Keypoints:
- Rural women openly dispute claims that FGM has ended
- Health workers report high rates despite national decline
- Activists cite weak enforcement and cross-border cutting
MOCKING laughter cut through a community meeting in southern Kenya when a Maasai elder, wrapped in a traditional red shuka, insisted that female genital mutilation had largely disappeared from his village.
The women gathered in Entasekera, a remote settlement in Narok county, immediately challenged him. Several heckled the claim, pointing to teenage girls who still arrive at health centres bearing the physical consequences of cutting. Men sat largely stone-faced as the confrontation unfolded.
‘Why are you telling people that you have stopped, when we still see girls coming to hospital who have been cut?’ one woman demanded, prompting nods of agreement across the crowd.
Local nurses say FGM remains entrenched in some villages several hours from the nearest tarmac road. One health worker told AFP that as many as 80 percent of girls in parts of the area are still affected, despite Kenya outlawing the practice in 2011.
National progress hides local resistance
Official data suggests Kenya has made significant strides. A 2022 government survey found that the share of teenage girls subjected to FGM had fallen from 29 percent in 1998 to nine percent nationally. But activists and frontline workers say those figures fail to reflect realities in hard-to-reach communities.
FGM continues not only among the rural southern Maasai but also in Kenya’s northeast, where parts of the Somali diaspora report prevalence rates exceeding 90 percent. Campaigners have also warned of a rise in so-called medicalised FGM in urban and educated settings.
Even among opponents, contradictions persist. Maasai elder Moses Letuati told AFP that cultural attitudes had changed, before acknowledging that one of his four daughters had been cut. While many men at the meeting said the practice should end, some framed their views in ways that revealed enduring patriarchal attitudes rather than a rights-based rejection.
‘I was screaming and struggling’
For survivors, the trauma begins early. Martha, now 18, said she was cut at the age of 10 after her father yielded to pressure from relatives.
‘I was screaming and struggling,’ she said, describing how two women carried out the procedure at home in Narok East.
She later fled to a rescue shelter run by activist Patrick Ngigi, whose organisation, Mission with a Vision, says it has helped about 3,000 girls escape FGM since 1997. Supported by the United Nations Population Fund, the shelter uses CCTV cameras and panic buttons to protect residents from relatives who oppose its work.
‘It’s a dangerous job,’ Ngigi said. ‘You make so many enemies, but with time you learn to live with it.’
The demand is constant. During the village meeting, women quietly approached Ngigi, asking him to help relocate six more girls believed to be at imminent risk.
Weak enforcement and border routes
Activists argue that corruption and poor enforcement allow the practice to persist. Ngigi alleged that bribes enable cutters to evade arrest.
‘When a policeman comes and finds you doing it, you just give him something and you continue,’ he said.
Police officer Raphael Maroa rejected claims of corruption but admitted that FGM remains deeply rooted. He said families increasingly take girls across the nearby Tanzanian border to avoid detection. He also acknowledged that his own daughters were cut to avoid conflict with elders in his family.
Education remains a major barrier. Roughly half of Narok’s population is illiterate, according to 2022 figures, complicating outreach and awareness campaigns.
Health risks and hidden births
Health workers warn that FGM carries serious risks, including severe bleeding, infection, fistulas and obstructed labour. Long distances to medical facilities worsen outcomes, and many women choose home births to avoid exposing relatives to prosecution.
‘There’s bleeding, there’s pain, and there’s infection,’ said nurse Loise Nashipa at Entasekera Health Centre, describing FGM as ‘a monster’.
As night fell at Ngigi’s shelter, residents celebrated the graduation of Cecilia Nairuko, 24, who fled FGM and forced marriage at 15 and has since qualified as a psychologist. She danced in a graduation gown passed from one survivor to another.
Asked about her family, her smile faded. Her father and most of her brothers have not forgiven her.
She knows the price of reconciliation. ‘If I can earn enough money,’ she said quietly, ‘he’ll forgive me.’
