The practice of sperm donation in Kenya has long been shrouded in silence, tied up in stigma, religion, and cultural discomfort.
Wambugu, 29, a university graduate who asked not to be fully identified, remembers the first time he walked into a private hospital in Nairobi in 2019 to donate sperm.
He was not alone; a few of his friends, young men trying to make ends meet just like him, tagged along. Each donation earned them Sh6,000, about $47, a sum that, at the time, felt like quick, easy money.
“The money wasn’t life-changing, but it was enough for rent top-up or to buy food for the week,” he says. “When you’re fresh out of campus and broke, you don’t ask too many questions.”
The clinics, he recalls, seemed to have their own unspoken preferences. Men with backgrounds in sciences or ‘serious academic fields’ were favoured, the idea being that recipients wanted children who would inherit intelligence or certain traits.
“It was never openly said, but you could tell. If you had studied engineering or, say medicine, they looked at you differently compared to someone from the arts,” Wambugu says.
Wambugu’s strong academic record also played a role in his selection. “I scored a B+ in my KCSE, and I think that helped me get picked quickly,” he says. “Most of the guys I met in line also seemed fairly bright. Desperation for money had pushed us to donate our semen.”
He recalls that the clinic, which was run by a foreigner, catered mostly to international clients. “From what I gathered, many of the recipients were from Europe, especially countries like Turkey,” he explains.
“Before I came here, I had checked online. The information was scanty, but it convinced me this place was dealing with ‘big’ clients outside our region.”
At the time, he hardly paused to think about the long-term implications. “We joked about it as if we were just hustling like everyone else in Nairobi,” he recalls. “We even compared how many times each of us had donated. It was just another gig, like driving Uber or doing deliveries.”
Now, several years later, Wambugu admits he views the experience differently. “If I had really reflected on what I was giving away, I don’t think I would have done it,” he says.
“It’s strange to think there could be a child somewhere carrying my DNA, and I’ll never know them. I was treated like a commodity. The clinic’s interest was my sperm, not my well-being. I was exploited for my biology.
“At the time, I thought I was in control. Looking back, I realise I was just another number in their files.”
Wambugu shares all this while seated in line at a Nairobi fertility clinic, waiting for his turn. This isn’t his first visit, he admits. “After that first time in 2019, I thought it would be a one-off,” he says. “But the truth is, life in Nairobi doesn’t get easier. Sometimes you circle back to things you thought you had left behind.”
He explains that while the money is still modest, it fills a gap – rent, debts, transport, a shopping top-up. “It’s not like you walk away rich,” he says. “But when you’re broke, it’s something. And for me, it became a fallback whenever things got tight.”
Wambugu’s is not an isolated story. Walk into any fertility clinic in Nairobi today and you might find a curious shift taking place.
Alongside couples seeking answers to childlessness are young men, some still in their 20s, showing up not as patients but as donors. Their role is simple yet loaded with meaning: To provide sperm that could one day determine whether a family gets to exist.
The practice of sperm donation in Kenya has long been shrouded in silence, tied up in stigma, religion, and cultural discomfort.
But as infertility cases rise and medical technology advances, demand has pushed clinics to quietly build a system where anonymous young men become an unseen link in the chain of reproduction. It is, at its core, both a deeply personal medical solution and a business that requires willing supply to meet steady demand.
Doctors say the number of potential donors walking through their doors is growing, especially among educated urban men who view the process less as a moral dilemma and more as a transaction, one that comes with a small payout and the knowledge that somewhere, someone may be depending on them for a shot at parenthood.
When asked how sperm donation works in Kenya, fertility expert Dr Rajesh Chaudhary explained that the process involves two parties, the donor and the recipient, and is guided largely by international protocols, such as those set by the American Society for Reproductive Medicine, since Kenya still lacks its own formal guidelines.
“Sperm donation is a procedure where we select a man who is eligible to be a donor and then match him with a recipient,” he said, noting that recipients are usually women without partners who wish to get pregnant, or couples in which the male partner’s sperm is unsuitable.
“The indication for donor sperm treatment comes when a woman wants to conceive without a male partner, or when a man’s sperm is either absent, of poor quality, or has led to repeated treatment failure.”
According to him, donors must meet stringent criteria. “The man must be between ages 21 and 40,” he explained.
“Beyond 40, sperm carries a higher risk of DNA damage, which increases the chance of miscarriage.” Donors are also screened for health conditions such as diabetes, hypertension, obesity, varicose veins, and sexually transmitted infections like HIV and hepatitis. Genetic conditions — whether visible, such as albinism, or inherited, such as sickle cell disease and cystic fibrosis — are carefully ruled out through family history and targeted tests.
“We begin with semen analysis to check motility, morphology and count. If that passes, we run blood tests for viral infections, blood group, haemoglobin, and other markers,” Dr Chaudhary said. Physical attributes such as height, skin tone, and even tribe may also be factored in to meet a recipient’s request.
“After all this, the semen is frozen. Because HIV may not show up immediately after infection, we repeat the tests after three to six months before releasing the sample. This quarantine period is standard practice.”
Dr Chaudhary emphasised that clinics follow an ethical rule limiting each donor to no more than three babies, to prevent unintended genetic overlap within communities. He added that in Kenya, sperm donation remains anonymous, with both donor and recipient signing consent forms that protect the donor from financial or legal responsibility for any resulting child. He acknowledged, however, that stigma remains.
“The biggest challenge is often from male partners. At first, it can be difficult for them to accept donor sperm, but with time, many come to terms with it because the pregnancy and the family matter more in the long run.”
For men considering donating, Dr Chaudhary described it as “a good thing. You are helping someone who wants to start a family but cannot because of sperm-related problems.” And to patients, his message was one of reassurance.
“Sperm donation was once seen as taboo, but society is becoming more open. Family is the first thing, and the means through which it comes is secondary. If you require donor sperm, consult your fertility doctor. It is a useful, accepted, and safe way to achieve pregnancy.”
Job Mong’are, a bookish man in his early 30s who calls himself “a bit nerdish,” says he never imagined he would one day walk into a fertility clinic as a donor. At first, it was curiosity that drew him in, and, admittedly, the promise of a small payout. “I wanted to do something useful,” he explains. “I saw it as a way of giving someone a chance.”
The money, he admits, came in handy. “It wasn’t huge, just a few thousand shillings each time, but it helped during my lowest financial moments,” he recalls.
“Still, it wasn’t only about the cash. I liked the idea that I was helping someone who might otherwise never have a child.”
A confessed bookworm who enjoys numbers and puzzles, Mong’are remembers the donation process vividly. Before he was cleared, he underwent eligibility screening, medical consultations, counselling sessions, semen analysis, and the usual blood and urine tests. “I even cleaned up my lifestyle for a while,” he laughs.
“I stopped smoking, stayed home most evenings — just to make sure nothing would mess with the quality.”
Part of the process involved filling out a donor profile, covering not only medical history but also small details about personality and interests. “They ask who you are, what you like, what you’re good at,” he says.
“Because some traits get passed on whether you want them or not. If you love maths and sciences, or you’ve got a sharp mind, then at least the parents know where it might have come from.”
Although he does not yet have children of his own, Mong’are says the thought of helping someone else’s family feels meaningful.
“I don’t see myself as their father, just the person who made their family possible,” he says. “Blood isn’t the only thing that makes a family. It’s love, and the people who are there for you.”
He insists he has no worries about meeting any child in the future. If they seek him out when they turn 18, or if they ever need medical help, he says he would not hesitate. “I don’t see it as a burden, it’s part of what I signed up for.”
Mong’are went back more than once, especially when finances grew tight. “At first, I thought I’d try it once and be done,” he says. “But when you see how easy the process is and life gets tough, you go back.”
Still, he never spoke about it openly. “I never told my parents. Where I come from, talking about something like sperm donation is unthinkable. Even some of my close friends wouldn’t understand. People would ask, ‘How can you give away children you’ll never meet?’”
Looking back, Mong’are admits there are questions he will probably never have answers to. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s a child out there who looks like me, or thinks like me. But I don’t dwell on it too much. I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ll never be their father, I was just part of the process that brought them into the world.”
For him, sperm donation sits somewhere between transaction and calling. “If you asked me whether more young men should do it, I’d say yes, but only if they understand what it means,” he reflects. “It’s not just a side hustle. You have to think about the fact that somewhere, a family will always be connected to you, even if you never meet them.”
Dr Robbin Noreh, an embryologist at Nairobi IVF Centre, says there are strict limits on how often a single donor’s material can be used.
“The rule is that one donor should not be linked to more than five to 10 pregnancies. Beyond that, the sperm is discarded. The reason is simple — if you allow one donor to father too many children, there’s a chance those children may one day meet, especially since many IVF clients in Kenya come from similar social and economic backgrounds. They are likely to attend the same schools or live in the same circles.”
Fertility specialist Dr Ruchik Sarvaiya shows where specimen is stored at a sperm bank.
He adds that most clinics don’t wait for an open-ended supply from one donor. Instead, they cap it at a specific number of samples.
“For us, once we hold about 20 vials from one donor. By the time those are used up, you will not get more than 10 pregnancies, and that avoids the risk of children from the same donor unknowingly meeting.”
Dr Noreh also emphasises the fragile nature of sperm health and why clinics are meticulous about lifestyle requirements for donors.
“Sperm is produced continuously, but the cycle takes about 72 days,” he explains. “Anything that raises the scrotal temperature above normal — a sauna, hot baths, even sitting with a laptop on your lap for long hours — can wipe out a cycle of sperm production. That’s why we advise donors to avoid alcohol, cigarettes, or anything that interferes with quality. If you destroy a batch, you may have to wait three months before the body produces a good count again.”
Inside the lab, sperm is “washed” before it is used. “Washing removes debris, dead cells, and infections. For instance, if someone is HIV positive, the wash eliminates the virus, leaving only clean, motile sperm,” he says. “There are different methods — the swim-up technique, where the strongest sperm literally swim into a medium, and the gradient method, which separates sperm based on quality. The point is to keep only forward-moving, healthy sperm that can fertilise an egg.”
Even with science behind it, Dr Noreh admits the process is not without challenges. Some men, he says, struggle with the very act of producing a sample in a clinic setting.
“Masturbation is psychological,” he notes. “You can’t just tell a man to walk into a room and expect him to perform. Some have never even done it before. For those cases, we provide special condoms without spermicide so they can collect at home during intercourse and return the sample safely. It’s an alternative, but it’s not always easy.”
And while sperm donation is often portrayed as lucrative, he insists the financial compensation is modest, given the demands.
“Most donors here are paid about Sh4,000 per donation,” Dr Noreh says. “But remember, to get 20 vials we might need several visits in a short time. It looks like good money at first glance, but when you consider the restrictions, the lifestyle adjustments, and the stigma around it, it’s not as simple as it sounds.”
A surge of young men in Nairobi is turning to sperm donation for income.
“People sometimes think sperm cells all look alike, but that’s not true,” he said. “Some have two heads, some two tails. Morphologically, 96 per cent of sperm are abnormal. Only about four per cent fall into the category of ‘normal’ by strict criteria.”
Abnormal in this context doesn’t necessarily mean defective. It refers to shape. A sperm cell might appear bent, swollen, or misshapen, but its DNA can still be intact.
“It’s just like saying a crippled man or a blind man cannot have children,” Dr Noreh explained. “Physically there may be a challenge, but genetically they can still pass on normal material.”
That’s why even in men who seem infertile by ejaculate tests, doctors sometimes extract sperm directly from testicular tissue and still achieve fertilisation rates above 80 per cent. “It’s not always about what you see in the semen sample,” he said.
The bigger picture, he added, is that male infertility is a far larger factor than many assume.
“For a long time the myth has been that the problem mostly lies with women,” he said. “But when you break it down, men contribute about 40 per cent of infertility cases, women 40 percent, and the remaining 20 per cent is unexplained. Men are just as much part of the problem as women.”
From there, his focus turned to the frontier of sperm science – sorting and genetic editing.
“Half of a man’s sperm carry an X chromosome, the other half a Y,” Dr Noreh explained. “That’s what determines the baby’s sex. A sperm sorter allows us to separate those into two groups: X in one tube, Y in another. This is done to avoid sex-linked diseases—or family balancing.”
Family balancing is when couples who already have two daughters want a son, or vice versa. But he was quick to emphasise the ethical boundaries.
“Someone can’t just walk in and say, ‘I want a baby boy because I haven’t had one yet.’ That’s not the purpose. We must ask: is this for medical conditions, or for family balancing within limits? Otherwise, we risk ending up like China once did, with whole generations largely giving birth to boys.”
Beyond sorting, there’s the far more controversial realm of gene editing. Dr Noreh described how CRISPR technology can insert or delete genes inside embryos to prevent certain diseases.
“Imagine you want a child who cannot get HIV,” he said. “Scientists know HIV binds to a specific receptor. If you edit the genome so that receptor doesn’t exist, the virus cannot attach. As the embryo divides, all its cells carry that resistance.”
Theoretically, gene editing could go far beyond disease prevention—altering eye colour, height, even racial features.
“You could change a black man to a white man,” he said. “But that’s not the point. The real use is preventing genetic conditions like sickle cell, Alzheimer’s, or hepatitis. The military may dream of creating people who grow faster or resist certain illnesses, but ethically it has to remain about health, not vanity.”
That ethical lens is something Nairobi IVF insists on. “We have bioethicists and counsellors who screen requests,” Dr Noreh said. “Our role is to filter out what doesn’t make sense. This is not about social preference—it’s about medical need.”
The screening applies equally to sperm donors. Donors must go through rigorous health checks, including tests for HIV, hepatitis, and syphilis, before they are accepted.
“We don’t want someone donating just for the money. “There has to be counselling first. We explain exactly what will happen, the diseases we’re screening for, and what their sample will be used for. They have to give informed consent.”
Even then, the sperm isn’t used immediately. After donation, samples are quarantined for six months, then re-tested before they’re released for use.
“We repeat the health screen after six months,” he explained. “Only if everything is clear do we consider that sperm safe.”
Quality
For donors, there’s also a strict threshold on quality.
“Normal sperm should be at least 15 million per millilitre, with 15 per cent showing progressive motility,” Dr Noreh said. “That’s our baseline. If a donor doesn’t meet that, they’re not accepted.”
At the clinic, they have also witnessed a steady number of five male donors per week, which sometimes goes beyond 10.
