I still remember the day my son asked me why other children’s homes had shiny tiles while ours had a cracked mud floor. I smiled and told him one day, things would change. Deep down, I didn’t believe it. I had grown used to the dust, the broken windows patched with polythene, and the tin roof that groaned every time the wind blew.
My name is Ruth, and I lived in a small village just outside Rongo. My husband and I worked hard. He was a boda rider, and I sold vegetables by the roadside. Our combined income could barely feed the family, let alone fund our dreams. Still, I dreamed. I dreamed of one day building a decent house. A place with running water, electricity, and tiled floors. A home where my children could walk barefoot without fear of jiggers or cracked cement hurting their feet. to read more click here
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