Child labour encompasses any work that is mentally, physically, socially, or morally harmful to children.
It is during childhood where dreams should be nurtured and education pursued, yet for many children, this is not the case. You see, they never get the chance to be children, the chance to dream.
As the harsh realities of child labour unfold, many Kenyan children are compelled to assume roles far beyond their years, driven by life's most unforgiving challenges. These often-overlooked factors underscore the complex reasons that drive child labour.
We visited Mukuru kwa Njenga slum in Embakasi South Constituency in Nairobi County, and came across young children whose survival dictates that they work, their childhoods overshadowed by adult responsibilities.
The first stop is Kware, Mukuru in Josam Investment building. To access the building, we hop, skip and jump to avoid stepping on mud and water, thanks to the rains that keep on pounding.
When we get into the building, the floor is wet and the air dump with footsteps of tenants and visitors, making the staircase even dirtier.
At house number 206, we are ushered in. We meet Brenda Wairimu (not her real name), her mother, sister, and niece. In the one-room house where we later find out that they are being hosted by another family (a single mother with two children), there is a makeshift bed, a black and red couch, and a rack against the wall for storing dishes.
'The family is currently in the village, but when they come back, we sleep on the floor,' Brenda says.
The environment already tells of a family whose hope lies on people's goodwill. Brendas mother is laying on the bed, one of her legs is swollen. She is quiet and only speaks when prodded. Her face does not tell it all, but we can see tears forming in her eyes with every conversation we engage in.
Read:
Brenda, a 15-year-old, tells me that every day, she has to get up at 4.30am first to study for an hour, after which she leaves home in search of work.
'It is my prayer and wish that I become an oncologist one day when I grow up. That is why I have to study every day before the sun rises,' she says.
We leave the home and walk to different places around Mukuru and Imara Daima, where Brenda tells us she gets work. The roads are in a terrible state, and are a mixture of water and mud and sludge from nearby dumpsites. Wairimus target clientele are people living in flats.
'Every day is different,' she says, 'On a good day I will wash clothes for Sh100 and dishes for a pay of Sh50. The time I spend washing clothes depends on the load, which ordinarily takes me an hour while dishes take me around 30 minutes. Sometimes, there is no water and I have to carry jerricans of 10 or 20 litres which are bought from a nearby vendor by my employer.'
She tells us that there are times when she will work, only for her employer of the day to chase her away, failing to pay her. Sometimes, she is short-changed.
'Others will promise to pay at a later date but never do.'
Brenda started working for pay since she was in Grade Two after her mother was diagnosed with blood cancer in 2014. She can no longer take care them. As a result, her father abandoned them, a push that made Brenda look for jobs.
'I started some hustles here and there, like washing dishes for people, selling bananas, avocados, and ice, so that we could earn some money,' she says.
Throughout her primary school years, Brenda remembers attending school sporadically. Most of the time, she alternated between washing dishes and clothes for people and caring for her mother afterwards. She would then look for full time jobs when she was sent home from school due to fees arrears.
'One of my teachers took me back to school in third term when I was in Grade Seven. Up until I cleared Grade Eight, I had some stability, sort of, in school. Last year when I sat for my Kenya Certificate of Primary Education (KCPE) examination, I scored 286 marks, and I'm proud of it because more often than not, I never had the time to study.'
Brenda says that one of her mother's medications, a blood builder, costs Sh2,000 per tablet. When there isn't enough money for the medication, her mother's health deteriorates, causing her to tremble and easily fall down when standing, the same situation we find her in.
'So, sometimes I help her go to washroom, I bathe her and it really hurts when I have to do all that,' she says as tears flow down her cheeks.
Now in Form One, Brenda says that since she has been unable to clear first-term fees, her desire of returning to school in May when schools open for the second term may not come to pass.
'For first term, our church members paid my sc
