By William Abala
Nairobi, Kenya: When the rains come, Mathare’s narrow alleys become rivers, sweeping away more than just belongings. In the heart of Utalii Ward, a place called Mradi is where 16-year-old Joy Talia stands her ground, fighting to hold onto more than just hope.
Her life, one filled with quiet dreams and unspoken pain, speaks volumes about the hidden struggles of the deaf and marginalized in the face of relentless climate crises. For Joy, who is both hard-of- hearing and speech impaired, expressing herself is a challenge. But through sign language and a determined spirit, she reveals her narrative, and the everyday mental strain she endures.
Joy’s world was forever changed in April 2024, when floods swept through their community, taking with them more than just material possessions.
Her schoolbooks and clothing were swallowed by the raging waters. The floods forced her to drop out of school in Class 7, cutting short her dream of completing her education and one day becoming a doctor.
Since then, her family has moved slightly to higher ground, yet the specter of more floods looms large. They live in constant fear of the next rainy season, knowing that another rain could render them homeless.
Talia family lives in a single-room structure, pieced together from salvaged remains of their flood-damaged house. The walls, reinforced with old timber and rusty corrugated iron sheets, are barely holding up.
Their home lacks a kitchen, and they share an outdoor latrine with several neighbors. Living conditions are dire, with hazardous sites, a dirty environment, and a complete absence of clean water or proper sanitation.
Life in Mathare: A Valley of Challenges
Mathare, a collection of densely populated informal settlements in Nairobi, is home to around 500,000 people, with Mathare Valley alone housing 180,000 residents.
Known as the second-largest informal settlement in Kenya after Kibera, Mathare’s structures are packed tightly, laid out without any formal spatial planning, and mostly consist of shacks. The settlement includes 13 villages—Kiamutisya, Village 1/Mlango Kubwa, Kosovo, Village 2, and others—each with distinct characteristics.
Villages like Mlango Kubwa and Village 2, for example, feature a mix of shacks and apartments, with some apartment blocks even offering sanitation facilities and water points.
However, the majority of Mathare’s residents, including those in places like Mradi where Joy lives, endure challenging conditions marked by inadequate sanitation, limited access to affordable healthcare, and high vulnerability to social and economic disruptions.
These factors have compounded the family’s difficulties, leaving Joy feeling trapped and overwhelmed.
Joy’s mother operates a small grocery kiosk, selling fruits and vegetables, while her father does manual labor, commonly referred to as “mjengo,” whenever he finds work. Together, they earn between ksh 200- ksh 500 ($2 to $4) per day, enough to afford just one meal, usually dinner.
This harsh reality forces Joy to grow up too quickly, robbed of a carefree childhood. She often goes to bed hungry, her stomach empty, and her mind heavy with worry about her family’s survival and their future.
The Kenya Red Cross reports that, as of June 18, the national flooding crisis claimed 294 lives, left 162 people missing, and displaced over 101,132 households.
Among those most affected are families like Talia’s, who reside in low-income, flood-prone neighborhoods. Nairobi’s informal settlements, including Mathare, Mukuru Kwa Jenga, and Kariobangi, are particularly susceptible, with over 40,000 households uprooted.
The government’s response to demolish homes built 30 meters from major rivers has intensified fears, as countless families already teeter on the brink of homelessness.
Earlier this year, Mathare Flood Response Organizations recognized the devastating losses and commended the collective efforts to rebuild lives after the catastrophic floods in April. They highlighted the unprecedented scale of the disaster, describing it as the most severe flooding Mathare residents had experienced in four decades.
The catastrophic flooding that struck on April 24 decimated houses along the Mathare and Getathuru rivers, claiming at least 40 lives, including children and a person with a disability.
The outpouring of community support has been a lifeline for families like Joy’s, with local groups organizing relief, including dry food, bedding, clothes, and shelter for the newly displaced.
Volunteers have been relentless, offering condolence, finding missing bodies, and assisting flood victims with emergency supplies and support. Despite these efforts, the community continues to seek assistance, especially for the hundreds still lacking adequate shelter.
Ongoing battle with stress
Through a sign language interpreter, Joy describes her ongoing battle with stress and anxiety. “That kind of life is not the one I want, but we are poor,” she says, her hands expressing the pain that words cannot.
She struggles with constant mental anguish, wondering when the next disaster will strike and how her family will cope.
The lack of trauma counseling has only deepened her sense of isolation, as there are few avenues for her to share her pain or seek solace.
Herman Gikonyo, her sign language interpreter and confidant, reveals, “Even when Joy wants to speak of her pain, her words are trapped because there’s no one to understand or communicate with her.”
With just four public health facilities and 51 substandard clinics scattered across the settlement, access to quality mental healthcare remains a distant dream. Community Health Volunteers (CHVs) attempt to bridge the gap, but for residents like Talia, who require sign language interpreters, the barriers are almost insurmountable.
Data from UN-HABITAT shows that the management of most health facilities in Mathare is in the hands of individual business owners, which may be associated with the high cost of services and reduced healthcare affordability. A survey on the capacities of health facilities and costs of accessing health services is required in designing targeted interventions.
The United Nations (2006) and the World Federation of the Deaf (2011) emphasize the need for accessible communication, yet interpreting services remain scarce and costly.
Organizations like Ruaraka Social Justice, a community-based organization (CBO) in Mathare, are aware of the immense mental health risks children like Joy face. They work tirelessly to create awareness and strengthen systems that care for affected families, but resources are limited.
Moreen, a representative from Ruaraka Social Justice, explains that the group cannot afford to hire sign language interpreters. “We face significant challenges in communicating with deaf individuals,” Moreen admits, highlighting how the organization struggles to assist people like Joy who come to them broken and suffering.
Professional counseling services in the area are prohibitively expensive, leaving vulnerable children without mental health care. “We’ve been trying to get the government to keep their promises, but it’s an uphill battle,” Moreen shares.
Moreen further calls on the Kenyan government to account for the 10 billion KES allocated to support flood victims during the El Niño period.
This fund, promised to alleviate the suffering of communities like Mathare hit hardest by flooding, has yet to reach those who need it most. Many affected families report receiving no assistance, raising urgent questions about the use and distribution of these funds.
Caroline Mwari, a counselor at the International Professional Counselors Centre (IPCC), emphasizes the urgent need for accessible mental health support in such contexts.
“Children like Joy are navigating immense emotional strain without adequate resources or support systems,” Mwari explains. She highlights that the absence of trauma counseling and specialized care for deaf individuals increases feelings of isolation and hopelessness.
Mwari further notes that prolonged exposure to such stressors can lead to long-term mental health challenges, including depression and anxiety disorders.
“Targeted interventions that address both communication barriers and emotional needs are essential to help Joy and others like her regain stability and hope,” she adds.
Despite these struggles, there is a ray of hope in Joy’s life. In October 2024, she joined a child rights club, a space offering mentorship and a sense of community. There, she has made new friends and found a place to share her experiences. The club has become a vital source of support, offering her the comfort of knowing she is not alone.
But the challenges remain. Joy still dreams of returning to school to complete Class 8 and pursue her dream of becoming a doctor. As floods and the climate crisis continue to disrupt her world, Joy remains a poignant reminder of the struggles faced by the deaf and marginalized, whose voices are often drowned out in the chaos.
This story was funded and supported by Journalists for Human Rights-Kenya under the Trauma-Informed Climate Change & Environment Storytelling Grant.
