The hope in my children, seeing how God is working through them.

Betty, I’ve tried.
I’ve tried more times than I can count.
A fruit stall.
Clothes hawking.

Selling matooke by the roadside.
Each one began with hope.
Each one failed, but each left me with lessons.

Starting a business isn’t easy. You need capital, and even when you find some, you must keep pouring it back in. If the money doesn’t come, you stumble. And I stumbled, again and again.

But here’s the thing: failure taught me.
I learned to trade.
I learned to source.
I learned to deal with people.
I learned to manage expectations.

Lessons I carry like invisible medals on my chest.

Still, there are nights I kneel and whisper to God:
“When will You make me happy?”

And yet, I think He already has, through my children.

Because when I see them, I feel something close to happiness. A happiness I never thought I’d know.

My son, Masambu, is my miracle.

Once, he struggled in school so badly that I nearly gave up on him. But one day, I found him with a magnet, razor blade, and wires, trying to make a Wi-Fi connector. I didn’t understand it at first. But I understood one thing: my boy’s mind was alive.

When he was introduced to a space where people believed in him, everything changed. He started waking up early, rushing to sessions to research on a laptop. He started caring about school.

His grades turned around, from failing in Primary 5 to top three in Primary 6.

Now, he dreams of being a scientist.

He tells me, “Mama, I’ll score 4 aggregates in PLE.” And for the first time, I believe him.
His sister, too, blooms in ways I never expected. She sketches, paints, creates with her hands. Their free time is no longer wasted. They craft, they draw, they explore.

Their discipline, their respect, their focus, it has transformed our home.

Watching them rise fills me with hope.
I dream of seeing them graduate.

I Betty, dream of them living better lives than I ever could.

But hope doesn’t erase struggle.
I still battle to pay their school fees. Some seasons, I can only raise a fraction. Some days, there is no food. And in those moments, I don’t beg.

I kneel.
And every time, God shows up.
There was a time, though, when something shifted for me too.

I joined other mothers, women carrying the same burdens, asking the same questions. Together, we learned skills: basket weaving, hairstyling, making earrings, necklaces, and bangles. For the first time in years, I Betty, felt I was not just surviving but building.

These skills are now my hope. I work with a salon in my community. I plait hair and earn from every client. I make baskets and jewellery, which I now sell to make a living. The skills give me and my family promise and hope. Learning wasn’t easy, but mastering them made me proud. I know hands-on skills are important, and now that I have acquired some, I believe the future is bright.

I don’t yet own a house. But I dream of the day I will. A home for me and my children. That dream keeps me walking, even when the road feels endless.

If I could speak to other women like me, I’d say this:
Stand together.

Lift each other.

Because when we are divided, we struggle in silence. But united, we rise.

And when our children look at us, they will see:
Even when life breaks you down,
you can still build something beautiful.

You can help invest in women like me, buy our products.
Support Faces Up to invest more in training for women and girls. Because empowering women means empowering families and entire communities.

Come and visit us. We need encouragement, and maybe you will be our spark.

My name is Betty, and this is my story.