From Anger to Action

I grew up in Kisauni, Mombasa, a place full of life, but also full of quiet, daily injustices. I’ve seen what violence looks like, what fear feels like, gender-based abuse, police brutality, forced disappearances. In my neighbourhood, the justice system doesn’t knock on doors; it stays far away, locked behind desks and procedure. For many women I know, silence isn’t a choice, it’s survival. Not because they don’t want to speak, but because the system isn’t built to hear them.

Even before that radio announcement, I had been active in my community, speaking out for human rights. But the day I heard that over 200 girls in the Coast region had become pregnant in just a few months—everything changed. I couldn’t unhear it. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. It jolted me awake. That was the moment Sisters for Justice was born. I didn’t want to just react to injustice, I wanted to build a space where women could be seen, heard, and protected. Not tomorrow. Now.

We started small, just one room, a few women, no money, but plenty of fire. Our vision was simple but urgent: bring justice home. Make it something you could knock on a neighbour’s door and ask for. Because a woman in distress shouldn’t have to cross the city, face intimidation, or navigate red tape to be heard. Justice should live where we live in our streets, our markets, our schools, our homes. And slowly, the community started coming to us.

There are many stories, but some leave a permanent mark. Like Stella. That’s not her real name, but her pain was real. She came in, bloodied and broken, one eye gouged out. “Where can I get justice?” she asked me. Many told her not to bother—the man who attacked her was influential. But I saw a fighter. For four years, we stood together, through police reports, court appearances, late nights, and heartbreak. And in the end, we won. He was convicted. That win wasn’t just hers. It was a message: you can be scared, poor, and wounded—and still get justice.

Not all injustice looks like violence. Sometimes, it’s economic. Like at Kongowea market—one of the largest in the region, where traders had no idea they could recover their losses through small claims court. They’d lend money or supply goods, and when the debtor disappeared, they believed the loss was permanent. That’s when we stepped in.

We set up a legal aid clinic right in the market. Lawyers, judiciary officers, and community volunteers—all of us came together under one tent. People started lining up, papers in hand, stories ready. “Naila, I didn’t know I had this right,” someone told me. That’s the moment I knew we were onto something.

One of the most transformative tools we had was the Small Claims Court (SCC), established under the Small Claims Court Act, 2016. It was designed to reduce the cost and complexity of accessing justice by allowing individuals to file claims and have them determined quickly and affordably. For many ordinary Kenyans, the SCC opened doors that had long been shut by expensive legal fees and bureaucratic delays.

This citizen-oriented justice model simplifies procedure, expedites proceedings, and offers low-cost access to resolve disputes under a defined monetary limit. Its operationalization has been a game changer, especially in places like Mombasa by reaching those who had long been excluded from the formal justice system. What’s more, the SCC helps ease the backlog of cases in the mainstream Magistrates Courts, giving everyday people a fair shot at being heard.

These kinds of reforms aren’t just legal, they’re deeply personal. They mean that a market trader, a single mother, or a jobless youth can now access the courts without fear or financial ruin. When justice becomes that tangible, that local, people begin to believe again.