At 19, Amina a single mother of two, had learned to survive in ways no child should. After running away from an abusive stepfather, the dumpsite became her home; the streets, though ruthless, had at least offered her the illusion of control over her life. But one night, that illusion shattered
As she was walking back to the small shack she shared with other street girls, a gang of boys cornered her and raped her right in front of her two kids. She knew them and saw them daily scavenging through the trash for metal scraps to sell. They were like family, but that night, they turned to be the exact opposite.
She fought, screamed, but no one came to her rescue. No one ever did.
When it was over, she limped away, bleeding and broken, terrified to say a word. The boys were part of a larger gang, and she knew that if she reported them, they would come for her. Maybe worse than before. So, she swallowed the pain and carried on.
Weeks passed, then months. Amina fell sick often, her body growing weaker. She dismissed it at
first, life at the dumpsite is brutal, and sickness is common. But when the sores started, when she could barely lift a sack of recycables, she knew something was very wrong.
People whispered. Some avoided her. She had heard about HIV before but had never known where to get tested. The public clinics? Impossible. They were crowded, and the nurses always looked at girls like her with disgust. Even if she could find the courage to go, what would she say? That she was raped? That she had nowhere to go? She feared their judgment more than the disease itself.
Then one afternoon, everything changed. She saw a clinical Van at the dumpsite and thought of going closer maybe she get some help? the women in the Van spoke to the girls in a way no one else ever did, like they mattered. They were from Bar Hostess Empowerment and Support Programme. They talked about rape, about seeking help, about HIV prevention and treatment, about women empowerment and possibilities of transitioning from the street life. For the first time, Amina heard about PEP, medication that could have prevented her from getting HIV if only she had known about it earlier. But it wasn’t too late for treatment.
The BHESP team didn’t just talk; they brought services to the dumpsite. Friendly clinicians, HIV tests, medication, and most of all, compassion. Amina got tested. When the results came back positive, she expected the same shame and judgment she had always feared. Instead, the clinician held her hand and told her she wasn’t alone. That she could still live. That they would walk this journey with her.
Today, Amina is on treatment. She is healthier, stronger, and no longer afraid to seek help. Since BHESP started coming to the dumpsite, the cases of rape have reduced. Girls now know where to go, who to trust, and how to fight back, not with fists, but with knowledge and support.
Amina still has scars, both visible and hidden, but she no longer walks in fear. She walks with purpose, knowing that she is no longer just surviving, she is reclaiming her life. Today, Amina works with BHESP as an outreach worker. She helps identify cases like hers, offering hope and support to young girls who have endured the same horrors she once did.
