Shut Out of the Job Market: PWDs in Kwale Decry Lost Opportunities

Reading Time: 4min

Every morning in Diani Beach, as tourists stroll past luxury hotels and the quiet sweep of palm trees, 35-year-old Felix Kangara settles himself outside his family’s modest rental house. From here, he watches the quick, effortless movements of people heading to work, movements he wishes he could make on his own.

Felix was born with a physical disability that restricts his mobility. On most days, he still relies on his 63-year-old mother to carry him around their neighbourhood. It is a bond forged by necessity, but one that now weighs heavily on both of them.

For the past decade, Felix has tried nearly everything to find work. He has submitted applications to hotels, small shops, local projects anything that promised a steady income. Every time, the outcome has been the same: silence or polite rejection.

“I have knocked on every door in Diani,” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite hide the fatigue. “People say there are jobs, but not for someone like me. If I had some capital to start poultry farming, I would at least depend on myself.” Said Felix.

Felix’s frustration mirrors a wider struggle among persons with disabilities (PWDs) across Kwale County. Despite the county’s economic growth, new hotels, expanding farms, and busy construction sites, many PWDs say the opportunities remain closed off to them.

Kenya’s Employment Act and the Persons with Disabilities Act promise equal opportunities and require at least five percent of public service jobs to be held by PWDs. But on the ground, disability rights groups say, those provisions rarely translate into real employment.

Speaking during this year's World Disability Day in Kinango, Kwale County, the message from disability Associations was blunt: people with disabilities still have challenges unsolved.

“Kwale has booming hotels, quarries, farms, and construction sites,” said disability rights coordinator. Shiela Wasu “Yet very few PWDs are on the payroll. Employers assume it will cost too much to accommodate us, or they simply underestimate our abilities.”

Some say interviews are held in buildings with steep entrances, no ramps, and no sign language support. Job openings are often posted online, inaccessible to visually impaired applicants. Others point out that county departments rarely follow through with disability inclusion audits.

For Felix, the idea of poultry farming is not a lofty business dream; it is a simple path to independence.

“I know I can do it,” he says. “I can feed the chickens and keep records. My mother can supervise. But without even a small amount of capital, the idea just stays in my head.”

Entrepreneurship, many argue, could be a lifeline. But the reality is tougher. Accessing county loans or national funds often requires mobility, formal paperwork, guarantors, or digital literacy hurdles that shut out many aspiring PWD entrepreneurs.

Disability-led groups say that even the county’s efforts to award more tenders to local businesses have not reached them. They cite complex documentation, lack of training and subtle biases from procurement officers who doubt their ability to deliver.

For Felix’s mother, Margaret Kangara, each day brings mixed emotions. She supports her son willingly, but she also knows she is aging.

“I fear for his future,” she admits, her voice low. “If he had a small project, even just chickens, he would not depend on me. That is all a mother wants to see her child stand on his own.”

Kwale Governor Fatuma Achani, responding to concerns raised by PWD advocates, urged caregivers to ensure their children receive training and skills that match available opportunities.

“We have minimum requirements, just like any employer,” she said. “Caregivers and parents should help their children get an education and set up companies so they can qualify for County tenders,” advised Achani.

As evening light softens over Diani’s white sands, Felix leans on the chair, raising his head high up, and watches children racing their bicycles along the sandy path outside. He watches for a moment, smiles, before the expression fades.

“One day,” he says quietly, “I want people to know that disability is not inability. I just need a chance or a small start.”

In Kwale, that chance still feels distant for many like him. The hope remains steady but strained as opportunities continue to slip away.