I remember sitting in a wheelchair that was too big for me.
Not metaphorically, but literally too big.
My feet barely rested where they should. My back had no real support. I kept sliding forward. Every movement reminded me that this chair was not made for me, it was simply something I had been given.
And at the time, I didn’t question it. Because when you’re newly disabled, you don’t come with a manual, you come with fear, you come with confusion, and you enter a world full of myths.
I thought discomfort was part of being disabled, that pain was normal and that struggling meant I was learning. That I should be grateful I even had a wheelchair at all.
I felt alone, insecure and deeply grounded in the lies we are taught about disability — that we should endure quietly, that asking for more is entitlement, that discomfort is the price of survival.
I didn’t know I had rights, I didn’t know wheelchairs were supposed to be fitted, that posture mattered, that pressure sores were preventable, that my body was not meant to constantly fight the device meant to support it.
I didn’t know about appropriate wheelchairs, I didn’t know about peer trainers, I didn’t know that there were people who looked like me who could teach me how to live fully, not just survive. All I knew was that something didn’t feel right — but I didn’t yet have the language to name it.
For a long time, my dream was simple that one day things would feel like they do in “first-class” countries- Smooth pavements, perfect ramps, beautiful wheelchairs, systems that work. But that dream came from ignorance too — the belief that dignity only exists elsewhere.
Then an outreach happened in my hometown, I received my first appropriate wheelchair. Not just new or better but appropriate. And more than the chair, I met peer trainers, Wheelchair users, living, laughing, and teaching. For the first time, I sat across someone who didn’t speak about disability — they spoke from within it.
They didn’t pity me, they didn’t romanticize me, they taught me. How to sit properly, how to protect my skin, how to move, how to ask questions and how to demand better — politely, firmly, unapologetically.
And suddenly, everything I thought was “normal” was exposed for what it was: avoidable suffering. That was the moment I realized something bigger, my story wasn’t isolated, it was structural.
Because according to WHO, globally, over 2.5 billion people need assistive technology, including wheelchairs, hearing aids, and prosthetics. And yet, nearly 1 billion people still do not have access to even the most basic assistive products.
Here is the part that hurts most: Over 80% of people who need assistive technology live in low- and middle-income countries, countries like Kenya. And in many of these places, fewer than 1 in 10 people who need a wheelchair actually have one that is appropriate for their needs.
Not a chair that looks good, not a chair that was donated for pity; but one that fits, supports, protects and empowers.
Most wheelchairs in our communities are given through charity drives, political seasons, or goodwill gestures. While generosity is beautiful, charity without systems becomes a trap.
Because when a wheelchair breaks — who repairs it?
When a child outgrows it — who replaces it?
When a pressure sore develops — who is accountable?
What we call “help” often becomes another barrier.
That’s when it clicked for me, it wasn’t just about getting a better wheelchair. It was about understanding that I deserved one, it was about realizing that silence was not strength.
That gratitude without dignity is dangerous, that surviving quietly only protects broken systems. And that was the moment I had to choose, I could lay low and accept things as they were, blame life, blame fate and feel sorry for myself in silence.
Or…
I could wake up, write, research, ask uncomfortable questions, break down myths, argue with facts, tell stories that make people shift in their seats, and stand — or rather, roll — for people who still think pain is part of being disabled.
I chose the second.
Not because I am brave, but because once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. I decided to be someone else’s advocate because I once needed one and didn’t know where to find her.
Because today, I know that:
A wheelchair is not a luxury, it is a human right. Access to assistive technology is enshrined in the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, yet millions are still locked out of schools, hospitals, jobs, and public spaces simply because they cannot move. Not because they lack ability , but because systems lack care.
And so I speak.
Not because I want attention. But because I want access. Not because I am angry — though sometimes I am —But because I am informed.
And informed people are dangerous to broken systems. If my voice can make one person realize that their discomfort is not normal…
If my writing can make one clinician rethink “any wheelchair is better than none”…
If my questions can make one policymaker pause and improve…
Then this journey makes sense.
This is why I speak about disability.
This is why I advocate for change.
Not as a victim.
But as a woman who knows her rights.
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