Five years ago, if you had told me I owned a boutique and lived in a cosy apartment without compromising my values, I would have chuckled in disbelief. I was a single mom in the slums, scraping by to feed my two kids and keep them in school. Life there was tough, waking up to honking matatus and the stench of open drains. Every mom in the slums dreams of a better life: clean water, safe streets, and adequate schools. I was no exception. When my five-year-old enquired why we did not possess a refrigerator like her auntie’s, my heart was deeply saddened. I was desperate to provide my kids more, but poverty felt like a trap.
A friend mentioned the “Kilimani life”, hinting at a darker path to escaping hardship. I resisted at first, but with mounting rent and a sick child, I faced impossible choices. The first time I compromised my dignity, I cried all the way home, promising it was a one-time thing. But survival is a slippery slope. Some nights were worse; once, men I trusted turned cruel, leaving me bruised and broken. I hated that life, yearning for an honest way to provide for my family without shame. Continue Reading