Five years ago, I was just another single mother in the ghetto, waking up to noisy matatus and sewage-filled drainage. My only dream was to give my two children a better life, clean water, safe streets, and a chance to go to good schools.
When my firstborn asked why we didn’t have a fridge like other families, my heart broke. Poverty felt like a prison.
A friend lured me into the “Kilimani life.” At first, I resisted. But when rent piled up and my child got sick, desperation took over. The first night I compromised myself, I cried all the way home. One night turned into many. Continue reading…
