Kenya's stateless Tanzanian widows: Their children are Kenyan, husbands were Kenyan, but they are nobody

It is a few minutes past 8am on a warm morning, with a gentle breeze wafting through the busy village of Maweni in the sub-county of Taveta, Taita-Taveta County.

Motorcycle riders transporting drums of water navigate alongside herds of cattle meandering along the road towards the grazing fields, while wisps of smoke from cooking fires drift up from the grass-thatched and iron-sheet-roofed houses.

Occasionally, the sweet aroma of mahamri fills the air, eliciting the urge to sample the delicious snack.

However, this yearning abruptly fades as one steps into the compound of Elizabeth Bahati.

The low, rickety earthen structure that serves as her kitchen lacks a roof and feels cold and lifeless. The only signs of domesticity are clean cooking pots and utensils stacked on a bundle of firewood inside the unfinished two-room concrete house.

"We only eat at night," Elizabeth, dressed in a long floral dress and worn pink crocs paired with stained pink-and-white socks, explains, shedding light on the absence of activity in the kitchen.

"My children and grandchildren have got used to it. They don't bother to ask me about food. That is our life," she adds, her dishevelled cornrows framing her face.

She has seven children and eight grandchildren. Some of them were playing outside barefoot.

Elizabeth is a unique case. She is a Tanzanian who came to Kenya in 1988 when she believes she was 13 years old.

She has no knowledge of who her parents are. Throughout her childhood, before a woman married in Kenya brought her here, she moved from one house to another in Rombo, northern part of Tanzania, just to survive. Consequently, she doesn't know the exact date of her birth, and she did not attend any school.

In Kenya, Elizabeth worked diligently as a domestic worker in the bustling towns of Eldoret, Nairobi, and Taveta before finally marrying a Kenyan long-haul truck driver, who sadly passed away five years ago.

Now, after 36 years in the country, Elizabeth is legally qualified for registration as a Kenyan citizen.

According to Article 15 of the Constitution and Section 11 of the Kenya Citizenship and Immigration Act (2011), she is eligible to acquire citizenship by marriage, which permits a foreign spouse to apply for citizenship after legally residing in the country for seven years.

Becoming a Kenyan citizen would offer Elizabeth a myriad of rights, privileges, and benefits every Kenyan citizen enjoys including the ability to enter and exit the country freely, reside anywhere in Kenya, vote, and own land and property in any part of the nation.

Unfortunately, Elizabeth finds herself unable to enjoy any of these opportunities due to her lack of an identification card.

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"I'm so poor, yet I don't want to live this kind of life. If I had an identification card, I could have accessed his National Social Security Fund. Maybe that money would have helped me," she says, her voice heavy with despair.

"I feel invisible. Yet, I still buy things from the shop. That is contributing to Kenya's economy."

She continues: "If I had an identification card, I could apply for a loan and start a cereal business, buying in bulk to sell at Taveta market. Now, look at me. We eat the deep-fried bananas that remain after selling," she reflects, her face falling with the weight of her circumstances.

The National Social Security Fund has recognised the existence of foreign spouses. It allows dependants to use an alien identification card to access benefits.

The alien identification card, or foreign nationals’ certificate, is issued by the Department for Immigration and Citizen Services; however, its validity does not exceed three years, necessitating renewal upon expiry.

Obtaining this card requires patience, as the process can take several weeks. According to the Directorate of Immigration Services, the production of the card is managed centrally by the National Registration Bureau, which contributes to the delay.

Currently, Elizabeth lacks an alien card and may struggle to secure one due to not having a valid passport.

In the meantime, to make ends meet, she sells deep-fried bananas outside her home, pricing them at Sh10 for three pieces. On a good day, earning Sh100 feels like a small victory for her.

Tragically, her children and grandchildren have dropped out of school due to financial constraints.

Her greatest fear is that someone may evict her from the plot of land, measuring less than 50 by 100 feet that her husband, originally from Ukambani in Eastern Kenya, purchased in his name. Elizabeth longs to have it transferred into her name to secure her ownership.

"I have seen many other Tanzanian widows stripped of their husbands' property. It's a horror," Elizabeth says, her voice trembling with the weight of her memories.

"If someone evicts me from here, where will I go at my age? I don't have any documents that prove I'm from Tanzania. How will I go back? I know Kenya as my home," she confesses, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and resignation.

The thought of losing the little stability she has is almost unbearable; the very ground beneath her feels uncertain as she grapples with the harsh reality of her situation.

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To obtain an identification card, individuals must possess a certificate of registration as a Kenyan citizen issued by the Department for Immigration and Citizen Services.

For these widows, successfully registering as Kenyan citizens entails a process that involves costs that women like Elizabeth can only dream of affording.

First , to acquire citizenship through marriage, they must provide a copy of their marriage certificate, a certificate of good conduct, a joint sworn affidavit, a copy of a dependant's pass or permit, a copy of the applicant’s passport, and a copy of the spouse’s Kenyan passport.

According to a document from the immigration department, the fee for this process is Sh5,000 for East Africans, compared to Sh30,000 for non-East Africans.

As a widow, the costs remain unchanged, but she must instead submit a copy of her spouse's death certificate in place of the passport, along with an affidavit sworn by herself. For Elizabeth, this poses an uphill task, as they were not officially married.

The irony, however, is that Elizabeth's son and daughter, who have both reached the age of 18, possess identification cards. She says they used their uncle's identification card and swore an affidavit explaining why their mother's identification card was unavailable, and affirming their identity.

The mobile SIM card she is currently using is registered in her daughter's name. For the children, having been born in Kenya to a Kenyan father, they are considered citizens by birth, while their mother will be considered a Kenyan citizen by registration having been married in Kenya by a Kenyan man.

Naomi Mkimbo, aged 47, finds herself trapped in a similarly catastrophic situation. In 2006, she married a primary school head teacher, but their union was never formalised; as a result, she lacks the necessary marriage certificate to apply for Kenyan citizenship.

However, she has a Tanzanian identification card. She had not acquired a passport, a key document in registering for Kenyan citizenship.

When her husband passed away in 2018, Naomi was left in a somewhat better position. He had established a small shop for her at their home in Maweni village, nestled in the heart of Taveta sub-county, allowing her to earn a livelihood and support him in raising their four children.

The eldest is now aged 17 and the youngest, seven. She went to school up to Class Seven, the highest level of primary education in Tanzania, before coming to Kenya in 2005 from Mwanza in north-western Tanzania to visit her Tanzanian aunt married in Taveta.

Her world began to crumble after the burial of her husband. A wave of frequent thefts swept through the shop, leaving it barren and stripped of any goods to sell.

With no income and bills piling up, Naomi resorted to buying mangoes on credit, hoping to pay off her debts upon selling them at the Taveta market.

"A day can pass without selling a single mango," she laments, the weight of despair evident in her voice.

"You return home hungry and dejected, reliant on the kindness of others to feed you and your children."

She had held onto the hope that she would receive her husband's pension, which would allow her to educate her children. However, her dreams have been dashed; they have since dropped out of school due to a lack of funds.

"I went to the Teachers Service Commission, and they told me they can't help me without an identification card," she explains, her frustration palpable.

Accessing her husband's pension is entirely out of the question without this identification card, which, according to the pensions checklist published by the pensions department and available on the Teachers Service Commission website, must be certified by the area chief.

Just like Elizabeth, her greatest fear is that her in-laws will deprive her of the land that her husband left her.

"Where will I go?" she asks, her voice trembling with emotion.

"I'm married here, and my in-laws recognise me as the wife of their son. I'm terrified they might cast me out," she confesses, her eyes filled with a haunting mix of fear and uncertainty.

That's not all. Her desires for social inclusion and participation in activities to achieve economic freedom have remained mere wishes owing to non-documentation.

"I can't even join the women's saving groups," she says, her voice tinged with a mixture of disappointment and resignation.

"They fear I might disappear with their money."

The bitterness of those words hung heavily in the air, coloured by the distrust that had become her unwanted companion.

She continued, "To register as a member, one needs an identification card." The stark reality of that requirement burdened her, as if each word was a reminder of the barriers that kept her at arm's length.

Veronica Keli, aged 60, is at least finding some solace in her achievements. With her eldest son's identification card, she secured an acre of land in Taveta, having invested the proceeds from her thriving cereal business.

Operating from Taveta market, she demonstrates remarkable resilience and entrepreneurial spirit, despite the challenges that life has thrown her way.

Her son also registered the mobile SIM card she currently uses, yet this arrangement poses its own hurdles. Veronica faces significant difficulty in accessing mobile loans through the registered number.

"Whenever I request him to borrow a mobile loan for me to boost my business, he hesitates, expressing concerns that he might be blacklisted by the credit reference bureau if I fail to repay. It's frustrating, as I find myself trapped without the freedom to choose my own means of credit, simply because I lack an identification card to acquire my own SIM," she laments.

Born in 1964 in the picturesque Kilimanjaro region of north-eastern Tanzania, Veronica relocated to Kenya in 1986 after completing Class Seven, driven by the need to find work and support herself.

Initially, she secured employment as a domestic worker and shop attendant in Taveta, where she crossed paths with a Kamba man who would become her husband. Together, they raised four children until tragedy struck in 1998 with her husband's untimely death.

In those times, they resided in a rental house, and Veronica tirelessly worked to sell cereals, determined to provide her children with the education they deserved, even managing to see them through high school against all odds.

Yet, Veronica has endured her fair share of harsh mockery, stemming from her lack of legal documents.

"I can't even register for the Social Health Insurance Fund. I'm unable to openly support a politician during rallies; when I cheer for them, Kenyans often retort, 'You cheer yet you don't even have an identification card to vote,'" she shares, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

The challenges persist, as she is unable to open a bank account to securely store the profits from her business.

When asked where she keeps her income, Veronica reveals that all her money is tied up in an 18-member merry-go-round group, to which she belongs.

Each member contributes Sh500 daily, and the collected sum is awarded to one member each day.

The fear of losing matrimonial property to in-laws is a troubling concern for these Tanzanian widows. Local administrators are struggling to restrain these in-laws, who are determined to send the widows back to their homeland.

"I have handled two cases where the in-laws claim the widows are outsiders who have invaded their homes. They want to take back their land. They tell them, 'This is our land; you never brought it here. Go back to where you belong.' It's terrible," explains Charles Otieno, a village elder in Bura Ndogo A in Taveta sub-county.

He has lived here for more than 40 years and says locals marrying Tanzanian women is common due to the constant interactions between locals from Kenya and Tanzania.

The Holili border which links Kenya from Taveta and Tanzania from Rombo is just 10 minutes' drive from Taveta town.

The elders have a way of protecting the Tanzanian widows from eviction.

"We warn them that they will face arrest if they attempt to eject the widows from their homes or land. Initially, the in-laws might drop their attempts, but the frustration never truly ceases," Charles says.

"Today, a widow may report that her in-laws killed her chickens; tomorrow, she will report they denied her the right to farm on her own land. Just because you stop hearing reports doesn't mean the problems have ceased. It often signifies that the widows are weary of reporting their harassment. They choose to suffer in silence, waiting for a change that seems far away. It's truly heart-breaking."

He says that changing the community's mind-set to embrace Tanzanian widows will take a long time. However, he expresses hope that, given the declining cases of domestic violence—which he attributes to consistent advocacy—there will come a time when no Tanzanian widow will be subjected to violence from in-laws.

"During our barazas, which take place monthly, we remind the community that Tanzanian widows are human beings. They cannot be disinherited simply because they are women, widows, or from Tanzania. Many have lived here for years, raised children, and built wealth alongside their husbands," he insists.

Beyond matrimonial property

The risks these widows face extend beyond matrimonial property. They are also excluded from social protection services, and their children's access to education is severely compromised.

Violet Girigi, a village elder in Luduwai, another village in Taveta sub-county, was recently registering poor women with no pension and who have reached 70 years for Inua Jamii—a State-funded pension scheme intended for the impoverished and elderly.

But she was unable to register two Tanzanian widows due to lack of identification cards despite their desperate need and eligibility for the Sh2,000 monthly stipend.

The absence of identification also hampers their children's access to educational support. One child's plight, whose Tanzanian mother could not secure a one-off financial aid due to lacking documentation, epitomises this systemic barrier.

"An international non-governmental organisation was offering Sh6,000 for each child, but since the Tanzanian mother didn't have ID cards, she had to use her husband's identity and phone number to register. When the money was sent to him, he squandered it all on alcohol, and the child eventually dropped out of school. That truly broke my heart," she shares, her voice heavy with sorrow.

Violet ardently longs for a future when no woman will have to endure such injustices.

"I really don't want to see women suffer the way they do," she states, a fierce determination in her eyes that speaks volumes of her commitment to her community.

An assistant chief, who preferred to remain anonymous due to the strict protocols that govern communication with journalists, revealed a startling reality.

In wards such as Mahoo, Bomeni, and Mata, he noted that in every ten households, there is often one or two Tanzanian women—wives or widows—struggling to find their place.

"I have yet to encounter a Tanzanian woman holding an identification card," he confessed gravely.

"Whenever they approach us for assistance, we have to inform them that they must return to Tanzania to renounce their citizenship, as Tanzania does not permit dual citizenship. Unfortunately, there is little we can do to help them obtain identification cards without a renunciation certificate. They must secure that first. That is the crucial first step in the process, but sadly, many of them are unaware of this requirement," he explained.

Importantly, studies have shown that the security of owning land and property is a vital pathway to reducing poverty among women and their households. For these Tanzanian women, who live in constant fear and anxiety of being stripped of their matrimonial property, this benefit remains a distant mirage.

In the meantime, local organizations such as the Kenya Land Alliance (KLA) are working with local administrators to raise awareness and encourage respect for Tanzanian widows and their matrimonial property.

"We are deeply concerned that they are denied the assets that they worked hard to acquire alongside their husbands, simply because they are Tanzanian women," says Faith Alubbe, KLA chief executive officer.

She indicates that the bureaucratic obstacles involved in securing citizenship present a significant hurdle for Tanzanian widows, thereby denying them the entitlements they deserve.

"Sometimes there is an abuse of power at the local level, considering these are foreign women who may not be able to assert their rights to the same extent as a Kenyan woman. They face various challenges, and it would be beneficial if these could be addressed so that these women can access their entitlements, especially as many of them have been married for a long time," she notes.

As the sun sets for Elizabeth, one thing that lingers in her mind through the night and into the sunrise is how she can obtain legal recognition in Kenya to create the life she envisions.

"This is an unbearable life," she confesses, her voice quivering with emotion.

"I was a devoted supporter of President William Ruto. I longed for the chance to vote for him, yet I found myself unable to do so, simply because I lack an identification card. Will he come to my rescue?"

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