Mothers share their struggles, experiences as world marks Mother's day

I struggle, but I do it for my children: Asha Mohammed, kibera woman.

Rain drops form a soft drizzle on the iron sheet roof of Asha Mohammed's one roomed structure in Kibera slums. It is 3.30 am. The single mother is preparing to go to work. She walks stealthily, handling utensils with care lest she wakes her two children who are asleep on the ragged mattress they share. At 4.30 am, she has to be at a client's house to wash clothes.

"I am always moving. I rest when I sleep, which is often past midnight," she says as she sieves tea into a flask.

She tiptoes and steps out. She then peers through the crack on the door to ensure her two year old son has not stirred from sleep. If he wakes, he would cling on her and slow her down.

"I will come back for him," she says as she begins her trudge towards her first job. In the darkness and eerie silence, except for occasional hoots from matatu drivers and songs from drunk men staggering home, Kibera is calm.

"It can be scary, but when you remember you have to feed your children, you get courage," she says.

In two hours, the heap of clothes that awaited her is gone. She collects her pay: sh. 200 and rushes home. It is 5:49 am. Her 13 year old daughter is up. Asha accompanies her to the public bathroom and stands protectively by the door holding a torch.

"There have been cases of children being raped, you cannot take risks," she says.

After a hurried breakfast of strong tea and dry toast, she fastens a leso securing the baby on her back and they leave. Her second shift has started.

She hops from house to house, scrubbing floors, airing clothes and racing through flight of stairs with her baby strapped on her back .

On a good day, she gets an average of sh. 500. There are days when she roams the slum and beyond, seeking casual jobs, but returns empty handed.

"When you look at your children's expectant eyes, it pushes you even when things are hopeless," she says.

At 12.30 pm, she settles on one of the stairs, sits the baby on her laps and feeds him cold potatoes and porridge. She gulps on the left overs and starts walking into grocery stalls asking for jobs.

A woman gives her carrots to chop, then she starts cutting vegetables before she descends on a sack of potatoes waiting to be peeled.

Between 7.00 pm and 9.00 pm, when people are returning from work, Asha gets busier with every order customers make. Her son dozes off on her back, sometimes letting out a low grunt. Asha soothes him and continues working.

A few meters away, her daughter sits undistracted, trying to read a book illuminated by blaring security lights. Slightly after 10.00 pm, they start walking home. Asha hurriedly prepares a meal of ugali and kales, and cajoles her son to eat.

A few minutes later, the children retire to bed. Asha starts cleaning the house.

"This is what a typical day for most mothers in the slum is," she says, adding that motherhood in the slum involves fending for children, and assuring them that their lives can be different, despite the gun shot sounds, chaos and gloom that defines their surroundings.

Bringing up a champion through tears and prayers

The bumpy and meandering road from Mosoriot Junction to Kipchunu village in Nandi County takes us to the home of World Steeplechase Champion Conseslus Kipruto.

His mother, Linah Chebosku, smiles when his name is mentioned. Kipruto is the reigning Olympic and World champion in the steeplechase. He has won several championships, the most recent being Commonwealth Games in Australia where he led a Kenyan clean sweep of the steeplechase event. In the applause, standing ovation and immense joy that follows every win, his mother says the champion's childhood was fraught with struggles. Chebkuso says when she looks at her children, she is reminded of the tears and pain it took to raise them.

"Some nights they would look at me and ask whether we would have supper. I would be pained because I had nothing, but God is great," she says.

Kipruto's mother was married off in class Three. Her husband died a week after. Even though she remarried several years later, she says she struggled with loneliness and depression.

Nine years later she gave birth to her first born son Yusuf Kipchumba. Then came Kipruto in 1996, followed by Nancy Chepkoech and Elisha Kiptarus.

She worked as a casual labourer while bringing them up.

In Kipruto, she sees the extension of a dream she could not fulfil. As a young girl, right before she was yanked off school and pushed into marriage, she was an athlete. She represented her school Ndubeneti Primary school in athletic events, and won.

When she saw strains of talent in her son, she vowed to nurture it. "When Kipruto was about 2 years, he would run around the house. I did not stop him. At 8, he was participating in athletics in school. He later joined Kosirai Secondary where he trained for athletics," she says.

She adds that whenever her son goes to participate in any race, her only weapon is prayer and constant calls to remind him he is a champion.

"I always pay that God puts oil on his feet so that he can win and break the world record," she says.

All the tears she cried, the nights she watched her children go to bed hungry, and the many nights she sat in a dark house, unable to buy paraffin to light up her house have paid off.

"I always reminded them to keep pursuing their passion, even when they get discouraged," she says.

I did not go to school, but I will ensure all my children do.

Akiru Ekidor a mother of five from Loima sub county, Turkana County admits she has never heard of Mothers' Day.

She says motherhood cannot be described through words. She raises her three girls and two boys alone. Even though she is married, her husband is away taking care of their livestock.

When alerts of cattle rustling are raised, as they have in the recently, her husband spends nights laying traps in the bush, and is seldom home.

"We are used to our men sleeping out to protect cattle from raiders. Mothers have to take over everything," she says.

On mother's day, she will not fuss over the idea that nobody will buy her a gift. She will wake up and start her five kilometre trek to fetch water.

"After breakfast I take livestock to the river. It is not easy but I don't have a choice this is my life," she says.

Turkana women roof their houses, a tedious process that involves climbing up and down the building to ensure no leak. With the current rainy season, she does it weekly.

According to a report by the Kenya National Bureau of Statistics (KNBS) and Society for International Development, Turkana leads in illiteracy with 82 per cent, followed by Wajir, Garissa, Mandera and Marsabit. Akiru falls in the statistics. She never stepped into a classroom. Her dreams for her children are different.

"I want my children to go to school so that they can escape poverty," she says. She ensures they are awake every morning and walks them to school. Her husband is full of praise for her wife.

Like his wife he does not know the world is celebrating mother's day today. "We don't know such dates, we only celebrate national holidays because the chief calls us for barazas," he says.

Akiru laughs. For her, mother's day is every day. "Without mothers, homesteads cannot flourish," she says.

Mothering a ruined child is like having a rebirth, but I am ready

Zena Hassan was lulling her last born son when a neighbour knocked on her door and beckoned her to step outside. There was hesitance in her voice, and a distant panic. Zena followed, baby's blanket still in hand. The neighbour held her hand and nudged her further outside.

"We need to talk away from the children," she told Zena.

It is after they were in a secluded place, away from her apartment in Kibera, that the neighbour spoke. Zena's daughter had been overheard talking about sex. Among friend, she was sharing explicit details of the act, including raunchy descriptions that cannot be put in print. Her daughter was 9 years old.

Zena was shocked. She confronted her child, who amidst tears said she playmates talking about it. Despite persuaded, begged and even threatened her to reveal names. Her little girl remained tight lipped.

A few days later, after she made a silent vow to watch her every move, she noticed a limp. She was walking with legs wide apart, and when she thought people were not watching, she would scratch her private parts.

That night, in low tones, mother and daughter had an intimate conversation. Zena says her daughter shared details that broke her. A neighbour had made it a habit to lure girls between 5 and 10 to his house. While their parents were at work, the man in his 50s, would lay the children on his bed, put on pornographic content, and molest them.

That day, Zena's daughter had been her victim. He had earlier taught her vulgarities, in words and inappropriate touching, and finally defiled her.

"It dawned on me she had been learning all these nasty things from the man," she says.

A new form of motherhood began for her. She says from when she took her child to hospital, to the first police statement she recorded, her definition of motherhood changed.

"How you fight for your children define their future, and the adults they become," she says.

Her daughter's gaze is fixed on the ground as Zena talks about the ordeal. When her mother mentions the yo-yo of emotions they have swung together, she shifts her look at her and nods.

Zena tears up when she speaks of the tears, fear, and depression they underwent as they waded through the emotions that childhood trauma brings.

Zena recalls her child's metamorphosis. The mood swings, sudden outbursts and recoiling into self that made her walk in eggshells around her daughter's fragile emotions.

Then came deterioration in class. She fell from top positions to barely scoring 150 marks in exams.

Zena says mothering a child who is processing trauma is like having another child – a rebirth where a mother has to constantly reassure her child that they are in it together.

To advice parents whose children have been defiled but are afraid of pursuing justice, Zena says: "Talk for your child, even if you are the only one speaking."

She says she has heard of cases where molesters sneak on the victims' parents and silence them with money.

"There is no amount that can pay for your child's innocence," she says.

Even though the incident plunged her into confusion, and she watched her once cheerful girl slowly slide into seclusion, she says a day does not pass without her reminding her child that it is not her fault – and more importantly, she will help her rebuild that which the man tried to steal from her – her dignity and self-esteem.

Mothering after tragedy and holding on what remains

Margret Magutu's voice falters and fades into a whisper when she talks about motherhood. Six months ago, a lorry lost control and rammed into her house in Mabera, Migori County. Her three children and a grandson who were asleep were crushed to death on impact.

"I heard a bang, then a scream and a weak cry calling out for me," she says.

She ran to their room, and was confronted by what she terms as the worst thing that could ever happen to a mother.

The lorry's lights were still intermittently flashing and she remembers the hum of the dying engine before everything fell silent. The children's room had been flattened, and they were trapped beneath the rabble.

"When I saw it, I felt as if someone was stabbing me with a blunt object on the chest. It is a feeling I cannot describe," she says.

She grabbed the lorry's wheels to save one child who was squeezed between the tyres but it was too heavy. She let out a piercing scream, a sound she says felt like it was emanating from deep inside her womb. Neighbours were attracted, and rescue efforts began. Her neighbor Hesborn Onyango who was among the first to arrive says they found Margret bathed in sweat, tears and dust.

"I dug with my bare hands, and did not care that the metal and glasses were slicing through my hand. The ground around me was spinning. I still feel pain on my chest when I remember my children," she says, her words coming out in sudden urgency, then she stops mid-sentence and breaks into a soft sob.

Only one child, Corletta Ncagwa 18, survived. Four others, aged between 15 and seven succumbed.

She is still fights tears when she sees children in uniform, or when she gets a trigger, as she did a few days ago. She bumped into a dirty school bag laden with dusty books and debris. Inside was a mathematics exercise book, with inscriptions of unsolved equations – homework her son never got to finish.

Margret says in the tragedy, she lost many things, including belief in humanity. As the case drags on, the reality that she cannot afford a lawyer dawns. She feels helpless.

Another loss came when rumours that she was cursed started floating. No mother, they said, losses so many children in one go like she did. They menacingly threw questions stained with accusations at her, and finally, her husband's relatives concluded she was at fault.

"I never buried my children. They sent me away saying I had run away from my husband, and bad spirits had followed me," she says.

She was separated from her husband after a series of domestic squabbles, and rented a house away from him, before tragedy struck.

As the world celebrates mother's day, Margret says she will think of mothers like her – those whose lives tumbled in what seems like a millisecond, and things have never been the same.

"It is easy to let go of God in times of tragedy. I sometimes start praying, but find no words to tell God," she says.

She still cherishes the brief duration she mothered the children. Her son John Magaiwa helped her draw water for her maize boiling business, Paulina Boke was a science genius with an insatiable desire for books. Victor always waited by the door and would chuckle in glee and run to her when she returned home after a day's work.