• 2nd April 2025
• Judith Oketch
• Advocacy
• 0

 A personal story of overcoming challenges, finding purpose, and building a movement to fight Gender-Based Violence (GBV) 

I was born and raised in Kibra, one of the largest informal settlements in Africa. My earliest years were shaped by the rhythms and struggles of this place—where resilience is a way of life, and survival often depends on the kindness of strangers.

I went to a school with one of those long, descriptive names: Makina Women Self-Help Group Primary School. It was a project started by a group of older Nubian women, and looking back, I like to imagine that they saw a desperate gap in access to education for children in Kibra.

With high school fees acting as a barrier to most families, they provided an alternative. We must have paid something around 200 Kenyan shillings per term, or thereabouts—an amount that, even then, was difficult for many families to afford.

The Nubian Story in Kenya: A People in Search of Recognition

The Nubians in Kenya, who played a significant role in the establishment of my primary school, have a history deeply intertwined with the colonial past of the country. Originally from Sudan, they were recruited by the British colonial administration in the late 19th century as soldiers for the King’s African Rifles. After years of service, they were settled in Kenya but never fully integrated as citizens. Instead, they remained stateless for decades, living in what was then called the Nubian Quarter—now part of Kibra.

Even after independence, their status remained precarious. It was not until the 2000s that the Kenyan government began recognizing them as rightful citizens, but the struggles of land ownership and identity still persist. In many ways, the struggles of the Nubian people mirrored those of many in Kibra—displacement, marginalization, and a fight for dignity in a society that often overlooked them.

A Dream Interrupted

I was a bright girl in school. I always thought I would be a doctor. However, life had other plans. My ability to concentrate in school was constantly interrupted by the chaos at home. I grew up in a household accustomed to domestic violence. My father, a night watchman back then, was often drunk. One of the few good things I remember about him was how he used to bring me books—books that children had forgotten at Kileleshwa Primary School, where he was stationed at night. I cherished those books, perhaps because they represented an escape. Also, books are cool.

His earnings were meager, barely enough to sustain us. My mother, on the other hand, was a hawker in Nairobi’s Central Business District (CBD). She sold vegetables and fruits, leaving the house at around 11 a.m. and returning at 9 p.m. More often than not, she would return to chaos—conflicts that were almost always started by my father. She endured emotional, physical, and financial abuse. Domestic violence was not just something we lived with—it was something that shaped my worldview.

Kibra, like many informal settlements, did not provide many opportunities for girls—or even boys. The odds were stacked against us. Most girls dropped out before completing their Kenya Certificate of Primary Education (KCPE). Those who finished primary school often got married soon after, had children, and continued the cycle of poverty. This was the reality of Kibra—and still is.

Eventually, my mother made the brave decision to take us out of the slums and move to a better neighborhood. I managed to join high school, but in my second year, I was diagnosed with renal failure. I had to undergo dialysis and eventually recovered, but it disrupted my education. I transferred to a day school in Nairobi to allow for continuous medical check-ups. With all the challenges at home—constant fights, economic struggles, and the weight of an uncertain future—I did not perform well in either my KCPE or KCSE exams. Education was supposed to be my escape, but at every turn, life found a way to pull me back

The Turning Point

Several years later, one moment, in particular, changed the course of my life. 

The Tragic Encounter

I witnessed a woman who had been stabbed multiple times by her husband. As I tried calling for an ambulance, desperate to save her life, I found myself consumed by a familiar pain. Her suffering was not just hers—it was the suffering of every woman who had endured abuse in silence. It was my mother’s suffering. It was my own suffering. I needed her to survive, maybe for my own sanity. Nevertheless, she did not make it.

Kenya, at the time, did not have a national emergency number for rapid response. Even today, we still do not have an effective system in place. The lack of access to emergency medical services for survivors of gender-based violence (GBV) is one of the greatest injustices of our time. 

Why I Founded Ambulex

It is also one of the main reasons I founded Ambulex.

Gender-Based Violence, Poverty, and the Need for Urgent Action

Gender-based violence (GBV) is a global crisis, but in Africa, and particularly in Kenya, it is deeply intertwined with poverty. According to UN Women, one in three women worldwide experiences GBV in their lifetime. 

In Kenya, the statistics are just as grim. The Kenya Demographic and Health Survey (KDHS) reports that nearly 40% of women aged 15-49 have experienced physical or sexual violence. In informal settlements like Kibra, the numbers are likely much higher.

Poverty creates a perfect breeding ground for GBV. Financial dependence often forces women to stay in abusive relationships. Limited access to healthcare means injuries go untreated. Lack of emergency response services results in avoidable deaths. The inter-generational impact of GBV is devastating—children who grow up witnessing abuse often repeat the cycle, either as victims or perpetrators.

The Birth of Ambulex

I knew I had to do something. I could not save that woman, but I could fight to ensure that no other woman had to die because help was unavailable. That is how Ambulex was born—out of pain, out of necessity, and out of a deep conviction that we can and must do better.

Today, Ambulex provides emergency medical services with a special focus on survivors of GBV. We offer immediate medical care, counseling, and safe transportation to hospitals or shelters. Through partnerships with local hospitals and organizations, we have created an integrated support system for survivors.

But the work is far from over. The fight against GBV is a fight against poverty, against systemic failure, and against cultural norms that silence survivors. It is a fight for dignity, for safety, and for a future where no woman has to suffer in silence.

Ambulex is more than an emergency service—it is a movement. A movement to save lives, restore dignity, and break the cycle of violence. If my journey has taught me anything, it is that resilience can turn pain into purpose. And that purpose, when pursued with unwavering determination, can change the world.

Judith Oketch - Co-Founder and CEO Ambulex Solutions