Life for Vulnerable Young Women in Rural Kenya

I was told that a man and his family can take a child from its mother. Just like that, a baby is snatched away and brought to the parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles of his or her biological father.

“This is normal. In our society, a father has the ‘right’ to take his son or daughter away from the mother and bring him or her to his family,” says Winnie, Program Director at Neema.

She went on to say that if a woman can’t get pregnant, her husband will usually leave her to find a more productive wife. I sat unnerved, my blood rising like an engine picking up speed before takeoff. Cultural practices might vary significantly from place to place, but can ones like those mentioned above be justified in any society? Can it ever be right to take a child from a loving mother or leave her because of her infertility?

Florence’s father is a casual worker but also an alcoholic, and her mother passed away when she was 18 years old. Extreme material poverty leaving her with no choice, Florence dropped out of school during grade 8. She was vulnerable. One study shows that 23.3% of teenage girls in rural Kenya have been pregnant at least once, and that three-quarters of those who were pregnant in the last 12 months did not want to get pregnant. “Teen pregnancy and its consequences are serious public health issues. Higher education levels are a crucial component to address the problem.”[1]

In rural Kenya, there is no sex-ed. Kids don’t learn about the birds and the bees in school. And girl’s parents don’t explain why they should be careful around boys, why blood drips—or pours—out of them each month, and why they lie on the floor with their eyes closed every 28 days waiting for the abdominal pains to end. So they often get pregnant as teenagers.

Florence lost all hope in life after becoming a pregnant woman with disabilities, having difficulties with speech and being partially deaf. Her child’s father rejected her and refused to provide.

And yet, Florence and her three and a half year old son Savin arrived at Neema in 2020. He joined the other kids who run around like an army of packaged joy. It was January when Florence came, summertime in Africa, blistering sun rays welcoming her to a new life. She brought her history, her abuses and feelings of rejection, and she brought her smiles, dances, and hard work ethic. She sits through exhausting days in group guidance counseling, hearing her friend’s stories of being orphaned, working without pay, alcoholic fathers, family diseases, and even sexual violence.

Florence (right) with another student at Neema

In individual guidance counseling, her emotions might feel as if they are being yanked like a tree in pruning season. A tree has to be ready, and the pruning has to be done correctly. Florence learned she also needs to process and shake off her traumas. She studies for Kenya’s Level I National Dressmaking Certification Exam and hears messages from the Bible multiple times per day telling her she’s seen, worthy, loved, and saved.

Even a few months at Neema were starting to change her. While Florence was at home in the spring due to Covid, her sister and current guardian said, “Florence helps me a lot, and she doesn't visit people—she stays at home and reads the notes she was given by her school teachers.”

Counseling is often necessary for anyone who’s been wounded. New words have and will be fed to Florence. She is malleable and resilient. She will overcome. Just this month she shared, "When I first came to Neema, I didn’t know how to pray. I didn’t even read the Bible. And now I do it constantly and enjoy devotion so much. I really missed fellowship when I was at home." She’s not only learning to release her anger, forgive, and live in joy, but she’s catching a glimpse of something beautiful in her Christian community.

[1] Teen pregnancy in rural western Kenya: a public health issue

Florence (far right) enjoying uji with other students