Hamisa's day (not her real name) had started like any other. The sun rose lazily over her village, casting warm light on the tin roofs and waking the chickens that roamed freely in her family’s compound. At 16, she had learned to juggle school, household chores, and the weight of helping her mother care for her younger siblings. But behind her determined exterior lay a world of uncertainty—a world where whispers of relationships and “grown-up” matters were shared in secret between classmates, but no one spoke of the real consequences.
She met Juma one evening as she returned home from fetching water. He was older, about 23, with a confidence that set him apart from the boys in her school. He was in her school and a form four, In the costal part many children delay going to school and it is not unusual to find people Jumas age in high school. To Hamisa, he seemed worldly and understanding, someone who could offer an escape from the monotony of her everyday life. At first, their interactions were innocent: stolen smiles, brief conversations, and the occasional ride home when she was too tired to walk as Juma had a Black Mamba.
It wasn’t long before their relationship became intimate. Hamisa, unsure of what was expected of her, had no real understanding of sexual health. No one had ever explained the intricacies of contraception or how her body worked. The little she knew came from hushed conversations with her friends, many of whom were as clueless as she was.
A month later, when her period didn’t come, a wave of panic washed over her. Hamisa confided in Juma one evening, her voice trembling as she told him about the missed cycle. Juma, though older, didn’t know much more than she did about sexual health. He had heard about emergency contraceptives from his peers and suggested she get some, offering her 500 shillings to buy the pills from a nearby pharmacy.
“Take this,” he said, pressing the crumpled notes into her hand. “Go to the chemist tomorrow. They’ll help you.”
Hamisa nodded, grateful for his help, but deep down, she felt a gnawing sense of unease. That evening, as she sat in their dimly lit kitchen, she stared at the money in her hand. Her younger siblings were tugging at her dress, hungry after another long day with little to eat. The small stash of maize flour was almost finished, and her supply of sanitary towels had run out.
Her stomach tightened as she weighed her options. The money in her hand could buy the pills she needed, but it could also buy food for her family and pads to get her through the month. She made the difficult choice that so many young girls in her position are forced to make.
The next day, Hamisa walked past the pharmacy on her way to the market. She used the money to buy a small bag of maize flour, a packet of sanitary towels, and a few vegetables. By the time she got home, the weight of her decision pressed heavily on her chest. She told herself she would figure out another solution, but the days turned into weeks, and the reality of her situation became impossible to ignore.
When her belly began to swell, the whispers started. Her teachers called her parents to school, and the shame in her father’s eyes was unbearable. “You’ve disgraced this family,” he said. Her mother, though more sympathetic, could do little to shield her from the judgment of their community.
Juma, too, changed. He stopped answering her calls and avoided her when she tried to confront him. Left with no choice, Hamisa dropped out of school to care for her baby. Her father insisted she move in with Juma, believing it was the only way to salvage her reputation. But life with Juma was not the escape she had imagined.
At first, he provided for their child, but the pressures of responsibility quickly soured his affection. Arguments became frequent, and it wasn’t long before he turned violent. Hamisa endured the abuse in silence, unable to return to her family and unwilling to admit that her dream of a better life had slipped further out of reach.
As she rocked her baby to sleep each night, she thought of all the ways her life could have been different. If she had known about contraception earlier, if she had access to someone she could trust for guidance, if her school had taught her the realities of relationships and reproductive health—perhaps she would still be in class, studying to become a nurse.
Now, she was trapped in a cycle of poverty and abuse, with no clear path forward. She had no way of knowing that her story was not unique. Across Kenya, thousands of young girls faced the same fate. Many were forced into early marriages, subjected to intimate partner violence, and left vulnerable to sexually transmitted infections, including HIV.
The numbers are staggering: over 317,000 teenage pregnancies are reported annually in Kenya(KHIS 2020). Many of these girls, like Hamisa, are pushed into a life of dependency and hardship before they even have the chance to dream.
Hamisa’s story is a call to action. It is a plea to society, policymakers, and communities to prioritize comprehensive sexuality education and the provision of reproductive health services for young people. Hamisa's life could have been different if she had been empowered with knowledge and access to contraceptives.
We are too pressed to wait. The time for change is now. For every day we delay, more girls lose their futures to a system that fails to protect and educate them. Together, we can ensure that no girl has to make the impossible choice that Hamisa faced and that every young person has the opportunity to live a life of dignity, health, and opportunity.
We Are Red Carding Indifference: The Time for Solutions Is Now
In the face of overwhelming evidence, silence is complicity. Leaders, policymakers, and gatekeepers who sidestep solutions, ignore data, and delay action are not just negligent—they are enabling the loss of young lives. This is why we are raising the red card: to hold them accountable for their inaction in the face of the devastating triple threat—teen pregnancies, HIV infections, and gender-based violence (GBV).
Young people are living on the edge of crises that could be prevented. Every day, girls are dropping out of school, losing opportunities, and being forced into early marriages because leaders have failed to address their needs. The statistics paint a grim picture:
- 15% of young women in Kenya have been teenage mothers. These are more than just numbers—they represent futures lost and lives burdened. (KDHS 2022)
- 42% of new HIV infections in Kenya are among adolescents and young people. These are preventable, but stigma and a lack of services persist. (NSDCC 2019)
- 1 in 3 women in Kenya experiences GBV, a reality that often starts with forced early marriages and relationships rooted in inequality. KDHS 2022)
Yet, we see avoidance. We see leaders debating instead of acting. We see communities blaming girls for circumstances they cannot control. We see systems failing to protect those who are most vulnerable.
A Red Card for Leaders Who Neglect the Data
The data is crystal clear: lack of Comprehensive Sexuality Education (CSE) and access to contraceptives are driving the triple threat. Still, many leaders shy away from implementing these life-saving interventions, choosing to prioritize political optics over the health and rights of young people.
How many more Hamisas must sacrifice their dreams before the urgency of this crisis is taken seriously? At 16, Hamisa didn’t know what contraceptives were. She wasn’t given a chance to prevent her pregnancy because the information and tools she needed were deliberately withheld. When she turned to her partner for help, the system failed her again, forcing her into poverty, violence, and isolation.
We cannot tolerate leaders who ignore these stories. Each young life lost or forever altered because of their inaction is a direct result of their choices.
The Stakes Are Too High
This isn’t just about missed opportunities—it’s about the lives of real people. Young girls are being forced into:
- Early marriages as a result of unplanned pregnancies.
- Lifelong cycles of poverty because they drop out of school to care for their children.
- Violent and exploitative relationships, with no safety nets to protect them.
- Increased vulnerability to STIs and HIV, worsening an already urgent public health crisis.
Each statistic represents a story like Hamisa’s—a girl too pressed to wait for leaders to act.
A Call to Action: Raise the Red Card
We are not just red-carding neglect; we are red-carding the systemic failures that allow this crisis to continue. To the leaders who avoid solutions and ignore the data: your inaction is costing lives, and we will not stand for it.
It’s time for:
- Leadership that leads: Prioritize CSE and youth-friendly SRHR services without delay.
- Policies that protect: Enact and fund programs that address the triple threat comprehensively.
- Communities that care: Foster open, stigma-free environments where young people can access the information and tools they need.
The young people of Kenya—and across Africa—are the future, but that future is at risk. They are looking to us for solutions, not excuses.
We Are Too Pressed to Wait
Every delay is another life lost. Every ignored statistic is a step further into crisis. The time for action is now. Raise the red card with us. Demand that leaders, communities, and systems confront the reality of the triple threat and act decisively.
We are fighting for lives, for futures, and for dignity. This is our moment to say enough. Join us. Let’s red card inaction and build a future where every young person has the chance to thrive.
