18/08/2025
18 August 2025, 11:30pm
DAY ONE.
My First Prison Visit — Lang’ata Women’s Prison (July 30, 2025)
It has taken me 18 days to find the courage to write this. I’m writing with tears in my eyes, but I know God has led me to this work, and my calling is to be a voice for the voiceless.
Getting there
I woke up early in Ruaka. The officers had asked me to report by 9:00 a.m., but I had a 7:00–8:00 a.m. swimming session with my coach in Karen first. From there, I drove straight to Lang’ata Women’s Prison. Because I had already done a reconnaissance visit earlier, I’d been issued a gate pass. They let me drive in and park.
One of the first things that struck me was how ordinary everything looks from the outside: the reception and offices could easily be mistaken for a school. After the security check, I was taken to the room where I would conduct my interviews.
On the way, I noticed the houses where the inmates sleep. From the outside they looked like they were made of mud. I asked an officer about it; she said they are concrete, just plastered, which makes them look that way.
Everyday life inside
I could see the women moving through their day, and it reminded me of boarding school. Some were seated doing their hair; others were cleaning and mopping; some stood outside making phone calls to loved ones. An officer was there to supervise the calls—not to monitor what was being said, but simply to oversee the process. I remember one woman asking what I assumed was her son whether he had done his exams and how he had performed.
There were two uniforms: blue stripes and pink. I asked the difference. The officer explained that women in blue stripes had been convicted, while those in pink had not yet been convicted—their cases were still in court. I also noticed that most officers I saw in the inner areas were women. In fact, the only male officer I saw was at the entrance, and the staff in the offices were also women.
Phones were not allowed, and I wasn’t permitted to record audio or video. I carried only my notebook and the printed consent forms. Then the first woman was called in.
“Prisoners are very vulnerable people”
Waiting for her, I was nervous. I am not a journalist. I’ve watched many interviews, but I had never conducted one. She walked in wearing a pink uniform, accompanied by a prison officer. She looked very young—early twenties. She came alone, without her child. Timid. Afraid—not of the officer, but of the situation itself. I felt her vulnerability before she even spoke.
In that moment I remembered the rigorous vetting process I went through to obtain permission to visit: document checks, a formal interview, hard questions about my intentions. I once asked why it had to be that tough. The officer had looked at me and said, “Prisoners are very vulnerable people; we have to protect them.” Back then, I scoffed inwardly—I thought, they’re the ones who are dangerous; I’m the one who should be afraid. That was ignorance. Seeing this young woman before me, meek, hesitant to sit until told— I understood. They are the vulnerable ones. The vetting was to protect them from the harm outsiders could cause, not to protect me from them.
Beginning the conversation
She sat far from me at first. I reassured her and asked her to sit closer. I introduced myself, my organization—Pathways of Promise Kenya—and explained why I was there: to understand the welfare of mothers and their children. I asked if she was comfortable talking and answering questions. She said yes. I asked her to write her name and her child’s name on the consent form and sign.
I used a simple set of questions for each mother:
• What is your name? What is your child’s name?
• How long have you been here?
• How many children do you have besides the one here?
• When did you last see or speak with your child/children?
• Who is caring for your children at home?
• What challenges are you facing here?
• Is there anything you would like done for the child here and the ones at home?
• When do you think you’ll be reunited?
• What assistance would you like from the organization?
The weight of their stories
What struck me most was not the details of any crimes; it was the emotion. One young mother—light-skinned, unkempt hair—had come to prison with her baby at just one week old. As she began to tell me her story, she started to cry. I stayed professional and steady. I didn’t know if I was allowed to hug her, and I held that tension in my chest. (For privacy and dignity, I will not share crime details; one case involved obtaining money by false pretense, another was manslaughter. Both women were very young.)
Across the three mothers I spoke to, I heard the same threads:
• They were very young (20–24), already mothers to very young babies (all under six months).
• They came from economically challenged backgrounds and had limited education.
• They were vulnerable even before prison—often in toxic, abusive relationships with the fathers of their children.
• They had weak or absent support systems. Some were disowned after incarceration. Some were orphans. Some had only elderly grandparents at home.
• Many had no one to call, no visitors, and the fathers had disappeared.
The mirror I didn’t expect
As I listened, I realized I was not better or wiser than these women. I, too, grew up in extreme poverty. I, too, have been in relationships where moments turned a little violent and could have become worse. Even as I sat there that day, I was in a toxic, unhealthy relationship with a man I loved who was being very unkind to me. I could have snapped, and the line between my life and theirs felt thinner than I had ever admitted. I am not special. I am not wiser. I am simply fortunate not to be behind bars.
Practical needs and promises
I took down their details: their names, their children’s names, emergency contacts, court hearing dates, and the challenges they face. I thanked them for speaking with me. I promised to contact their families. I told them I wanted to be present in court on their dates—but I couldn’t keep that promise. I didn’t have the means, and I was so emotionally broken by my own relationship that I didn’t have the energy or resources to drive to the courts. I am sorry.
They told me the prison is very cold and asked for diapers, clothes, and blankets. I promised to buy diapers for my next visit. I don’t have much; I’m struggling financially. But as I do my own grocery shopping, I will buy each of the mothers a packet of diapers, baby wipes, and baby oil. It won’t solve everything, but it will help.
Hitting my limit
When someone shares a deeply sad story, it’s like they place a part of that weight on you. You feel it—literally. After three conversations, I felt overwhelmed. I asked the officer for a break and stepped out for coffee. I couldn’t do a fourth session that day. I will be back, God willing. We have to keep moving.
As I told the officer how heavy the stories felt, she said, “Brace yourself, you haven’t even spoken to the ones in remand yet.” I drove back home humbled. It was the most humbling experience of my life.
Why Pathways of Promise Kenya exists
This is why our NGO exists: to uphold the dignity and welfare of children of incarcerated parents and to walk alongside their mothers with compassion and practical help. Behind each file number is a young woman, a crying infant, a family frayed by poverty, violence, and abandonment. Our work is not about judgment. It is about humanity, healing, and hope.
I couldn’t take photos. I didn’t record anything. I took notes—with consent—because trust is the most important currency in this work. I will honor that trust.
What’s next
I will return with diapers, wipes, and baby oil—small things that matter. I will keep listening, documenting needs, and, where possible, reaching out to families.
If you feel led to partner with us—through prayer, warm baby clothing/blankets, or diapers and wipes—please reach out. And if you can’t give, your encouragement and prayers still carry us.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for seeing these women and their children with me. May we learn to measure justice not only by sentences, but by how we care for the most vulnerable among us.
