“Mficha Uchi Hazai.”
My mother has repeated these words to me for as long as I can remember.
In English, they mean, “Whoever hides their nakedness never gives birth.”
For years, I understood those words to mean that healing begins when we stop hiding. But this year, they have taken on a deeper meaning.
They have become an invitation to lay down shame.
For three months, I have stayed silent.
For six months, I have quietly carried battles that very few people know about.
As the founder of Rebirth of a Queen, an organization supporting survivors of sexual violence and human trafficking in Kenya, I have spent years encouraging women to tell their stories, seek justice, and ask for help. Yet when the storm came for us, I discovered that shame can silence even those who spend their lives helping others find their voices.
Justice, I have learned, is expensive.
Far more expensive than I ever imagined.
In early 2026, delayed funding left our organization struggling to meet its financial obligations. We fought to keep every program alive because behind every budget line was a young woman depending on us for safety, healing, and hope.
When we were unable to keep up with rent, we reached an agreement with our landlord. We relocated our nonprofit operations while leaving behind the fitness center we operate as collateral, committing to clear the outstanding rent.
Then, on the morning of 12 April 2026, everything changed.
At 5:00 a.m., our team arrived to continue operating the fitness center, only to find that the premises had been locked. We were unable to access our equipment, our offices, or the resources that sustained both our staff and the women we served.
Our first instinct was to fight.
We reported the matter to the police, believing that the law would protect us.
Instead, we entered a process that left us feeling powerless.
Days later, we watched as organizational assets including equipment, supplies, bedding, and food intended for survivors were placed at risk. Every item represented years of sacrifice, fundraising, and belief from people who trusted our mission.
But what hurt the most was not the loss of equipment.
It was watching hope disappear piece by piece.
The fitness center was never just a business.
It was our social enterprise.
It paid salaries.
It kept our shelter open.
It helped survivors rebuild their lives with dignity instead of dependency.
Losing it meant losing our only sustainable source of income.
While we were navigating this crisis, our women’s shelter also came under immense pressure.
Local authorities questioned our work and our presence in the community. The experience left both our team and the young women we had rescued feeling intimidated and deeply distressed.
Many people have asked me why we have not pursued every legal avenue available.
The answer is not simple.
When you work in communities where power is unevenly distributed and where women often struggle to be believed, every decision comes with consequences.
Sometimes leadership means choosing which battles to fight today so that you still have the strength to fight tomorrow.
My greatest responsibility has never been proving that I am right.
It has been making sure that the girls sleeping under our roof wake up safe the next morning.
On 18 June 2026, we finally obtained a court order allowing us to retrieve organizational documents and perishable items from the premises.
Walking back into that building was heartbreaking.
Some items were damaged.
Others could not be located.
The losses raised difficult questions about the future of the remaining equipment and about how we would rebuild from yet another setback.
I remember standing there asking myself a question that has haunted me ever since.
Who benefits from our silence?
Not the survivors.
Not the young women rebuilding their lives.
Not the staff who have chosen purpose over comfortable salaries.
Silence protects systems that already have power.
It asks organizations like ours to absorb trauma quietly because speaking honestly might make people uncomfortable.
Somewhere along the way, many nonprofit leaders including me began believing that we had to appear strong all the time.
That donors only wanted success stories.
That sharing struggle might make people lose confidence in our work.
So we smiled through exhaustion.
We hid financial crises.
We concealed the emotional cost of serving communities in environments where justice often moves slowly and where those seeking protection can face additional barriers.
But I have begun asking myself:
What if vulnerability is not weakness?
What if telling the truth is part of accountability?
What if our supporters deserve to know not only the victories but also what it truly costs to protect women and girls?
Behind every rescued survivor is an organization making impossible decisions.
Behind every safe shelter is rent that must be paid.
Behind every counseling session are staff carrying secondary trauma.
Behind every legal case are costs that few people ever see.
The cost of justice is measured in courtrooms.
It is measured in sleepless nights.
It is measured in founders wondering whether they have failed the very people they promised to protect.
And yet…
Despite everything, we are still here.
The girls are still dreaming.
Our team still shows up.
Our mission has not changed.
If anything, this season has reminded me why Rebirth of a Queen exists.
Because survivors deserve more than rescue.
They deserve institutions that survive alongside them.
As we prepare to relocate our shelter to a safer location and rebuild what has been lost, I refuse to let shame write the ending of our story.
My mother’s words echo louder than ever.
“Mficha Uchi Hazai. ”
You cannot give birth to change while hiding your wounds.
So today, I choose honesty over silence.
I choose courage over appearances.
And I choose to ask for help.
If this story moves you, I invite you to stand with us.
Help us rebuild a safe home for survivors.
Help us restore our livelihood.
Help us protect the women and girls who still arrive at our doors carrying nothing but hope.
Because justice should never depend on whether those fighting for it can afford to survive.
~
Photo credit: Image provided by the storyteller.