My name isn't important.
What matters is that I'm alive.
I'm a girl from Mombasa—born and raised in the salty winds of Likoni, under a sky that always promised better days but often delivered the opposite. I used to think the ocean was freedom. Now I know it can drown you too.
I became a sex worker at nineteen. It wasn't some glamorous turn of events. It wasn't some "bad girl gone rogue" story. It was life. Hard, ugly, relentless life.
My father disappeared when I was twelve. My mother died two years later. Left with two younger siblings, no income, and a landlord who only knocked when he was angry, I made a choice. A desperate one.
They say the streets of Mombasa are coated in perfume and sin. They're not wrong. Along the beach, near the hotels, in the back alleys of Old Town, it's all there—money, power, and hunger. And I played my part. Dressed the part. Learned to smile on cue. Learned the names of enough foreigners to fake small talk. Learned how to act like I enjoyed being touched when all I really wanted was a meal and school fees for my sister.
It was a life. Not a good one, but a life.
Until that night.
I still don't know his real name. He said it was "Danny." White guy. Tall. Australian accent thick like syrup. He was charming in a twisted way—knew the language, tipped big, wore a hotel wristband like it was a badge of honour. I met him near Fort Jesus, just after midnight. He said he'd pay triple. "Just come back with me," he said. I was tired, but triple was enough to buy my brother new school shoes.
So I went.
The hotel wasn't really a hotel. It was an Airbnb somewhere in Nyali, tucked behind high concrete walls and a gate that locked from the inside. That should've been my first sign.
Inside, things shifted fast.
There were others.
Three men. Not just "Danny."
He laughed when I realized. "Don't worry, they're my friends. You'll like them."
I froze.
Tried to leave.
He slammed the door shut. Locked it.
They took my phone. Took turns mocking my accent. Mocking my body. I begged. I screamed. One of them pulled out a camera and started filming.
What happened next wasn't just assault—it was torture.
They tied my hands. Burned me with cigarettes when I tried to fight. I remember one of them whispering, "You're not a person. You're a product." They used things—objects—I won't name. Left me barely conscious, bleeding and shaking on the bathroom floor like something they'd just used and tossed away.
I blacked out.
Woke up in the back of a tuk-tuk, dumped outside a clinic on Tudor Road. No ID. No name. No explanation.
Just me. Broken.
I didn't go to the police. Why would I? I knew what they'd say.
"You shouldn't have been there."
"You're a prostitute. What did you expect?"
I went to a women's shelter instead. One of the few that still keeps its lights on at night. They gave me a bed. A voice. And most importantly—a reason to stop.
I quit.
That night didn't just break me. It rebirthed me.
Now I speak out. Not for pity, not for fame—but for the girls still out there. The ones wearing broken heels and fake lashes, hiding their stories behind red lipstick and forced laughter. The ones who still believe they have no choice.
I want them to know they're not alone. That there are people who care. That danger isn't just in the dark—it can wear a smile and drive a rented car.
I'm starting a campaign next month—"Voices From The Coast." We'll be distributing free pepper sprays, holding safety talks, and providing an anonymous helpline for sex workers who feel trapped, lost, or afraid.
I survived that night.
But not every girl does.
So this is my confession. Not as a victim, but as a survivor.
If you're reading this and you're in that world—please know: you are more than what they say. You are not disposable. You are not just a body. You are still worthy of healing. Of dignity. Of a future.
The ocean is wide. But you can still swim to shore.