KENYA: Justice Beyond the Courtroom: A Story of Voices Rising.

About this Story

This story was first published on the World Pulse platform and is shared here through a collaboration between World Pulse and Imaara Survivor Support Foundation. As part of Imaara’s Project Tell-Tale initiative, selected stories from World Pulse are being cross-posted to amplify survivor voices and strengthen conversations around gender-based violence.

The story was submitted in response to a call for stories connected to the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence (2025), inviting survivors, advocates, and allies to share lived experiences, reflections, and pathways toward justice and healing.

Read the original story on World Pulse!

By: Kristine Yakhama

(The author has chosen to be identified in this publication)

The heat of the South African sun in November felt like a warm hand pressed gently against my back—steadying, guiding, and reminding me that sometimes journeys lead us to places we never expected. When I arrived at the C20 Summit at the ANeW Hotel and Convention Centre, I thought I was simply coming to learn, network, and represent my community. I did not know I would leave carrying someone else’s pain, someone else’s courage, and an unshakable conviction that justice is more than a verdict on paper.

The summit hall buzzed with energy. Activists, delegates, and dreamers from across the world filled the space like a vibrant tapestry woven with hope and struggle. By the second day, I had made friends—women whose laughter rang like bells and whose stories sat deep in their eyes, hidden but present.

Among them was Kgopotso, a young South African woman whose smile was gentle but whose voice carried the firmness of someone who had tasted both sorrow and survival. On Friday the 14th, during the lunch break, we found ourselves seated together outside beneath a small patch of shade. Our plates were barely touched; conversations often feed the heart more than food can fill the stomach.

She turned to me and asked casually, Will you stay for the G20 Summit, or are you going back to Kenya and returning later?”

Her tone was light, but something in her eyes flickered—something unsaid.

I replied, “No, I’ll be engaged from the 16th to the 21st of November 2025. I wish I could.”

She sighed, a long, heavy breath that seemed to deflate the world around us.

“How I wish you would be around,” she murmured. “On the 21st, women across South Africa will wear black. No work. No celebrations. A peaceful demonstration. Hardly a day ends without a mother, a daughter, or a granddaughter being raped. The government is not taking action.”

Her words pierced my heart like a spear. The air felt suddenly colder. The hum of the conference faded. The world narrowed to just the two of us.

Then she looked directly at me and said, quietly but firmly, “I was raped when I was 23. I am 27 now. And the perpetrator is still walking free.”

Her voice did not shake, but mine did—inside me, where no one could see.

She continued, “When I go to court, the judge is sick. Next hearing, the prosecutor is sick. Another postponement. Now they have moved it again—to December 3rd, 2025. Terrible.”

Silence settled between us like a blanket of dust. I remembered an African proverb my grandmother used to say: “The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.”But here, women were not burning anything; they were standing in their pain, demanding warmth with dignity, wearing black like a flag of collective mourning.

As Kgopotso spoke, I felt her words wrap around my heart like a vine—tight, impossible to ignore. She wasn’t just telling a story; she was revealing a wound. And like many wounds carried by women, it was unseen until she chose to uncover it.

Her resilience reminded me of another saying: “However long the night, the dawn will break.” Yet for her, dawn had been delayed again and again by courtrooms that operated like broken clocks—never striking justice at the right time.

Justice Beyond the Courtroom

That evening, as the summit continued, I found myself reflecting deeply.

What is justice?

Is it something written in files, stamped by judges, or spoken in verdicts?

Or is it something more human—something that happens in hearts, homes, and communities?

I remembered how Kgopotso said, “The perpetrator is all over.”

Those words felt like a stone dropped into a still pond—the ripples touching everything.

How does one heal when the shadow that hurt them still walks freely in the sunlight?

The legal system, meant to protect, sometimes feels like a maze without an exit.

But healing—healing is something different. Healing is a community embracing a survivor. Healing is a friend listening without judgment. Healing is women standing shoulder to shoulder in black, saying, “We see you. We hear you. We believe you.”

Healing is justice, even when the courtroom fails.

A Peaceful Demonstration, A Rising Storm

On the 16th of November, when women across South Africa dressed in black, I was physically far away—but emotionally, I was right there with them. I imagined the streets lined with women moving like a silent river of resilience, flowing through cities and rural paths, whispering their stories, their anger, their hope.

A proverb floated into my mind:

“When spider webs unite, they can tie up a lion.”

These women—Kgopotso among them—were the spider webs. Their unity was stronger than the fear that had tried to silence them. Their demonstration was a reminder that justice is never truly denied when voices keep rising. Even when courts delay, communities advance.

Carrying Her Story Forward

I realized then that my role—my responsibility—was not only to listen but to carry her story forward like a lamp in a dark tunnel. Her experience was not isolated. It was part of a larger tapestry of gender-based violence that stretches across borders and generations.

I began reflecting on what initiatives could look like:

Healing circles for survivors to speak in safe spaces.

Legal support networks that ensure no survivor attends court alone.

Community accountability systems where perpetrators cannot hide behind delayed hearings.

Awareness campaigns teaching young men consent, humanity, and empathy.

Policy advocacy pressing governments to treat GBV as a national emergency.

Because justice is not only a courtroom victory; justice is a society refusing to normalize violence.

Justice is a community saying, “Enough.”

The Strength of One Story

When Kgopotso finished sharing, she looked down at her hands.

“I keep waiting,” she whispered, “but justice is moving like a tortoise with a broken shell.”

I reached out, gently touching her shoulder.

“Your voice is not small,” I told her. “Your story is not in vain. Even the tallest tree begins as a seed. One day, your courage will inspire another woman to stand. And another. And another.”

She smiled—slowly, softly, like a sunrise unfolding.

In that moment, I knew that healing had begun, even if justice had not yet arrived.

A Final Reflection

As the summit ended and I prepared to leave South Africa, her story stayed with me. It sat in my heart like a stone—heavy but grounding. I realized that the world often measures justice by verdicts, but survivors measure justice by being seen, heard, and believed.

There is a proverb that says:

“The river is always there, but the water is never the same.”

Survivors, too, are always there—but every day they change, grow, and heal in new ways.

Their resilience is a river that refuses to dry up.

And so, I share Kgopotso’s story not as a tale of despair, but as a testament to the strength of women who continue to stand—even when the system tries to make them sit. Women who rise—like flames, like dawn, like armies of hope.

Justice may be delayed, but as another proverb reminds us:

“No matter how long the rain lasts, the sky will eventually clear.”

And when it does, may it shine first on the survivors—those who carried the storm alone.