A young student mother with her baby tied on her back, captured in a quiet moment of strength and care
The sun rises gently over Rongo University, casting warm light across the campus lawns as students stream into lecture halls, books clutched tightly, earbuds in, minds fixed on grades and deadlines. In the same crowd, Faith walks briskly, her baby strapped snugly to her back, a bottle tucked into her handbag, and lecture notes folded neatly under her arm. She blends in until the child lets out a soft cry, reminding the world that her life isn’t quite like everyone else’s.
For most students, campus life means late-night group discussions, impromptu parties, and the luxury of sleeping in. But for a handful of young women on this campus, life is shaped by different rhythms naptimes, midnight feedings, and the ever-present worry of how to afford baby wipes and porridge flour.
Faith, 21, is one such mother part student, part caregiver, and entirely determined.
“I Thought My Life Was Over”
Faith’s story began like many others an ambitious second-year student chasing her dreams. But one morning, those dreams came crashing into a plastic pregnancy test on her hostel bathroom sink. “I just stared at it,” she recalls, eyes glassy. “I kept asking myself, how will I tell my parents? Will I even finish school?”
At first, she clung to hope, hope that her boyfriend would stand by her, that her parents would understand. But the man she thought she loved grew distant. “He promised we’d figure it out,” she says, her voice cracking. “But soon, my calls went unanswered. He disappeared completely.”
When she finally told her parents, the silence in their living room was louder than any scolding. Her mother wept. Her father refused to speak to her for weeks. Eventually, they reached a painful compromise she could stay in school, but she would be on her own.
Being a student mother is not just about balancing books and bottles it’s about surviving every day. Sharon, another young mother on campus, begins her days before dawn.
“I wake up at 5 a.m. to boil water, cook porridge, and bathe my daughter,” she says, cradling the sleepy toddler in her arms. “Some mornings, if she’s cranky, I attend class with her tied on my back.”
Her life is one long balancing act rushing from lectures to caretaking duties, attending tutorials while secretly checking if her baby is running a fever. Some lecturers understand; others don’t. “One day, I walked into class with my baby,” she recounts. “The lecturer paused, looked at me and said, ‘Is this a nursery school?’ The whole class laughed. I just stood there, holding back tears.”
For these young women, school doesn’t end after class. At night, when others relax or scroll through TikTok, they dive into a second shift feeding, bathing, soothing, then studying. “I do my assignments when she sleeps, usually around midnight,” Sharon says. “But by then, I’m so exhausted that I have to reread the same paragraph ten times.”
If university life is expensive, then student motherhood is a crisis. Rent, food, medical care, baby clothes, and formula don’t care about HELB loan delays.
“I survive on prayer and small hustles,” Faith says. “Sometimes, I miss meals so my baby can eat.” Sharon nods in agreement. “I wash clothes for people. I sell mandazis in hostels. Anything to make it to the next day.”
For others, the desperation cuts deeper. Some turn to older men for financial support, not out of desire, but out of survival. “People judge,” Faith says quietly. “But they don’t understand the choices we face. It’s either that, or our babies go hungry.”
Perhaps the hardest part isn’t the lack of money, the sleepless nights, or even the academic pressure it’s the loneliness. “You’re not seen,” Faith says. “You’re there in class, but you don’t belong.”
They speak of friendships that faded, classmates who whispered, and people who judged without asking. “There are days I cry silently while breastfeeding,” Sharon admits. “I miss my old life. I miss being carefree.”
Their mental health quietly unravels in the background hidden behind stoic faces and forced smiles.
And yet, in the middle of it all, there is fierce determination. “I will graduate,” Faith says with fire in her eyes. “I want my daughter to look at me one day and say, ‘Mama never gave up.’”
They are not asking for pity they’re asking for policies. For change. For a campus that sees them, hears them, and supports them.
“We need a real daycare facility with trained staff, not just a room with a few toys,” Sharon insists. “We need mental health counseling, flexible class schedules, and financial aid that considers our situation.”
Until then, they will continue to fight quietly in lecture halls and hostels, juggling textbooks and teething rings, chasing dreams while rocking their babies to sleep.
Because these women are not just students. They are mothers, survivors, and warriors each carrying two futures, one in their arms, and one in their hearts.
The question is no longer whether they’ll make it.
It’s whether the system will finally meet them halfway.
By Sharon Nasiche and Kelly Awour, Rongo University
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