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Umoja the Women’s Village

The road winds past pineapple plantations and stretches of deep red earth — soil so vivid and fertile I’ve never seen anything like it before. After the pineapples come banana trees, mangoes, sweet potatoes and maize. We drive by coffee plantations, fruit stalls, and flocks of sheep grazing along the roadside, while Mount Kenya looms protectively on the horizon. The journey takes me from Nairobi, through Nanyuki, and north-east towards Somalia — to a place called Archer’s Post.

The Legacy of Colonialism

The greater the beauty of the land, the harsher the story it tells — one of conquest, violence and humiliation. For many Kenyans, that story didn’t end with independence in 1963, no matter what Western history books imply. As I travel north, I pass the faint but persistent scars of colonial continuity.

On the pineapple plantations, my travel companion Bethi Ngari tells me, it’s the American corporation Del Monte that holds power. Local people are allowed to harvest the fruits of their own soil for poor wages. Those who don’t work fast enough are punished — guard dogs are set on them, or they’re beaten by supervisors. The fruit is then preserved, sweetened with industrial sugar, and sold in sterile tins to supermarket chains around the world.

It’s much the same with coffee. Foreign companies still exploit Kenya’s land and people, selling coffee abroad for high prices, while most Kenyans themselves drink instant coffee from Nestlé — small plastic sachets that are cheaper than the aromatic beans grown under their own sun, in their own rich red soil.

Then come the British army bases. For years, villagers nearby have protested against the toxic waste the troops leave behind and the fatal accidents caused by weapons testing. Increasingly, there are also reports of sexual violence — British soldiers assaulting Kenyan women in the surrounding communities.

I let these images of suffering pass in silence, aware that the story of Umoja — the women’s village at Archer’s Post — is woven into this same troubled history.

Rebecca Lolosoli - Founder of Umoja

By the banks of the Ewaso Nyiro River, which runs beside the village, I meet Rebecca Lolosoli — a Samburu woman (the Samburu are an Indigenous community in northern Kenya) and the founder of Umoja. I’ve never met a queen, but sitting next to her, I think I know what it might feel like.

Rebecca radiates wisdom and authority, even through her tiredness. She is constantly travelling — speaking at conferences, organising women, raising awareness about gender-based violence, collecting donations, and holding together a community of more than forty women* and over a hundred children, all of whom have fled violence.
To explain how Africa’s first — and still only — women’s village, Umoja (Swahili for “unity”) came to be, Rebecca takes me back to the early 1990s, when she ran a small grocery shop in Archer’s Post.

She opened it simply to feed her six children and herself. But soon she found she couldn’t ignore the women* who sat outside her shop, destitute, clothed in rags, often with small children, and desperate to tell someone their stories. They told her about the rapes committed by British soldiers — and how their husbands and families had cast them out in shame. Abortion was illegal, so if they became pregnant, they were forced to carry the child and, once it was born, ordered to kill it. Others came to her fleeing their husbands’ beatings.

Many were sick with malaria or other diseases, their children malnourished. Rebecca gave them food and paid hospital bills out of her own meagre income. Her husband and his family warned her to stop, threatened her, argued constantly.

Some women* tried to earn a little money by brewing and selling illegal alcohol. If the police caught them, they were imprisoned — their children left to fend for themselves. Rebecca saw toddlers lying alone in the dirt, mothers dying of illness, children sitting beside their mothers’ corpses for days, thinking they were asleep until the smell became unbearable.

Who would care for these women* and children? She didn’t know how, but she knew she must.
Something had to change.

Rebecca gathered a small group of women* who shared her determination to break free from the cycle of violence. They went again and again to the District Commissioner to plead for help, but no one listened.

So they began making jewellery. With no money for materials, they used plant seeds and dried fruits they gathered from the bush, selling them to tourists passing along the main road. Their former husbands watched, mocking them. It angered them to see their wives stand tall or earn their own money, and they repeatedly tried to destroy what little independence the women had built.

Rebecca realised they needed safety — a place of their own where they could live and protect each other. “A place, like a village, where we can care for one another,” she said. At first, only fifteen women* dared to join her. Many were too afraid of the consequences. But slowly, the idea began to take root.

They found a piece of land that felt right — close to the road so they could still sell their jewellery, but near the Ewaso Nyiro River where they could wash and find water. With their own hands, they built the first huts. Their husbands laughed at them, but the women* kept building. When the men attacked and beat them, the women* stood firm: “We are staying here. We will not leave. You can kill us, but we will not go.”

International Recognition

A women’s organisation in Nairobi heard about Umoja and came to visit. They invited Rebecca to speak at a conference on women’s rights and empowerment.
She was the only Samburu woman* there. She didn’t understand what the other women* were talking about and spent hours hiding in the toilet, feeling out of place. “What are they talking about — women’s* rights?” she thought. “Men are allowed to kill us and nothing happens. If I go home, I could be killed.”

Later she was invited to South Africa. By then, her children had taught her a little English, but she still couldn’t see what human rights had to do with her own life. “We have no rights — not even the right to eat,” she said. “The rights belong to men.”

In 2005, the United Nations invited her to New York. Once again, she felt alien and overwhelmed — cold, far from home, lodged on the eighteenth floor of a skyscraper. Once again, she couldn’t understand what all this talk of women’s rights had to do with her. Then she heard a white woman say that her grandmothers had fought for their rights — and that she was now living the result of their struggle.

That thought stayed with Rebecca. Back in Umoja, she shared what she had learned. She began to see the strength she and her sisters had already shown — how they had built a village with their own hands, defended it with their own bodies, and carved out a new life without anyone fighting for them. They had done it themselves. From that moment, she knew what she wanted: to be one of the grandmothers who fought for the rights of their granddaughters. The women* of Umoja decided they would fight to end female genital mutilation, to educate their daughters, to stop child marriage, and to end femicide — the killing of women*.

Today, those ideas shape daily life in the village. More and more women arrive, bringing their children, finding safety and staying. They look after one another — checking each morning who’s there, tending to the sick, sharing food. Their independence still angers the men. Sometimes they come armed with knives or sticks, sneaking into the mud houses at night. But the women* stand together. If a man tries to beat his wife, the others defend her and throw him out. Now, the houses have steel doors — the only parts of their homes they didn’t build themselves.

Life in Umoja

Children play all around me as I stand in the village. Christine, one of the residents, tells me about everyday life. Six years ago, she arrived here with her three children, fleeing violence.
There’s a school in the village, teaching girls and boys from Year 1 to Year 9. Boys can stay until they finish school; after that, they’re always welcome as visitors. A European foundation funds the school, including uniforms. The women have also managed to build a nursery with a small playground.

Around the village, they’ve planted neem trees, which grow tall and offer shade. The tree is one of Umoja’s most-used medicines: they boil its leaves to make tea against malaria, and use the extract to treat rashes and childhood illnesses.
In the community garden, they grow spinach, cabbage, pumpkins, tomatoes, bananas and medicinal herbs. Goats wander freely between the houses built of stone and cement. Their milk and meat sustain the women*, and the hides are turned into bedding. Many women share a house; once it’s clear someone will stay, a new home is built for her.

They sell goats from time to time, and their handmade Samburu jewellery to tourists. Visitors can tour the village, guided by the women themselves. All money earned is managed collectively.

There is also space for learning and reflection. The women* meet to talk — about injustice, about raising their daughters differently. The girls attend school in Umoja, but without sanitary pads they miss a week of lessons every month. Female genital cutting still claims young lives, and childbirth after such procedures is often deadly. “Stop cutting our girls,” they say. As Rebecca puts it: “We love our culture, but killing girls and women has nothing to do with culture.” The women* now provide menstrual products, educate their sons about respect, and organise workshops and meetings for the community.

They call themselves the future grandmothers — proud that one day their granddaughters will say: “It was our grandmothers who fought for our rights.”

Donation account:

Freundeskreis Umoja - Friends of Umoja e.V.

Sparkasse Neuss

IBAN DE87 3055 0000 0093 4932 86

BIC WELADEDNXXX