A few weeks ago, I found myself at Kasarani Indoor Arena, about to watch the Kenya Wheelchair Basketball team in action. I didn’t really know what to expect. Part of me thought it would be slow or quiet. Oh, how wrong I was.
I’ve been a wheelchair user for years. I know there are sports out there for people like me — wheelchair racing, tennis, basketball. I’d seen videos, read stories. But nothing prepared me for seeing it live.
From the moment I rolled in, the place was alive. You could hear the squeak of rubber on the court, the sharp whistle of the ref, the pounding echo of the ball bouncing hard. Wheelchairs zoomed past like race cars, players weaving, blocking, spinning with precision I didn’t even know was possible on wheels.
I didn’t just watch a game ,I witnessed poetry in motion, and my goodness… I’m still buzzing.
At one point, they let me dribble a ball. Me. Lucy. The girl who thought sports were something I’d only watch on TV. I smiled so hard trying to maneuver the ball and my chair at the same time, but for a second… I felt unstoppable. Maybe in my next life, I’ll be an athlete. (Don’t laugh, I was actually feeling it! 😂)
The team’s energy was contagious. They shouted encouragement to each other, celebrated every basket, and pushed through every block. The technician — a wheelchair user himself — worked with skill and speed, adjusting equipment mid-play. And the coach? She didn’t just give instructions from the sidelines. Oh no. She jumped into a sports wheelchair and went head-to-head with her own players. That’s leadership.
A para basketball player changing a wheel mid game
And then there was the mid-game wheel change. Listen — I still don’t know how they did that. One second they’re tilting back, popping off a wheel, and the next, it’s back on, and they’re rolling full speed like nothing happened. My jaw was on the floor.
But the magic of that day wasn’t just in the game. It was in the conversations I had afterwards.
I spoke with players who radiated passion and not just for the sport, but for what it represents. They told me about the sense of freedom they feel on the court, the friendships they’ve built, and the pride of representing Kenya. But they also opened up about the challenges:
- The lack of funding that makes training and traveling a constant uphill battle.
- The shortage of proper sports wheelchairs, forcing some to compete in heavier everyday chairs.
- The struggle to access consistent training spaces.
- The fact that, despite their talent, wheelchair basketball gets little to no media coverage.
One player put it bluntly:
“People think we’re just playing around, but this is as real and competitive as any sport. We train hard. We bleed for this. But sometimes it feels like we’re invisible.”
And yet, despite all this, they keep going. They show up for practice. They compete. They win. Every victory is hard-earned, and every celebration is a testament to resilience.
As I watched and listened, I kept thinking about newly injured wheelchair users — how powerful it would be for them to see this. To witness the possibility, the joy, the pride. I know that if someone had taken me to a game like this during my first years of paralysis, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself. I would have seen that there is life, energy, and purpose waiting on the other side of acceptance.
Wheelchair basketball is more than a sport. It’s a declaration that disability does not mean the end of movement, competition, or dreams. It’s a reminder that while barriers still exist — from inaccessible facilities to lack of recognition — we can and do push beyond them.
That day at Kasarani didn’t just entertain me. It lit a fire. It reminded me why visibility matters. Why we need to keep talking about disability sports, funding them, supporting them, and showing up for them. Because when the world sees us in our power, it becomes harder to ignore our worth.
Wheelchair Basketball
And for me?
I’m still thinking about that dribble.
And maybe, just maybe… this won’t be my last time on the court.
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