In the remote villages of Mountain View, Kikopey in Gilgil, and Irongo in Kuresoi South, both in Nakuru County, two families sit silently, united by heartbreak. Their grief is palpable for the loss of their daughters in a distant land.
The lives of Rukia Wamuyu Wanjiru and Sharon Chebet, like those of so many young girls in Kenya, were full of promise. They set off, each differently, to Saudi Arabia in search of greener pastures to establish a brighter future not only for themselves but also for their dependents. Sadly, they ended up dying so young and so untimely a few years later.
Rukia Wamuyu Wanjiru
It was December 2019 when Rukia Wamuyu Wanjiru, a soft-spoken but determined young woman, boarded a flight from Nairobi to Riyadh. Even though her heart was heavy, knowing she was leaving behind her four-year-old daughter, she carried with her the hope that her sacrifice would one day give her family the financial security they had long sought.
At just 26, Rukia was full of optimism, determined to provide for her child and help her struggling mother, Irene Wanjiru, who had faced years of unemployment.
For the first year, as COVID-19 ravaged the world, Rukia toiled away, working tirelessly as a domestic worker in a foreign land. The whole of 2020, she untiringly sent money back home, and her family felt the relief of knowing that, despite the distance, she was supporting them.
“She would send us money. She bought for us these seats, and she enrolled her daughter in a good school,” says Irene Wanjiru during an interview with The Kenyan Diaspora Media, pointing at the seats, which exuded plush and elegance.
Unfortunate twist
However, the tides turned in 2021 when, according to her mother, Rukia’s contract with her first employer ended. The next three years became a struggle for stability as finding a job proved difficult for her.
The weight of uncertainty pressed heavily on her shoulders, leading to periods where she could not send money back home. According to her mother, this relentless pressure caused Rukia to develop high blood pressure.
She remembers the anguish of their phone conversations.
“There were countless times I called her, only to hear fear in her voice. She would tell me she had collapsed and got resuscitated,” recounts Irene, tears welling in her eyes.
She adds, “There are days she would ask me to text instead of a phone call because her tongue was swollen and it hurt when she tried talking.”
As any caring mother would, Rukia’s mother urged her to return home and to find another means of income as life in Saudi Arabia was proving to be a formidable foe.
“I implored on her to come back home. There was no point for her to continue suffering, yet she was jobless as she would have been while here at home,” says Irine.
Flicker of hope
However, according to her, a flicker of hope shone in April 2024. Rukia called to inform her that she had secured temporary work. She also promised her that she would return to Kenya in July 2024.
“She called to share the good news. She even sent a video of her packed belongings. We were filled with joy, eager to welcome her back. Her daughter, who she had left at four, was especially elated,” recalled Rukia’s mother.
But as July approached, Rukia called again, asking for her mother’s blessing to extend her stay for another six months.
“She explained she wanted to save enough money to start a business in Kenya to build a better future for herself and her child,” reflects Irine, her heart heavy with the weight of her decision.
She adds, “Seeing six months as a small sacrifice, I allowed her to stay—a choice I now regret.”
Sad news
Then, on September 5, fate dealt a cruel hand. Irene received a devastating call from one of Rukia’s friends, who informed her that Rukia had collapsed, and despite frantic efforts to revive her, she had tragically passed away.
“I was shattered. It felt like my world had crumbled around me,” she says, tears streaming down her face.
Irene believes that the harsh living conditions and challenges of life in Saudi Arabia exacerbated Rukia’s health issues.
“My daughter also developed asthma, something she never had before moving to Saudi Arabia,” she laments, heartbroken.
The cost of bringing Rukia’s body home is a staggering KES 750,000, an amount far beyond what the family can afford.
Pleas
Gregory Kimani, the head of Nyumba Kumi in Mountain View village, calls upon well-wishers and the government to assist in repatriating her body so she can be laid to rest.
According to a neighbour, Richard Kamau, the burden of repatriating the body and laying Rukia to rest is too much to bear for the family.
“Rukia also left behind a daughter, whose future now lays in uncertainty. The family is going through a lot,” says Richard.
Rukia’s grandmother, Ms. Lucy Njoki Githinji, spoke fondly of her granddaughter, whom she describes as a hard-working young woman who had great dreams of improving her family’s economic situation.
“We are crying out to the government to help us bring her home,” she pleads, her voice heavy with sorrow.
“Please, help repatriate my daughter so that we can grant her the dignified send-off she deserves,” Rukia’s mother, Irine, cries.
Sharon Chebet
As Rukia’s family mourns her, just a few hundred kilometres away, in the quiet village of Irongo, the family of 33-year-old Sharon Chebet is facing a similar ordeal.
Sharon left for Saudi Arabia in May 2022, eager to escape the crushing poverty of her orphaned life. She had to play a pillar role for her siblings, taking on the role of provider after their parents’ deaths.
Sharon’s departure was shrouded in secrecy, even from her older brother, Philip Cheruiyot.
“Some of us didn’t know she was traveling. She must have feared we wouldn’t accept it, knowing the horror stories we had heard about Saudi Arabia,” explains Philip.
For two years, Sharon sent regular updates to her family, sharing snippets of life in Saudi Arabia.
But on August 4, 2024, that communication took a disturbing turn.
Arrested
In a frantic phone call to her sister, Brillian Chesang, Sharon said she had been arrested by Saudi Arabian police but had no idea why. After that call, silence.
Days turned into weeks, and the family grew increasingly desperate.
Then, a stranger called on August 25.
Sharon, the stranger said, had died in a road accident. The caller demanded KES 350,000 to repatriate her body.
The family was left in turmoil, not only grieving the loss of Sharon but now questioning the circumstances surrounding her death.
“If indeed she was arrested, where was she taken? Were the people who arrested her really police officers? What happened in that accident? Why did it take so long for us to hear about her death?” asks Brillian.
The family’s attempts to contact the agent who arranged Sharon’s travel have been fruitless. The agent’s phone is switched off, leaving them with no answers and no way forward.
The family is now calling on the Kenyan government to help them get the correct information on how their kin met her death and whoever is responsible for her death for Sharon to get justice.
Pattern of loss
Over the years, hundreds of Kenyan women have traveled to the Middle East in search of work, driven by the hope of a better future. But too often, these journeys end in despair.
Abuse, exploitation, unsafe working conditions, and mysterious deaths have become a recurring theme for migrant workers, especially domestic workers, in Saudi Arabia and other middle East countries.
These women, many of whom leave with dreams of lifting their families out of poverty, return home in body bags, their families left to wade through a minefield of bureaucracy, financial burdens, and unanswered questions. The Kenyan government has, on numerous occasions, promised to address these issues, yet for families like the Wanjirus and Chebets, those promises ring hollow.
Indifferent government?
As the sun sets over the villages of Kikopey and Irongo, the grief of these families lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating. Rukia’s mother, Irene, and Sharon’s sister, Brillian, are both crying for the same thing: closure. They want their daughters brought home. They want answers. And they want justice.
For the families left behind, the loss is immeasurable, and the unanswered questions are unbearable. But their cries for help are not just for their daughters. They are for every Kenyan woman who leaves her home, hopeful and determined, only to meet a tragic end in a foreign land. They are for the countless families who wait by the phone, dreading the call that will confirm their worst fears.
By LC Faith
Read the Original article on https://thekenyandiaspora.com
