walk a little bit more like a boy she's like look with the boys but I love the enthusiasm and I go for it every day after school we go

we practice we attend 11 it's wonderful and on the day of the pageant my My mother takes me to get my hair done. I get a cut and an S curl. I put on my giant linen pants, a navy double mesorized polar shirt, and a velvet smoking jacket. It's all mismatched, but it works for me. And at the event, it's fun. My friends and I, you know, we're doing little dance routines, we're walking back and forth.

I forget how to not walk like Naomi Campbell. I smile at everyone, I thought waving at it, as if I've already won. And one of the reasons I did this is that I had known that I was some different kind of boy. Sometimes I'd feel left alone, I'd feel a little bit judged, I'd feel kind of shunned, and there was a part of me that thought, if someone chose me as a beauty king and literally raised me up on a pedestal, then maybe people would leave me alone and think, oh, that's someone important. The judges ask us, who is your role model? And I say, Miss South Africa. Basitana Mahalimeli. Because I want to become Mr. South Africa. And they're like, wait,

you know, are you sure you don't mean Miss South Africa? Later, they're announcing who won? And they start with the second prince. Someone else's name is mentioned. the first prince, someone else. And then the winner, Mr. Baguimu. Lebohang Morashwa. They wear that sash and that plastic crown with pride. I rush home and I tell my mother and my mother is so proud of me, she's so happy and she is in the middle of her own campaign.

She's preparing speeches. Her message for the campaign is Iti Le-Len. Do it for your and she's running as an independent not because she hates politics but she would say to us that it's because everything that she was doing in our village she was doing it as just a member of the community and at that time everyone was into the campaign a lot of the mothers loved that this woman she was not yet 40 this young woman was energetic and doing this then I tell her that

I'm going to enter a second pageant. And she's like, oh no, I thought this was a once-off. I'm like, well, you are not stopping. The new pageant is a little bit different. The age group ranges from 10 to 17. And they have a different way of working. They announced that we are going to have the dreaded swimsuit section. Girls will be wearing their swimming costumes.

and boys will wear board shorts and be shirtless. The idea of walking in front of people shirtless with my soft belly and my soft chest terrifies me. But I don't tell my mother. I keep going because I think, well, you've committed to this. I have to walk straighter. I can't smile. I have to put on a boyish skull. Because at that time, pageants had this sense of,

possibility. It wasn't just like a silly thing. You had the sense that you could win a village pageant and then you would go and do something in the city and then you'd have a provincial one and then at some point you would do a national pageant and I thought if I went all the way I could meet Miss South Africa. And so I do my best boy walk. I see other boys. They're 13, some of them are starting to develop muscles. And this time around my outfit is a little. little bit subdued, but it's fine. And then they announce the winners, again, second prince, first prince, and then the winner. Lebrang Moraswa. I am on a role. I go home, I tell my mother and she's like, is this the last one? She was starting to get concerned

about where this would go. But there was something else happening. Her campaign was no longer fun. People would criticize the fact that someone like her who used to be a domestic worker didn't know how to do the job that would be required. And people started judging the fact that all these young men who were working with her, why were they coming and going? Where's the husband? My father was working in Johannesburg. One night after her team left, a car parks outside our house. It's there for a couple of minutes and then it drives off.

But then it comes back the following night and the following night. Staying longer and longer, my mother becomes rattled. So she blows out all the candles in our house and barricades my cousins and I in her bedroom. She takes this old toy gun

and stands by the window, opens the window, and yells leave me alone the car drives off my cousins and I say to her what if they actually had guns what were you going to do and she says

with a shaky voice no one else can decide when I stop this is what I want to do and I will not be intimidated and so I go into my third pageant galvanized by my mother's strength. These 13-year-olds and 14-year-olds that I'm competing with are doing push-ups before we practice. They compare muscles. They sort of start to walk a little bit more like male models. And one of them looks at me and it's like,

this is not for girls. I still don't tell my mother. And on the day of that, pageant. I steal a little bit of my mother's Elizabeth Arden perfume to strengthen myself. I put a little bit of Vaseline on my non-existent muscles to sort of look a bit strong. And I stand on the edge of the hall where we're walking and I see the audience. And my mother's words come back to me. You don't know how to be in front of people. This is going to be so difficult for you. but I've already committed stand on the edge the music is playing

and I am wearing my father's pants black trousers a black shirt and my velvet jacket I look a little bit like a baby undertaker but it's fine I take a deep breath

and then I start walking but as I'm about to move the organizer yanks off my glasses and he says they don't go with my look. And so I'm walking, blurry-eyed, terrified, scowling and trying to look like a man and thinking, how did I end up here at this most unclamorous place? It's time to announce the winners. They start with the second prince. Someone has mentioned. First prince, Lebrang Morasua. I've come in second place. I'm standing in front of all these people and I immediately weep.

At first, it looks like tears of joy. But I cry so much that it's clear that I am crushed. I mean, one would think that with everything that was going on, I would be relieved just to be, you know, one of the top three. But I had invested so much. And then I noticed that everyone could see that I was crying because I was hurt. So then I started asking for my glasses. I was like, oh no, I can't see. That's why I'm crying.

I need my glasses. I mean, even today when I go back home, there are still people who are like, do you remember when you cried and he said, you looked your glasses? But we all knew that you were mad because he didn't win. I go back home, weeping. I go into my mother's bedroom. She's working on her campaign, approving posters, deciding what she's going to wear on Election Day,

wondering what else can be done to convince people that. that she can do the job. I finally tell her everything. I tell her how difficult it's been. I tell her that I thought I was doing this thing that was going to bring fun for me, but now I find myself so terrified. She listens to me, and then she says, it's okay.

You wanted to do something and you tried. You can cry, cry as much as you want. But tomorrow, You will rise up and you will do something else. You can do a pageant that feels more fun. You can do ballroom dancing or you can keep telling stories to our trees and chickens. You will just do something else. A few weeks later, it's Election Day and my mother is ready.

She wears this giant, puffy, black and gold dress with a hat to match. She looks like she's going to her own page. and I'm excited. I think, well, if I didn't win, then at least my mother will win. And then later she comes back and she tells us how it went. She came in second,

just like me. Which was huge for an independent campaign. But she was still upset because she thought maybe having the position will help galvanize the work that she was already doing. She was upset. and she went to bed early but true to her words

she woke up the next morning and she did something new along with the group that she was working with they went on to organize and started an adult learning center in our village they used empty land to plant food and they didn't wait for our village to be noticed

they campaigned hard for our village to get electricity and by 1997 we did. And today I am not a beauty king or beauty queen, but I wake up every day and I write these narratives for film, TV, theater. And where no matter the genre, I write about these characters who always stand out and stand up. Thank you. That was Leibo Mohashua. He's the writer-producer of the Netflix drama, Savage Beauty. He lives in Johannesburg with his soon-to-be husband, and he's producing a new series

celebrating his childhood love of fabulous women doing terrible things. After her run for office, his mother Joyce successfully campaigned for their village to be electrified. And at her funeral in 2013, people eulogized her as the woman who brought light to their village.

You can find out more about the Moth's global community workshops and Moth events all around the world. by going to the moth.org. While you're there, you will also see a photo of Labo in his pageantry finest. In a moment, our last story, a Kenyan woman redefines what's normal for girls. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. What the heck is going on with all these promotional popcorn buckets? The giant shorts that all of Gen Z is wearing now and whatever the heck, high rocks is?

comedian and certified hater Matt Belisai, and these are the types of questions I'm demanding answers to on my podcast, What the heck with Matt Belisai? Listen or watch every Thursday as I rant about all the internet trends, pop culture stories, and personal mayhem that makes me scream, What the Heck? Follow What the Heck with Matt Belisai wherever you get your podcasts. This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Sarah Austin Janice. We're listening to We Rise, recorded live at a moth night in South Africa, produced in partnership with the Gates Foundation at the University of Johannesburg. Here again is the host of the night, Leibomashile. For our last story, we travel all the way to Kenya. And when we asked our storyteller, the same question, we can all fall down, but what do you need in your toolkit to rise up? She answered, friends and...

Hey, it's about to get real. Chomey. A Joe Berg, welcome to Lisa Mucho. Born in a family of six girls. And I was born to an adventurer's mother and a very reserved father. They made an amazing couple, I tell you that. And so my mom used to push me to do things

that in my village and tribe were not normal for girls. This one time my cousin Tony came to visit and he was picking berries up a tree. And my mom told him, don't give her those berries. No, no, no, no, no, because I was waiting down there. And she was like, Wamaitha, can you go up there and get the berries yourself? And she assisted me to ride bikes.

I was skating in the mud in broken basins. I was playing football. and that in my tribe was termed as Wanjakehe. That is too much of a boy to be a girl. And the villagers were talking. She's messed up goods. She's messed her reproductive system. She's not okay.

She's not a girl. At the age of five, we got our second-born sister, and I became a mother and a nanny. For those of us who want to be honest in the African village, and I was carrying them on my back. And 11 years later, I had raised five girls. I became their caretaker. But to the extent that they fall sick,

and instead of calling their mother, they would call me. And that was a huge thing. It actually led me to become a doctor. Because then I realized that I wanted to take care of children, that I wanted to ensure they have a chance to live because of the love that I had given my sisters, and they had given me back. Fast forward to when I'm 19, I go to med school.

First day, I'm in the morgue, and I faint. So I call my mom, and she's like, did anybody else faint? I'm like, no. She's like, can you go back to class and learn Elizabeth? And at that point, I realized that not only was there the spirit of adventure or the thrill for it, but she was also pushing me to get and achieve whatever I wanted to do. She was in an expectantly at 23, she died. And my dad had died four years earlier.

So I was the actual mother and provider to my five sisters. And I was in med school. I was hustling and I was taking care of them. It was not easy. But, you know, we had to go through life, right? We weren't giving up. And we didn't have any boys to fight for us. So we had to be the boys.

So at 26, my second-born sister then is 21. She's able to take care of the girls. I'm done with med school. I'm posted to northeast and Kenya. It's the hardest place to work. At that time, there was al-Shabaab. There was militia. There was insecurity at the amber level.

But then they also had the poorest health indicators. They had the highest levels of motano mortalities and the highest levels of neonatal mortalities. And I was sharp. I was the best in my class. I have my name in the University of Nairobi's in 2005 as the best med student. And I was like, I want to go there,

one for the adventure of it, maybe I might find love in the desert, but also to know how they live. And I also wanted to make a difference. I wanted to save the lives of those children and save the lives of those women and ensure that they don't die for something that can be prevented. So I reported a day earlier, that's how excited I was.

I was given a big house as the district medical, officer and I had neighbors and all that and I started programs that would take services closer to the people. Those are pastoralists. They don't, most of the time come to the health facilities. So I needed to get to them where they were. But I didn't find love, not there. We used to go for seminars though and, you know, not in the desert. In the towns, I found this young guy at the age of 28 and I think I fell in love. Distance, though, was a challenge. Maybe it kept me grounded, sort of.

I was worried about being too adventurous and losing him, but I was there, and we fell in love. At 30, in my tribe, if you're not married, people talk. And I didn't have my mother or father to fight for me this time. And the rumors came back. She's spoiled good. Her reproductive system, remember? Remember what she used to do when she was young?

this is the repercussions of that. I had to get married. So I got married to that guy. I didn't date too many men. That one guy, lucky me, huh? So I got married. And soon after we got my firstborn son. And three months in, I was okay.

I was waking up, feeding the baby, clothing him. I had a nanny, though, you know, baby language and stuff. I don't even know if you understood. But at four months, I was done. Not because I don't love my son. I do. But I was empty. I was very empty. I was not fulfilled, if I may say. I needed to go back to work. So I talked to my husband and he says, okay, short distances, don't put yourself in the line of danger.

And I did that and, you know, short trips, I'm back home, I'm seeing them and I got pregnant again. And this time I think I was rushing against time. They say at 35, risky pregnancy, right? Oh, thank medicine now that is not a challenge. But then I was rushing so that I can get them babies before 35. So second born comes. Same routine. Three months in. But at the fourth month, I am completely done.

I'm borderline postpartum depression. I love that guy. I love those kids. But there's this emptiness in my chest. And I'm looking at my kids, they are privileged. They have everything. And their kids somewhere dying, and I would be making a difference in their lives. I would be saving them.

I kind of felt like a disciple that God was pushing to make sure that I take care of them. So at 4 a.m., I woke up my husband. And I told him, I can't do this anymore. It felt like it was the end of a marriage. I was angry at him, angry at the nani. I sort of was in took care, you know. And he just told me, Wamaitha, go back to sleep. We are not having this conversation now.

Well, when he calls me by my traditional name, I know it's serious, huh? Women. So I zip it and go back to sleep and wait for an appropriate time, not 4 a.m. So that evening he comes home and we have this intense conversation. But at the end of it, he says, I know you're happiest when you're working. But I will ask you one thing. Don't love your work more than you love me and your kids. and don't put yourself in the line of danger.

So one year later, I'm going back to Garissa to take vaccines. And like three months before, KMTC had been attacked by Al-Shabaab. And so everything that was chaos. But there was a measles outbreak, and over 100 children had died. And I couldn't sleep at night. It felt like it was my cause. So I went to Garissa. The locals didn't want to go there.

Everything was in the amber, but who is like me? Adventures, the thrill, but also the desire to ensure that those children are taken care of, and I knew I could. So I look for a solution. I tell the county director, get me guards, get me escort cars, and he gets me policemen, and we are on our way. These guys are strong, man.

They got these vests, these guns and all, and I'm thinking I'm very safe. And I ask them, how is the al-Shabaab issue? They say, we've handled them. We've had a few incidences, but I think we're okay. You know, it's not as bad as it was. And we make idle talk, but 50 minutes in. And I hear this loud noise, so loud.

And a few seconds later, another loud noise shatters the glass. And at that point, people are yelling. But there's this one policeman is shouting. We are under attack. It's an ambush. Get down. Get down. And I'm in the backseat of a land cruiser. And you know, the driver's seat and the back seat

and I feet over there. Like this big mass. I wasn't squeezed. I actually felt safe. It's like they were protecting me in sorts. And then the car stops. Everyone is down. They're shooting back. And at that point, my life is flashing in front of me. The choices have made. the decisions have made

there's nothing as hard as knowing you're about to die and then your husband is going to marry someone who will choose whether to love your children or not so a few minutes later this policeman tells me get down

Lisa Madame get down they're shooting the car the bullets are going through the car they're really low they'll get you get I can move I'm frozen I can't stand My fear took over

So they pull me down And put me on the ground And one of them lies on top of me I think they are worried around You know because you don't know what a scare person would do And at that point A bullet brushes my hair And I've had enough

And the adventure, the thrill The desire to take care of those babies I black out I have nothing more to give. I'm done. And I wake up an hour later. And we are in the car. I don't know how they call me in the car.

I'm heavy though. So I don't know how they do that. But they do it. And we are headed not to Garissa, but towards Lagdera. And in my mind, I'm like, what? Why would you be going towards more danger? and they tell me we lost one of our own so it cannot be in vain

we have to complete this mission I rant I'm angry but I'm defeated because honestly I think we need to complete the mission as well so I go quiet and we get to Lagdera and when we get there we take the vaccines the joy on the faces of the

healthcare providers the children that came to receive us made me temporarily forget I almost lost my life. We get back to Garissa and I'm in this room alone and I break down. My wealth can stop. And at that point I say I won't do this again. I'm going to love my husband. I'm going to love my babies

and I'm going to be near them to take care of them. So we go home and I tell my husband that I have decided to not go back to the danger zones. And he says, hmm, that's true. weird because you're happiest when you're at work. He thought he didn't like me working. But well, I didn't want to dive into that conversation. So I stayed home and then eight months in, I'm not okay. And we can never have a happy moment in that house and he tells me, just go back to work, you know, just go back to work. We can't live like this. So I make a call

and I'm back to work. But this time I choose how I work and I go to the field. 40% of my time and 60% of it I'm at home and I'm able to take care of them and protect them and love on them. And what I've learned is that a strong woman

is a woman who knows when to stop, when to pause and reflect and when to actually strike a balance because we also need to live a full life. Thank you very much. Lisa Muchoki. Lisa Muchoki is still navigating these two worlds. She says, balancing the heavy, vital work of health systems leadership

with the chaotic, beautiful energy of a house full of kids and animals is exactly what keeps me grounded right now. Here's our host, Leibomashile, to close us out. Joberg, you have been spectacular. Coming for you is like a hug for the soul. We love you so much. We love how animated you are. We love the way you listen.

We love the way you don't listen when you listen even. The way you're on stage with everybody, you rock. You fill us up and we hope that these stories have filled you up. Go well. Good night. God bless. and thank you! That's it for this episode

of The Moth Radio Hour. Thank you for listening and we hope you'll join us next time. The live host of this episode of The Moth Radio Hour was Labo Machile. Labo is an award-winning poet, author, producer, and actress.

The radio show is produced by me, Jay Allison, and Sarah Austin Janice, who also hosted along with Labo. And she directed the stories in the show along with Jennifer Hickson. Co-producer is Vicki. Merrick, the associate producer Emily Couch. The live event was produced by Haley Evans and

Chris Ballouillard. The Moss leadership team includes Gina Duncan, Christina Norman, Marina Clucay, Jordanale, Caledonia Cairns, Kate Tellers, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Eureña. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound and Blue Dot Sessions. podcast music production support from Davy Sumner. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis. The Moth would like to thank the Gates Foundation for their support of the Moth's global community program.

For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, and to learn all about the moth. Go to our website, The Maw. dot org.