Lorna Andisi
For about 15 years, I worked across Kenya as a borehole driller and occasionally as a taxi driver. I worked hard to provide for my family and care for my ailing mother. Though I hated being away from them, I always made an effort to see my wife and three beautiful daughters at least twice a year.
While working, I made friends with my colleagues. We would often catch up over drinks on weekends, sharing stories and jokes—most of which I never took seriously. However, one particular conversation changed my perspective forever.
I remember the year I was posted to work in Migori, Western Kenya. During one of our usual weekend hangouts, a colleague brought up a topic that left me with lingering questions for days. The discussion was about sex—specifically, their experiences with women from different parts of Kenya. They kept praising women from certain communities, claiming they were more responsive and pleasurable partners.
“Nyinyi mumekata wanawake wenu, mumeharibu utamu,” one of them said, meaning, “You people have circumcised your women, and in doing so, you've ruined their pleasure.” They went on to describe their experiences in detail, glorifying women from communities that did not practice Female Genital Mutilation (FGM). I was confused. Weren’t all women the same? How could there be such a difference?
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about what they had said. I wanted to understand the truth for myself. Eventually, I pursued a woman from one of the communities they spoke of. She was young, beautiful, and in her mid-twenties—a college student. I did not love her; I was merely curious. After days of persistence, she agreed. The experience was unlike anything I had known before. She was responsive, well-lubricated, and confident. She enjoyed intimacy, taking charge at times, and she reached climax multiple times. It was mutual, natural, and deeply satisfying.
I was in shock. For the first time, I realized what my colleagues had meant. The FGM practiced in my community removes the clitoris—the very organ responsible for pleasure. It also cuts the vaginal lips, leaving behind scars. With my wife, I always have to be careful not to hurt her because of the scar tissue left from the procedure. Our intimacy is limited, and she rarely experiences pleasure.
I love my wife. I never wanted to cheat on her, and I regret that I did. But one thing became clear to me: I would never allow my daughters to undergo FGM. I had already lost my eldest to this harmful practice while I was away, and the pain of knowing that haunted me. But I still had a chance to protect my younger daughters and my nieces. I would ensure they went to school and had a future free from this oppressive culture.
I do not blame my community—they do not understand the harm they are causing. FGM is rooted in the belief that reducing a woman's sexual desire will keep her from being promiscuous. But in reality, it robs women of their natural rights and denies men the chance to enjoy a fulfilling relationship with their wives.
I love my culture, and I want to preserve it. In fact, I left my job as a borehole driller and returned home to work as a boda boda rider. I also run a self-help group called Uluko Cultural Group, which promotes Borana traditions, including clothing, traditional houses, and cultural music and dance. However, of all our customs, I cannot support FGM. It is wrong. It is oppressive. It is demeaning.
Everyone in my village, Sagante, knows my stance against FGM. But they do not know the real reason behind it. Only you do. I often tell them that FGM is illegal and that they risk arrest if they practice it. But beyond the law, I will continue to speak out until women in my community are free—to love, to enjoy intimacy, and to live without pain or shame.
I will fight against FGM, and I hope that one day, this harmful tradition will end.