Unseen and unprotected: The deadly reality facing Kenya’s sex workers

As night falls over Nairobi, streetlights flicker on in neighborhoods that many avoid after dark. For women like Felista Abdalla, however, this is the beginning of a work shift—one that could cost them their lives.

Across Kenya, a disturbing rise in femicide and violence against women has set off alarm bells, sparking public outrage and prompting calls for systemic change. But among those most at risk are sex workers; an often-overlooked group, fighting for survival in the shadows of society.

According to the National Police Service (NPS), at least 171 femicide cases have been reported in recent months. But for every name recorded in official statistics, many more victims go unnamed, their deaths dismissed or underreported. And among these, sex workers are especially vulnerable—operating in secrecy, shrouded by stigma, and often left without access to justice.

“Many people see us as wrongdoers,” says Felista, a sex worker and peer leader based in Nairobi. “But the truth is, we do this because life gives us no other choice. We’re not foreigners, we’re not forced into this work—we do it by choice, out of survival. That doesn’t mean we deserve to die.”

Her voice trembles slightly as she speaks, but her words are clear and deliberate. Every night she steps into a world where danger lurks in the form of abusive clients, opportunistic criminals, and indifferent law enforcement.

She recalls her friend Carol—another sex worker and single mother—who was recently found murdered by a client. The brutality of the crime was horrifying: Carol’s dismembered body was discovered in multiple locations, sending shockwaves through their community.

“We couldn’t even recognize her,” Felista says quietly. “It broke us. But what’s worse is knowing that the man who did it might never be arrested. That’s the story of so many of us.”

For most sex workers, the job is not one of desire, but necessity. It’s a choice born from desperation. Carol Njoroge, whose own mother was murdered when she was just a teenager, found herself orphaned and alone in Nairobi’s informal settlements.

“After my mom was killed, everything fell apart,” she says. “There was no one to help me—no family, no government support. I started doing sex work just to eat and keep a roof over my head.”

Now in her late 20s, Carol has spent nearly a decade working in the streets. But with the recent surge in violence, her fear has grown stronger than ever. Several of her colleagues have been attacked in the past year, and many of the perpetrators were never caught.

The stigma attached to their profession means their voices often go unheard—even when they cry out for help.

While national statistics on gender-based violence are troubling, there is no reliable data on the number of sex workers murdered or attacked. Most cases go unreported and unheard due to fear of retaliation, police harassment, or societal shame.

“When we try to report crimes, police laugh at us or tell us we deserved it,” says Felista. “They don’t see us as victims—they don’t even see us as people.”

According to a 2024 report by the Kenya Women’s Rights Coalition, femicide in Kenya has increased by nearly 30% over the past year. Activists warn that the actual numbers may be even higher, with sex workers often excluded from data collection due to their marginalization.

“There is no justice for women like us,” Carol adds. “Even when we know the person who did it, nothing happens. We just bury our sisters and keep working.”

Sex work in Kenya exists in a complex legal limbo, a deadly reality. While selling sex is not technically illegal, most activities surrounding it—such as solicitation, brothel-keeping, or loitering for the purpose of prostitution—are criminalized. This contradiction makes sex workers easy targets for both criminals and corrupt police officers.

“The law doesn’t protect sex workers—it punishes them,” says Rachel Mwikali, a prominent Kenyan human rights defender. “Sex workers are citizens of this country. They deserve safety, dignity, and access to justice.”

Mwikali is among several activists calling on the government to implement legal reforms that decriminalize sex work and provide sex workers with labor rights, healthcare access, and legal protection.

“If we want to stop these killings, we have to change how we treat sex workers,” she adds. “We have to start by recognizing their humanity.”

For sex workers, the danger doesn’t end with violent clients. Many also face daily extortion and abuse from law enforcement officers.

“We pay bribes just to work,” Felista explains. “If we refuse, we’re arrested, beaten, or worse. Sometimes they assault us, knowing we won’t report them.”

Health services are another major challenge. Stigma and discrimination often prevent sex workers from accessing hospitals or clinics, especially when seeking care after an assault. Mental health support is virtually nonexistent, despite the intense trauma many of them endure.

“Every time I leave the house, I wonder if I’ll make it back,” says Carol. “That’s not just stressful—it’s killing us slowly inside.”

Despite the bleak reality, a growing number of sex workers are coming together to demand change. Peer-led organizations and grassroots collectives are offering each other safety tips, documenting abuses, and pushing for legal reforms.

Felista, who represents a local sex worker advocacy group, is leading efforts to create a safe space in Nairobi where women can gather, support each other, and report incidents without fear.

“We don’t want sympathy,” she says. “We want safety. We want the same rights as any other worker. We want to live.”

Their calls are echoed by human rights groups and gender rights advocates across the country. Many are now urging the Kenyan government to decriminalize sex work to allow for labor protections and fair treatment oversight; train police officers to handle cases involving sex workers with sensitivity and urgency; provide mental health and trauma support specifically tailored to this vulnerable group; and launch public education campaigns to reduce stigma and promote equality

The stories of Felista and Carol are not isolated. They are shared by thousands of women across Kenya who remain unheard, unseen, and unprotected. As the nation reckons with a rising tide of violence against women, the question remains: Will society finally acknowledge the humanity of sex workers and act to protect them? Or will their names continue to vanish, one by one, into silence?

“We’re just trying to survive,” Felista says. “But how long can we keep surviving if no one sees us?”