By Jesse Chenge – Health Investigative Journalist
Published: 8 April 2025
Introduction
The dirt roads of Sabako twisted through a maze of acacia trees and red earth. The air was humid, heavy with the scent of dust and cattle droppings. I arrived before dawn, my notebook slung across my chest, following reports of understaffed clinics in Kisumu’s rural outposts.
That morning, I met Beatrice Anyango 32, tall, soft-featured, her forehead beaded with sweat. Her eyes, sunken and shadowed by fatigue, were wide with anticipation and quiet fear. She wore a faded maroon dress with a frayed hem and a navy leso tightly wrapped around her waist, revealing the full arc of her pregnancy. Her sandals were dusty, the straps nearly torn. She had walked three kilometers to the Sabako Health Centre.
It was June 16, 2023, at 6:48 a.m. Beatrice sat silently on a cracked concrete bench under a leaning mango tree beside the reception. When she looked at me, her lips tried to form a smile, but her expression betrayed exhaustion. Her breath came slow and heavy.
“They told me to come back later,” she whispered. “But the pain won’t stop.”
A clinical officer emerged, scribbled her name on a clipboard, and waved her off. “Not due yet,” he said. No examination, no vitals taken.
She turned to leave, her hand clutching her back.
Across Kenya, stories like hers multiply like shadows unseen, undocumented, unacknowledged. A new WHO report confirms what many women in Vihiga, Kisumu, and Siaya already know: childbirth in parts of Africa is still a life-threatening gamble.
GLOBAL STATS, LOCAL TRAGEDIES
In 2023, an estimated 260,000 women died from pregnancy and childbirth complications. Sub-Saharan Africa bore the heaviest burden, with 454 deaths per 100,000 live births 400 times higher than in Australia. Kenya recorded an average maternal mortality rate of 342 per 100,000 births, but in remote counties, the risk was exponentially worse.
[GRAPHIC: Global Maternal Mortality Decline, 2000-2023]
THE CHAIN OF FAILURES
In Emuhaya, Vihiga County, Hellen Asiko bled to death in 2017 after giving birth with the help of a traditional birth attendant. Her mother-in-law, Rose Juma, had no choice. A national health workers strike had paralyzed public facilities. With just Sh200 borrowed from a neighbor, they tried to save Asiko. She died en route to a hospital.
“She gave birth to a baby boy but the placenta wouldn’t come out. The blood poured down the mud floor. She grew weaker as we searched for help,” Juma recalls.
Her grandson is now six sickly, undernourished, and raised on cow’s milk.
THE COST OF NEGLIGENCE
In Kisumu County, Beatrice Anyango was turned away the first time she sought help at Sabako Health Centre. Hours later, in unbearable pain, she returned. The doctor brushed off her concerns.
“He said I was too old to complain about labor pains,” she said. She bled alone in a maternity ward with no one but a watchman nearby. Her baby died minutes after birth. Two days later, she returned to the hospital this time with postpartum complications.
“My other children expected a new sibling. I had no answers for their questions.”
A TRAIL OF LOSS
Tony Okeyo’s newborn girl died within 24 hours of being discharged from JOOTRH. Despite warning signs, staff insisted her high temperature would normalize with breastfeeding. No lab tests. No antibiotics. Just blind hope.
“We were passed from hospital to hospital from Star to Lumumba to KCRH to JOOTRH all on motorbike, all while my wife was in labor,” Okeyo recounts. “I thought I did everything right. But my daughter died. My wife blamed me. We separated.”
Monica Awino carried her baby for 11 months before being rushed to Bondo Sub-County Hospital. The child was born weak, tube-fed, and in and out of hospital. Nine months later, he died. Monica never learned what ailed him.
“Maybe it was the delayed labor. Maybe it was negligence. I buried my son without knowing why.”
Victoria Amisi’s baby girl was healthy at birth until her temperature spiked post-discharge. The clinic was closed. A Community Health Promoter advised Panadol. It didn’t work. The child died two days later.
In Kenya, programs like Linda Mama and the newly formed Social Health Authority (SHA) aim to offer universal maternal care. But the system remains stretched thin overworked staff, limited referrals, and inadequate postnatal care continue to cost lives.
[GRAPHIC: Kenya County Maternal Mortality Map – Highest Risk Areas]
Investment in Health Workers: Kenya must prioritize staffing and retain trained personnel in rural areas.
Emergency Referral Networks: Motorcycle ambulances and mobile clinics can make a difference.
Accountability Systems: Each maternal death should trigger an audit.
Postnatal Follow-ups: Community health visits need funding and tools.
Rwanda reduced maternal deaths through midwife training and rural ambulance systems. Kenya can replicate this model. But time is running out.
The 2030 deadline for ending preventable maternal deaths looms, and the current 1.6% annual drop is far below the needed 14.8%.
“Every maternal death is a policy failure,” the WHO warns.
EPILOGUE
As Beatrice Anyango stares at the empty cot that was meant to cradle her sixth child, the silence in her house is deafening. Her story and those of Rose, Monica, Victoria, and Tony are not just personal losses. They are reflections of a failing system.
In Kenya today, giving life shouldn’t mean risking death. But for too many women, it still does.
[GRAPHIC: Causes of Maternal Death – Hemorrhage, Infection, Hypertension, Unsafe Abortion]
