A woman in my area of intervention, together with her daughter, was impregnated by the same man.

The woman was stressed and was in pain to explain her anger. She kept mentioning that it's either she gives birth and her daughter's child is aborted, or she commits suicide if she doesn't.

She had "rat n rat" (a local rat poison)

The weight of betrayal crushed her chest as she sat in her house, staring blankly at the floor that seemed to shift beneath her feet.

The man she had once trusted, who had vowed to protect her and her family, had shattered every boundary of decency and humanity.

The realization that her daughter now carried the same burden she bore was a torment she could hardly articulate—a storm of guilt, anger, and helplessness swirling within her.

Her heart ached for the innocence stolen from her child, yet a part of her blamed herself for not seeing the darkness beneath his guise.

Shame clung to her like a second skin, whispering lies that she was complicit, that she had failed as a mother and as a woman.

But deep within her pain, a spark of fierce resolve ignited—a determination to shield her daughter from further harm, to fight for justice, and to reclaim their lives from the ashes of this unthinkable betrayal.

Approaching the woman and her daughter, empathy became a delicate thread, weaving together words and actions to cradle their pain with understanding and care.

Sitting beside them, I listened, allowing their shaky and raw voices to fill the space without interruption.

Their stories, though heavy, deserve to be heard without judgment, for their pain is not theirs alone to bear.

A gentle touch on the shoulder or a soft nod acknowledged their courage in sharing their unimaginable trauma.

Words were chosen carefully, offering comfort and validation: "You are not to blame."

I later referred the case to a PM+ Helper for further intervention, ensuring the clients felt seen, heard, and valued as they began healing and reclaiming their dignity.

In another instance, I was called by my neighbor to talk to a man who had climbed an electricity grid and wanted to commit suicide.

I rushed to the scene and found the man on the electricity grid.

The man clung to the towering electricity grid, his silhouette stark against the fading light of the evening sky.

The hum of the wires around him was drowned out by the murmurs of the growing crowd below, their voices tinged with a mix of alarm, curiosity, and desperation.

His face, etched with anguish, betrayed a torment far greater than the physical danger he faced. Each step he had taken up the cold metal structure seemed to strip away a layer of hope, leaving only the raw weight of despair pressing down on him.

The air was tense as first responders called out to him, their voices carrying words of reassurance and concern.

He seemed lost in his thoughts; his gaze fixed on a point far beyond the horizon as though searching for an escape from the invisible chains that had brought him here.

Tears streaked his face, reflecting the struggle within—a battle between the desire to end the pain and the faintest whisper of a reason to hold on.

Below, strangers became allies, shouting words of encouragement and prayers into the chilling air.

I approached slowly, my voice calm and steady, weaving a connection thread. "You're not alone," I said in a tone heavy with sincerity.

For a moment, his grip faltered—not on the metal rungs, but on his resolve to let go of life.

That flicker of hesitation and pause was enough to light a spark of hope, a fragile possibility that his story wasn't over.

We talked for a while, and he descended from the pole. I offered him food and tea and later referred the case to our local chief, who facilitated his employment in a road construction company.

Similarly, I was called by Nyumba Kumi members about a man who was assaulting a child.

The Child was not his biological offspring, and he wanted the mother to get rid of the Child.

The Child had visible marks from the assault, and a razor blade cut his ears and thighs.

Dark streaks of dried blood marked his ears, where cruel cuts told a story of unimaginable pain. The jagged wounds on his thighs were swollen and raw, each a testament to a trust betrayed most horrifically.

His broad, tear-filled eyes darted around the room, filled with fear and confusion, searching for a place where safety might finally exist.

The man became more violent on seeing us.

I immediately called Police Officers, who rescued the child and arrested the man as we proceeded to the health center for medical attention.

Relatives later took the Child from his mother's side.

The case is still active in court."

As narrated by Stella Wangui, PFA Provider Rhonda Ward.

By:Jacob Karani