By Susan Lankisa.
Stella Wangila sits quietly in the corner of a community social hall in Mombasa, listening intently to a group of young women sharing their experiences. She adjusts the mic clipped to her dress and waits her turn. When she finally speaks, her voice is calm but steady, one could feel that it was filled with the fire of someone who has gone through too much but remained silent for too long perhaps having had no opportunity to vent out the fire within.
Not long before, Stella, a journalist with mild cerebral palsy, had walked into a health facility seeking medical services. She was pregnant as a result of sexual violence and needed urgent medical attention. However, instead of receiving care, she was met with judgmental whisper coupled with piercing stares. One nurse blatantly asked her to explain how she got pregnant. The question cut deeper through her wounds. No one cared enough to seek her side of the story. Further concealing the fact that the pregnancy resulted from a rape. No one offered her comfort or a listening ear.
“As a survivor of sexual gender-based violence, I expected at least a little empathy,” she stated to the startled audience. “But what I got was coldness. People saw my pregnancy before the inability to defend myself, not even the pain, my needs, or my cry for humanity.” Her tone hardened slightly, revealing the steel beneath her gentleness. “They did not see a woman. They saw a body that did not belong in that space, despite being where we should get comfort and caring hearts.”
She is part of a growing movement of young women with disabilities using the available platforms to advocate for their right to accessing sexual and reproductive health care. Her advocacy work, grounded in personal pain, is amplified by knowledge of her rights and her journalism skills. She frequently quotes the Constitution of Kenya (2010), citing Article 43 on the right to the highest attainable standard of health which includes reproductive healthcare. Article 54, she points out, guarantees the right to reasonable accommodation for persons with disabilities and these laws are not just words on paper,” she asserts. “They are lifelines. But only if they are implemented.”
Stella is far from being alone in this struggle. Deborah Nzisa’s voice echoed the same sentiments as she also shared her journey with spina bifida. She recalled the moment her world narrowed when she transitioned from using crutches to a wheelchair. Visiting a clinic that day, she found herself staring at a flight of stairs with no ramp in sight. A receptionist shrugged. “You’ll need to be carried,” she was told. “It was as if the system had decided people like me simply don’t exist,” Deborah says every moment she reminisces over the undesirable incident.
Deborah’s words are soft, but the pain is unmistakable from the tone. Ramps in health facilities were rare, doorways too narrow, examination tables too high. Healthcare workers often lacked training to provide basic support. Even changing a medical pad became an ordeal in facilities with inaccessible bathrooms. But the physical infrastructure was only one piece of the puzzle. The stigma weighed heavier. She remembers one visit where the doctor directed all questions to her caregiver. “They talked about me like I wasn’t even in the room,” she says. “I had to fight just to be seen, to be acknowledged.”
Menstrual hygiene still remains an overlooked issue among young women with disabilities. Policies like the Kenya Menstrual Hygiene Management Policy (2019–2030) promise access to sanitary materials and dignity for persons with disabilities. Yet in practice, those promises rarely reach women like Deborah. Sanitation facilities in public health centers are often inaccessible. Menstrual products are distributed with little consideration for young women with mobility challenges. “We bleed like everyone else,” Deborah says, “but the system forgets us.”
Despite the daily frustrations, Deborah has also refused to be sidelined. She has composed songs which she uses to communicate the changes she desires. Her songs are on her You Tube Channel. https://youtu.be/OUrSfeobNdI?si=K14NKqqoWKbMvvz8 She also works with advocacy groups to push for reforms in healthcare towards disability-friendly health care service provision. She states, “This can be achieved through by integrating disability care in the Continuing Medical Education programs for healthcare providers” she states. She adds her voice to Stella’s sentiment. “We are here, we exist, and we deserve better.”
But these weights cannot rest on the shoulders of young women alone. Organizations like Dream Achievers Youth Organization (DAYO) have developed strategic collaborations involving other rights-based organizations to develop programs to build the leadership capacity of young women with disabilities through training, mentorship, and spaces to speak out. These initiatives have enabled survivors like Stella and Deborah to lead from the front. They have been involved in drafting petitions, shaping policy decisions, and participating in county-level PWD Technical Working Groups, hence participating in decision-making on matters related to YWWD.
READ MORE: https://www.dreamachieverskenya.org/
A significant milestone in the push for the Mombasa County Disability Act, the Act is currently under review in the County Assembly. If passed, it would codify rights and protections for persons with disabilities in Mombasa County thus making it mandatory for healthcare facilities to be accessible and provide inclusive service delivery for PWD.
Madam Juliet Ruwa, the Mombasa County Coordinator for the National Council for Persons with Disabilities, is candid in her assessment. “Yes, we have progressive policies,” she says. “But implementation is lagging. Gendered barriers persist - especially for young women with disabilities. We are collaborating with partners to improve advocacy, but we still need stronger enforcement mechanisms, better data, and targeted funding.”
READ MORE: https://ncpwd.go.ke/
Mr. Ziro Kahati, a facility in charge in Ziwa la Ng’ombe health facility Mombasa’s sub-counties, underscores the practical challenges. “We are training our staff to be more inclusive, yes. But many of our facilities are still physically inaccessible. We lack specialized equipment, mobility aids, and even something as basic as sunscreen for women with albinism but we refer to Coast General.”
His tone is reflective. “We want to do better—but we need the Ministry of Health to step up with serious investments through budget allocation.”
Indeed, data paints a stark picture. According to the Kenya National Bureau of Statistics (2019), nearly one million Kenyans live with a disability. Women and girls comprise over half of this number. Yet, according to a 2022 Ministry of Health report, only 30% of health facilities are fully accessible to persons with disabilities. Reports from organizations like UNFPA and WHO highlight that women with disabilities are two to four times more likely to experience sexual violence, and far less likely to access justice or health services.
In the middle of these numbers are human beings. Like Charity Mbiti, a young woman who lost her arm in an accident. When she sought information on reproductive health, a nurse scoffed. “They assumed I was incapable of love, intimacy, or motherhood,” she recalls.
Today, Charity is a fierce advocate for inclusive reproductive rights. Her work has taken her to local schools, hospitals, and even radio stations—where she educates communities on the dignity and rights of women with disabilities.
“We are not broken,” she insists. “We are whole. And we deserve to make choices about our bodies, our lives, and our futures.”
Veronica’s story is one of defiance, resilience, and unyielding strength in the face of unfathomable stigma. Born with albinism, she is a young woman who faces not just the challenges that come with her condition but the weight of harmful, persistent myths that shadow her every move. In a society where misinformation runs rampant, Veronica’s crime, as some would see it, is simple: she dares to live her life like everyone else. Yet, in doing so, she confronts a world steeped in false beliefs and deep-rooted stereotypes that continue to hinder her opportunities and dignity.
For Veronica Mutheu, it is the relentless rumors that plague her existence. One of the most insidious myths, she recalls, was the idea that women with albinism are incapable of love or romantic relationships. As if her humanity could be diminished to mere superstition. Even worse, some believed the disturbing notion that sleeping with a woman with albinism could somehow bring wealth. Despite the absurdity of these claims, they persist, casting a long shadow over the lives of women like Veronica who simply want to be seen for who they truly are.
As the sun sets behind the coral-stone buildings of Old Town, Stella, Deborah, Charity and Veronicah continue to organize. Their stories—painful as they are—carry seeds of hope. Their voices echo through policy halls and training rooms, calling for change those centers not just accessibility, but dignity, empathy, and justice.
And as they rise, so too does the call for a Kenya where every woman, regardless of her ability, is seen, heard, and healed.
The writer is a Project Coordinator, Dream Achievers Youth Organization (DAYO)
