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My name is Florence Kasichana Mwatete. I am a firefighter in Kenya. I have been one for ten years now, and I am still on the ride.Firefighting, where I work, is not just about fighting fires. It is about a shortage. It is about broken equipment, missing equipment, and learning how to work without the things that are supposed to keep you alive. It is about making decisions in seconds while knowing your hands are tied.
The lack of personal protective equipment is not a rare challenge for us. It is constant. We discuss it at the station in the same way people talk about the weather. We know which tools are broken. We know which ones are missing. We know which risks we will have to take before the call even comes in.
Still, when the alarm sounds, we go.
Passion is what carries us. It is the reason we step into smoke without proper protection. It is the reason we breathe toxic air and hope our lungs forgive us later. Passion convinces you that somehow, this time, it will be enough.
Sometimes the danger is not only the fire.
In Kenya, firefighters are sometimes met with anger instead of relief. We arrived late because the fire engine had broken down again. We do our best, and yet it is still not enough.
Angry crowds gather. Stones are thrown. We are accused of being slow, of not caring, of refusing to help. Few people see the broken hoses and the missing equipment. They only see loss, and they need someone to blame.
More than once, we have had to fight fires while also protecting ourselves from mobs. Fear and frustration rise on both sides. We want to save what we can. They want answers we do not have.
And then there was the incident that still follows me.
She was almost my age.
She fell into a pit, deep, narrow, and unforgiving. Nearly eighty feet down. A place never meant for a human body. The air inside was already bad. You could feel it before anyone went in.
We arrived while she was alive. I remember that clearly. We could hear her voice. We could hear fear, pain, and hope all mixed together.
We tried to reach her.
One firefighter went down and had to come back up. There was not enough air. Another tried. Then another. Each one reached the same point, where breathing became impossible. We had no breathing apparatus. No way to protect our lungs in that confined space.
It was a rescue that required equipment we did not have.
So we stood above the pit.
We listened.
She screamed for help. She called out to us. Her voice carried clearly at first, echoing up through the narrow opening. Time stretched in a way that still feels unreal. One hour passed. Then two. Then six. Then a full day.
We stayed. We listened. We hoped.
Her voice weakened. Her breathing changed. And then there was nothing.
Silence.
That silence stays with me.
As firefighters, we carry guilt even when logic tells us we did everything possible. We were there. We were not late. We heard her. And yet she died. It feels like we killed her, not with our hands, but with absence. With missing equipment. With systems that failed long before we arrived.
The community does not always see that part. They see the outcome. They see death. They see fire still burning. And sometimes, their grief turns into anger aimed straight at us.
We carry that too.
And still, we return to work.
Because, despite everything, the smoke in our lungs, the stones thrown at our backs, the voices we cannot forget, this job still has meaning.
There are days when we save lives. Days when someone walks again because we showed up. Days when a family still has a home.
After the pit incident, I shared the story with firefighter friends around the world. It broke them as it broke me. One of them suggested we try to raise money for an air compressor. We already had breathing apparatus packs, donated by a European support team, but they were useless without a way to fill them.
Funds were raised. An air compressor was bought and shipped to Kenya. Even then, it was not simple. It became stuck at the port. More fees. More waiting. More moments where it felt like hope was slipping away again.
But eventually, it came through.
And with it came something we had been missing for far too long: a fighting chance.
Today, when we enter confined spaces, we can breathe. When we hear a voice calling from somewhere dark and dangerous, we can go toward it instead of standing still.
I am still a firefighter. Still carrying guilt. Still facing risk. Still stepping into uncertainty.
But I stay because this work matters. Because someone has to answer the call. Because even in a system full of gaps, lives can still be saved.
And because hope, like fire, survives in the smallest spaces.