Every year on 8 September, the world comes together to celebrate International Literacy Day (ILD). Since its proclamation by UNESCO in 1967, the day has served as a global reminder of the transformative power of literacy in building more just, peaceful, and sustainable societies. In 2025, ILD is being observed under the theme: “Promoting Literacy in the Digital Era.” This focus highlights the growing recognition that literacy is not only about reading and writing on paper, but also about equipping people with the skills to navigate the digital world safely, effectively, and responsibly. Digitalisation has transformed the way we live, learn, and work. While it opens new opportunities for expanding learning — especially among marginalized communities — it also creates risks of double exclusion. Those who lack basic literacy may find themselves left out not only from traditional education but also from the benefits of the digital era. UNESCO emphasizes that literacy now serves as the foundation for digital skills. It enables individuals to think critically, discern credible information, and engage meaningfully in an “information-rich” society. Without these skills, people are more vulnerable to misinformation, digital surveillance, and inequities amplified by technology. Between 2015 and 2024, literacy rates improved modestly. Adult literacy rose from 86% to 88% worldwide. In Central and Southern Asia, literacy increased from 72% to 77%, and in Sub-Saharan Africa from 65% to 69%. Global youth literacy reached 93% in 2024, reflecting progress in access to education. Yet, challenges remain. UNESCO reports that 739 million adults still lack basic literacy skills, with more than half (441 million) concentrated in just 10 countries. Women, older adults, and marginalized communities remain disproportionately affected. Underinvestment is a persistent barrier: in a survey of 102 countries, 57% allocated less than 4% of their education budgets to literacy and education, despite its foundational importance. Closer to home, Kenya is facing a significant literacy crisis, with many children and adults unable to read and comprehend at expected levels for their grade or age, despite overall literacy rates appearing to be high or increasing. Research indicates that a substantial number of Grade 6 students cannot read a Grade 3-level text, and millions of adults remain illiterate. Contributing factors include limited access to quality early childhood education, poverty, and a focus on schooling rather than actual learning outcomes. This gap between schooling and true learning underscores the urgency of rethinking literacy interventions to ensure children and adults are equipped not just with years in school, but with the actual skills needed to thrive in education, work, and life. In today’s technologically driven world, literacy is not optional — it is essential. Beyond enabling participation in education and the workforce, literacy fosters critical thinking, empowers individuals to question and innovate, builds global citizenship, and equips communities to navigate the challenges of the digital landscape. As UNESCO reminds us, literacy is more than a skill — it is a human right and a gateway to all other rights. ILD 2025 is more than a celebration. It is a moment of reflection and action: to ask what literacy means in today’s digital context, to strengthen policies and teaching strategies that make literacy accessible to all, and to view literacy as both a common good and a lever for empowerment. As the world continues to embrace digitalisation, the challenge remains to ensure that everyone — regardless of age, gender, or background — has the literacy skills needed not only to survive, but to thrive in this evolving landscape. ✍️ WERK joins the global community in commemorating International Literacy Day 2025 by reaffirming our commitment to advancing education, equity, and empowerment through research and policy engagement.

Every year, more than 400 million children worldwide are exposed to child sexual exploitation and abuse (CSEA), a term that covers any exploitative sexual activity involving a child, acts that often result in lifelong physical and emotional trauma (Equality Now, n.d.). In Kenya, a lack of centralized reporting and widespread underreporting make it difficult to ascertain the full scale of CSEA. Nevertheless, evidence reveals the problem is widespread and intensifying (Equality Now, n.d.; Global Fund to End Modern Slavery [GFEMS], 2023). Kenya’s emergence as a tech hub has brought new dangers. Between 5% and 13% of internet-using children aged 12–17 reported experiencing online CSEA in the past year, with 7% offered money or gifts for sexual images or videos that were later shared without consent (Equality Now, n.d.). A recent BBC Africa Eye documentary, ‘Madams: Exposing Kenya’s Child Sex Trade,’ brought global attention to a disturbing network in Kenya’s Maai Mahiu where girls as young as 12 were trafficked for sex under coercion by local ‘madams’ (The Star, 2025; Kenya Broadcasting Corporation [KBC], 2025). In response, the National Police Service dispatched a multi-agency team to investigate, rescue victims, and support affected children (KBC, 2025). Yet, despite the shocking nature of the revelations and the clear evidence of systemic exploitation, public outrage within Kenya was notably muted. The absence of sustained citizen mobilization, mass protests, or visible pressure on political leaders raises troubling questions. Is this subdued reaction a sign that Kenyans have become desensitized to injustice, conditioned by years of encountering gender-based violence, corruption, and impunity without resolution? Or does it reflect a deep societal resignation, the belief that demanding accountability will change little in a system where perpetrators are rarely prosecuted? And perhaps most glaringly: where are the voices of our women representatives in Parliament? Where is the leadership, moral courage, and public stance from the very individuals elected to champion women’s and children’s rights? Their silence in the face of such blatant abuse not only undermines the fight against CSEA but also sends a dangerous message—that even the most vulnerable in society cannot count on the political class to defend them. This lack of a loud, collective public voice allows such abuses to persist in the shadows. It suggests that the fight against child sexual exploitation is not only a battle against the perpetrators themselves, but also against apathy, fear, and the normalization of violence in our communities. Without active, persistent public demand for accountability, even the most damning investigations risk being reduced to short-lived headlines rather than catalysts for real change. The Women Educational Researchers of Kenya (WERK) condemns in the strongest terms all forms of child sexual exploitation and abuse. As an organization committed to advancing the rights and welfare of women and children, WERK calls for urgent and coordinated efforts from government agencies, civil society, the private sector, and communities to protect children. CSEA undermines children’s dignity, education, and future potential, and addressing it requires prevention, accountability, survivor-centered care, and policy reform. Protecting Kenya’s children requires urgent, coordinated action across legal, technological, and human-rights spheres. This includes creating a centralized CSEA database, updating laws to address online exploitation, and strengthening support systems for survivors. Silence must no longer be the refuge of injustice.

While the world is aware of the job losses caused by cuts to USAID funding, with an estimated 40,000 former employees in Kenya facing unemployment, women, girls, and a total population of over 300,000 in Kakuma and approximately 500,000 in Dadaab refugee camps are enduring even greater hardships. Though UNHCR is mandated to provide vital protection and assistance to refugees, asylum seekers, and internally displaced persons, this mission has become increasingly challenging since the U.S. President’s directive on January 20th, 2025, to slash USAID funding. These are not luxuries refugees seek; they are basic rights. A recent BBC report revealed that “hundreds of thousands of people are ‘slowly starving’ in Kenya’s refugee camps due to reduced food rations.” Laureen Landis, WFP Country Director for Kenya, noted earlier this month that WFP is providing a historic low of just 28% of the recommended food basket. The health sector is in crisis, with numerous facilities closed or nearing closure and healthcare providers leaving. For a pregnant woman in a refugee camp, maternal healthcare can mean the difference between life and death. For a child fleeing violence, education offers a path out of despair. For entire communities, clean water and safe shelter are essential to preventing disease, exploitation, and trauma. Poorly coordinated immunization programs risk long-term harm, including neonatal deaths, while preventable diseases claim lives. Teachers, too, have been sent home. Schools are understaffed, lack qualified educators, and struggle with overwhelmed amenities, insufficient books and critical resources for the CBC curriculum, and a shortage of sanitary pads for girls. Many girls now stay home during their periods and face a bigger risk of teenage pregnancy and sexual exploitation, and abuse. Food rations have shrunk, tens of teachers have been fired, and the cash transfers that once sustained families have nearly dried up. All of this requires funding and resources. But what happens when the money runs out? The gap between needs and available support continues to widen, deepening the vulnerability of displaced populations. This funding shortfall is not just a budgetary issue—it is a humanitarian crisis. Every dollar withheld means another child denied education, another family without shelter, another mother giving birth without medical care. The lack of support worsens poverty, increases gender-based violence, fuels child labor and exploitation, and destabilizes already overstretched host communities. Moreover, the failure to assist displaced populations undermines global commitments to human rights, the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), and peacebuilding efforts. As stakeholders, partners, and policymakers debate the restructuring of humanitarian funding, there is a critical opportunity to prioritize education for refugee children. Education is not only a fundamental human right—it is a long-term solution capable of transforming lives, families, and entire communities. Evidence consistently shows that investing in education equips children with the tools to escape poverty and eventually support their families. For refugee children, schooling offers more than knowledge—it restores hope, protection, and stability amid crises. Stakeholders must focus resources on increasing school enrolment, supporting the transition from primary to secondary education, and expanding access to skills development through Technical and Vocational Education and Training (TVET), online learning platforms, and inclusive policies that facilitate university access. These measures not only reduce vulnerability to child labor, early marriage, and exploitation but also foster a skilled, resilient generation capable of rebuilding their communities. In the face of growing displacement and dwindling resources, education is not merely part of the response—it is the foundation for lasting recovery and self-reliance.  

The story of Kenya’s education system is, in many ways, the story of our nation’s hopes. It is the story of barefoot mornings, of crowded classrooms, of young minds opened to possibility. It is also the story of ambition, once bold, now hesitant, shaped by seasons of vision, seasons of uncertainty. In 1979, the government introduced the School Milk Programme, known by generations as Nyayo Milk or rather Maziwa ya Nyayo. For those who attended school in the 1980s, the memory remains vivid. The small packets of milk, warm by midday, were handed out with care. For some children, it was the only meal that day. For others, it was the reason to show up at all. Behind that milk was an idea: that no child should go hungry in school. That school should be worth attending. That the state had a duty not only to teach, but to nourish. This was not a donor-funded project. No foreign donor logo appeared on the milk packets. The initiative emerged from within — from a state that saw investment in children not as charity, but as responsibility. It was flawed, yes. It was eventually phased out, yes. But it spoke of a government that still imagined itself as the first guarantor of its children’s welfare. Years later, another initiative followed. A quiet but powerful act. The School Feeding Programme targeting children in arid and semi-arid regions. The meals came in simple portions. Cereal. Beans. Maize. For children learning under trees, for schools surrounded by drought-stricken land, this food meant more than nourishment. It meant survival. It meant continuity. It meant hope. Attendance improved. Dropout rates declined. Parents gained confidence. The state had extended a lifeline, not through grants, but through policy. The programme was not perfect. It reached some, missed others. Yet it sent a clear message: education was worth feeding. Then came another turning point. In 2003, Free Primary Education (FPE) was launched under President Mwai Kibaki. It was not the first such promise. Previous attempts had been made. What distinguished this one was political resolve. Schools reopened their gates to children long excluded. Families once buried under the burden of school fees could now breathe. Teachers struggled to adapt. Classrooms overflowed. Still, the momentum was unmistakable. Kenya was leading from the front. Donor support followed, not the other way around. That distinction matters. Today, the centre of gravity has shifted. Kenya’s education sector continues to function. Children still sit for exams. Curriculum reforms continue. Buildings rise. Trainings happen. Yet the silent question undercuts it all: Who is really steering the wheel? More often than not, it is not the government. Not fully. Not confidently. The vocabulary of reform has become donor-heavy. Implementation cycles mirror grant timelines. Curriculum rollouts wait on external evaluation. Digital learning projects begin with foreign funding, fade once budgets are exhausted. Teacher support systems, infrastructure upgrades, school feeding, and nearly every element of public education now carries a level of dependency. Perhaps it began with good intentions. Partnerships that supported gaps. Grants that accelerated growth. Technical support that offered new insights. Yet somewhere along the way, the support became the spine. And the state — once decisive, once daring — became hesitant. Not incapable. Not unwilling. Just… quieter. At first, this quiet surrender was not loud. It did not come with a scandal. It did not grab headlines. It crept in slowly. It manifested in delayed policy decisions. In unimplemented strategies. In school principals waiting for NGOs to fix their water tanks. In communities looking to development partners to train their teachers. In policymakers, checking funding cycles before announcing reforms. This is not a condemnation. Development partners have played critical roles. They have brought resources, rigour, and innovation. They have filled voids left by constrained budgets. They have held systems accountable in ways governments sometimes have not. Their presence has value. Still, the question remains: What happens when the funding stops? The answer, increasingly, is silence. Programs end quietly. Pilots fade. Reports are written. Lessons are documented. Children move on. The system absorbs the gap or doesn’t. A different program begins. A different donor steps in. The cycle continues. In the process, something is lost. Not just continuity. Not just scale. What is lost is belief. Belief in national responsibility. Belief in the capacity to finance what we value. Belief in education not as a gift to be granted, but as a right to be delivered. It would be easy to point fingers. Easier still to accept the status quo. The harder path is one of introspection. Not every country that leads in education is wealthy. Not every government that funds its classrooms is debt-free. What distinguishes them is not just capacity. It is a choice. It is conviction. Kenya has walked this path before. We gave milk. We gave free primary education. We did not wait for perfect conditions. We chose to act. To try. To carry the burden of service, even when the cost was steep. What changed? Perhaps the expectations shifted. Perhaps donor engagement made it easier to delegate. Perhaps fatigue crept in. Perhaps education became just one more sector among many, rather than the cornerstone it once was. Today, headlines paint a troubling picture. National exam bodies sound alarms over lack of funds. Schools close midday, not for lack of students, but for lack of food. Teachers go unpaid. Parents face growing fees, previously waived under free education policies. The once-celebrated Free Primary Education model now sits under threat. Proposals to phase it out have surfaced, citing budget constraints. Children in marginalised counties suffer from hunger in silence. School feeding programs, once sustained by public funding, now depend heavily on donor goodwill. Many have collapsed. Learners walk into class not knowing whether lunch will be served. Headteachers stretch strained resources. Support staff go without pay. Meanwhile, school infrastructure deteriorates. Some public schools lack basic teaching materials. Others rely on parents to fund essentials. The promise once made of free, quality education now

What matters more — the journey or the destination? At first glance, the answer might seem obvious. After all, education reform has a clear goal: ensuring every child has access to quality, inclusive learning opportunities, as stipulated in Sustainable Development Goal 4 (SDG 4). It is a noble and necessary destination, one that we cannot afford to lose sight of. At WERK, we have come to learn that the path taken toward that goal, the decisions made, the values upheld, the partnerships forged, and the groundwork laid are just as vital, if not more. Because how we move determines whether we truly arrive, and more importantly, it determines who arrives with us. Education reform in Kenya, as in many parts of the world, is not a sprint. It is not a single project, policy paper, or political term. It is a long, evolving process that unfolds over years and across governments, ministries, classrooms, and communities. Over the past three decades Kenya has made significant strides in education. From Free Primary Education to the introduction of the Competency-Based Curriculum (CBC), from teacher management reforms to renewed focus on equity and inclusion, each of these shifts reflects a national effort to improve access, relevance, and quality of learning. Yet, reform is not linear. For every breakthrough, there are setbacks. For every policy passed, there are questions of implementation. For every learner enrolled, there is the task of ensuring that they learn meaningfully, equitably, and with dignity. That is why the journey matters. Because the process of reform is where change is negotiated, piloted, tested, resisted, improved, and eventually owned. As an organization deeply embedded in the landscape of educational research and policy engagement, WERK has always been guided by a belief in the power of preparation, participation, and persistence. Our work over the years, from national learning assessments and gender equity initiatives to community school support and capacity building, has taught us that lasting transformation only comes when we invest in the invisible layers: the groundwork. Groundwork means listening to the lived realities of teachers, parents, and learners, especially those at the margins. It means building data systems that help stakeholders understand where we are and what is needed. It means supporting school leaders and educators, not just through one-off trainings but through continuous engagement and mentorship. It means engaging policy actors with research-driven evidence and not just opinions. It means creating platforms for youth, women, and communities to co-create solutions, not merely receive them. In all of this, we are guided by the understanding that reform must be owned, not imposed. Ownership is only possible when people have walked the journey with you. Perhaps what makes the journey most meaningful and sustainable is who walks it with you. At WERK, we consider our partners in government, civil society, academia, donor organisations, schools, and communities not as external collaborators but as allies in the journey. Each plays a critical role in ensuring that the vision of SDG 4 is not just a policy goal but a lived reality. For instance, in our Complementary Schools Project, we do not just train school heads and leave. We stay, we learn alongside them, we adapt, and we document together. In our assessment work, we collaborate with Ministries and local education groups to ensure findings are relevant, usable, and linked to system-wide action. In our advocacy and convening, we create space for multi-stakeholder dialogue, recognising that real change only happens when diverse voices are at the table. It is not always easy. Partnerships take time, trust, and shared learning. But they are the threads that hold reform together, especially in times of transition or uncertainty. Let us be clear: the destination does matter. We must aim for a Kenya where every child, regardless of geography, gender, disability, or socio-economic background, has access to inclusive, quality education and lifelong learning opportunities. But we must resist the temptation of shortcuts. Because in our rush to arrive, we may trample the very people we claim to serve. We may roll out reforms too fast for systems to absorb. We may prioritize numbers over nuance. We may design policy from boardrooms rather than classrooms. And so, we say: let us honour the journey. Let us make space for learning, for pausing, for reflection. Let us centre equity not only in outcomes but in processes. Let us remember that how we engage teachers, students, communities, and institutions with respect, inclusion, and accountability matters just as much as the end result. This year, WERK marks 30 years since our founding. Thirty years of research, advocacy, collaboration, and movement-building in the education sector. As we reflect on this milestone, we do so with gratitude for the destination glimpses we have seen. Policies influenced, schools strengthened, data translated into action, and young lives changed for the better. More than anything, we celebrate the walk: the long, sometimes uphill, but always purpose-driven journey with our partners. To our members, funders, friends, and communities, thank you for walking with us. For believing in the slow, essential work of systems change. For knowing that real reform is not a sprint to a finish line but a walk of many steps, taken together. So, we pose the question again: what matters more — the journey or the destination? We believe the two are inseparable. But if we had to choose, we would choose the walk, because it is the only way to arrive meaningfully.

There is a quiet truth we often overlook: the longer you wait to act, the harder it becomes to begin. We tell ourselves we are buying time, that we are waiting for the “right moment.” But time does not always smooth the edges of challenge; sometimes, it only feeds the weight of hesitation. Like standing at the edge of a cold pool, waiting for the water to feel more inviting, the fear of discomfort only grows. But the water remains the same. It is you who must move. This new week and this new month invite us to stop waiting and start moving. July comes with its own set of demands, goals, and opportunities, some predictable, others still unfolding. Whether you are an educator navigating shifting priorities, a professional seeking clarity in your path, or a woman determined to lead from where you are, this is your moment to dive in. Not because it is easy. But because you are capable. Discomfort is not a signal to retreat — it is often a sign that you are stretching, growing, crossing into unfamiliar but necessary territory. And growth, like confidence, rarely arrives before the doing. It meets you along the way. At WERK, we stand in the belief that transformation begins when we show up — early, prepared or not, willing to get wet. Our mission in education, empowerment, and equity demands nothing less than brave beginnings and consistent movement. And we carry that spirit together, not just in big wins, but in the daily decisions to begin, to try again, to keep showing up. So, this Monday, do the thing. Start the draft. Make the call. Schedule the meeting. Begin the work. The cold water is waiting — but so is the breakthrough. Let July be the month you moved, not because the conditions were perfect, but because the vision is worth it.

It will mark a year since we witnessed the rise of political consciousness from a generation that has been overlooked in politics for longer than is necessary. The streets of Kenya echoed with the voices of a generation refusing to remain silent. From Nairobi to Kisumu, Nakuru to Eldoret, Thika to Mombasa, Gen Z rose up, not with party slogans or tribal banners, but with a resounding demand for transparency, accountability, and a new kind of leadership. The outrage was clear. Their courage, even more so. But beyond the protests and the placards lies a deeper, more urgent question: What are we doing to prepare young people to not only challenge leadership, but to become it? The truth is, leadership does not begin in adulthood, and it certainly does not begin at the ballot box. It starts in classrooms, in homes, and in the daily interactions that shape a child’s sense of agency and responsibility. What we saw was more than civil disobedience; it was civic awakening. A generation raised in the digital age, exposed to global conversations about justice and power, finally turned their gaze inward, toward their country, their government, and their future. They spoke. They organized. They acted. But activism, no matter how bold, cannot replace the long, deliberate work of cultivating leadership. If our response to this awakening is limited to shock or praise, we miss the opportunity to create lasting change. If we are to break the cycle of leadership failure, we must stop treating leadership education as a “later” issue. Because leadership is not a title waiting in adulthood. It is a skill, a practice, a mindset, and it begins early. When a child is taught to think critically and ask questions, they are learning leadership. When students work in teams, mediate conflicts, or stand up for a peer, they are practicing leadership. When schools center values like integrity, empathy, and responsibility, they are planting the seeds of ethical leadership. If we wait until university or the workplace to talk about leadership, we are already too late. The young leaders we saw marching last year were shaped long before they took to the streets. Everyone has a role to play. Educators must go beyond academics to foster courage, initiative, and civic responsibility in the curriculum. Parents and caregivers must model leadership at home in how they resolve conflict, participate in community life, and treat others. Communities must create safe, inclusive spaces where young people are seen, heard, and trusted to lead. Leadership development is not a programme; it is a culture. One that must be lived consistently across a child’s world. What Kenya Needs Now Kenya does not just need leaders who can speak loudly; it needs leaders who can listen deeply, think critically, collaborate across differences, and act with integrity. These are not traits developed overnight. They are nurtured through education, mentorship, and consistent exposure to values that prioritize service over self-interest. If we are serious about a better Kenya, we must be serious about leadership education as early education. Conclusion: Prepare Them Before the Streets Do What we saw last year was powerful. But imagine a future where young people do not have to fight their way into leadership conversations—because they have been prepared from the start to take their place at the table. Leadership is not for later. It’s for now. And it starts with how we raise, teach, and trust the next generation.

On this International Day of Play, we are reminded that play is far more than a leisure activity—it is how children begin to understand themselves, others, and the world around them. For young minds, play is where learning takes root. It is where children test ideas, explore relationships, build resilience, and begin to shape their understanding of the world. Yet in many education systems—including our own—play is often undervalued. It is mistaken for distraction or “unseriousness,” especially in formal learning environments. It is high time we changed our perception of this. WERK’s work in education research and policy engagement has consistently highlighted the importance of play-based learning, especially in the context of Kenya’s Competency-Based Curriculum (CBC). But valuing play requires more than policy—it requires a paradigm shift. We must create learning environments where: Play is seen as a right, not a reward. Teachers are empowered to use play as pedagogy, not just a break. Classrooms are designed to nurture exploration, imagination, and joy. Learning is not measured only by how still and silent children can be, but by how curious and engaged they become. Why does this matter? You ask. It matters because when children play, they are not just having fun but wrestling with life, shaping identity, solving problems, and imagining better futures. Play opens the door to inclusive, contextually relevant, and joyful learning that meets the needs of every child. This #InternationalDayOfPlay, WERK celebrates the educators, caregivers, and advocates who keep play alive in children’s lives—and we call on all stakeholders to recognize that a playful child is not off-task. They are simply learning.

Shining a Light on Men’s Mental Health During Mental Health Week Mental Health Week presents a vital opportunity to pause, reflect, and take action — not just for ourselves, but for those around us. This year, we turn our focus to an often-overlooked subject: men’s mental health. While conversations about mental well-being are growing louder, many men still suffer in silence. Cultural expectations, societal norms, and internalized pressure often tell men to “tough it out,” “be strong,” or “man up.” But this outdated mindset comes at a great cost. Why Focus on Men’s Mental Health? Men across the world — including here in Kenya — face unique mental health challenges, yet are far less likely to seek help. The result? Higher rates of undiagnosed depression Increased use of alcohol or substances as coping mechanisms Alarmingly high rates of suicide among men, especially young men These are not just statistics. They are real lives — brothers, sons, fathers, husbands, and friends — silently carrying mental burdens with nowhere to turn. Breaking the Silence: The Power of Speaking Up The message behind our tagline — “Your Mind Matters. Your Voice Matters. You Matter.” — is simple yet deeply powerful. Your mind matters: Your mental health is just as important as your physical health. Stress, anxiety, depression, and burnout are not weaknesses — they are health conditions that deserve attention and care. Your voice matters: Talking about your struggles doesn’t make you less of a man. It makes you braver. Whether you’re opening up to a friend, a counselor, or in a men’s group — sharing your story can be the first step toward healing. You matter: No matter what you’re going through, your life has value. You deserve support, peace, and purpose. Creating Safe Spaces for Men to Heal To truly support men’s mental health, we must build non-judgmental spaces where vulnerability is welcomed, not shamed. That means: Encouraging open conversations in workplaces, homes, and schools. Providing access to male-friendly mental health services. Celebrating men who seek help as examples of strength, not weakness. If you’re in a position of influence — as a leader, teacher, coach, or friend — you can be a catalyst for change by simply saying: “I’m here. You’re not alone.” Where to Get Help in Kenya If you or a man you care about is struggling, there is support available: Befrienders Kenya – +254 722 178 177 | www.befrienderskenya.org Chiromo Mental Health Hospital 24/7 Helpline – 0800 220 000 (Toll-free) Mental 360 Kenya – +254 748 973 999 | www.mental360.org Reaching out isn’t a sign of weakness — it’s one of the boldest steps a man can take toward reclaiming his life. Final Thoughts This Mental Health Week, let’s break the silence surrounding men’s mental health. Let’s listen without judgment, speak with compassion, and uplift one another with honesty and courage. Remember: 💙 Your mind matters. Your voice matters. You matter. Let’s spread the message far and wide — because no man should suffer in silence.