Alice Mbere: My life at 2ft tall

Alice Mbere: My life at 2ft tall (Photo: Stafford Ondego, Standard) When Alice Mbere was around five years old, her parents noticed that she was not growing taller. Alice is the fifth child among nine siblings. Her parents had prior experience of what normal growth and development looked like. "They started taking me to doctors, one after another. Each doctor had their own diagnosis. Some said bone problems. Another suggested surgery. And so on. But none of them provided a solution. At some point, my parents got tired: my father thought to himself, 'It's not hurting her. Let it be,'" she says. It is not hard to imagine why her father wound up the search. Everyone who has met Alice can tell why. She is bubbly; she is friendly; she is lively. And most of all, her mental acuity - at the very least - pings above average. Put another way: if you closed your eyes and had a conversation with Alice, you would never know she is only 85cm tall. "I am a person living with a disability (PLWD)," she says, unflinchingly. Alice has a condition known as short stature. You could also call it Little Person. "Previously, it was called dwarfism, but the term is no longer in use," she says. The challenges of living with her height started immediately when she needed to start school. For Alice, everything is twice as big, distance too. A school next door would have been befitting. But in rural Nyandarua, where she was born, schools were far-flung. "So, my parents arranged for my aunty, who lived in Nairobi, to take me in. The first school I went to was special in Dagoreti," she says. "When I showed up, the principal, a woman, refused to admit me. She said I should be taken to a special school" (Photo: Stafford Ondego, Standard) School, she says, was great, save for one thing: "I was always positioned one-almost effortlessly." The fact that she was bored being position one speaks to a flawed education system that groups all PWLDs as one and rounds off their needs to one special school. "I told my parents that I wanted to go to a 'normal' school where I could compete academically." Her father acquiesced and went to hunt for a school. He did get a 'normal' school. But first, the old man had to explain who his little girl was before he could get a 'yes'. "Even the head teacher had to prepare the ground; tell the other students to remain calm about my admission and to treat me like any other learner. "The day I was admitted, as I sat in the interview at 9 am, the room went dark. The windows were full to the top. "The pupils were so curious: they just wanted to see the new short student they had been told about. "Generally, I am a happy person. I was just laughing at the mayhem. I was waving and saying Hi," Alice says. She knew exactly why the students were cramping the windows, pushing and shoving each other for the best line of vision. Before that moment, she notes, she had possibly been stared at a million times. It was normal. She expected it. In fact, before developing some level of immunity to it, she was frightened by the stares in the earlier years. She would hide away from people. Before her arrival, a curious student had asked, openly, for the teachers to say how tall the new student was. "I am told one of the teachers responded by saying, 'She is not taller than the length of two school rulers.'" Everywhere she went, she became an object of obsession for onlookers. To disarm their gazes, she developed an amiable stance, almost as if she understood that their curiosity needed satisfaction. "Some students wanted to know how I sat on chairs. Some wanted to know if I could hold a pen and write. So, I would invite them to come see." In 2013, she sat for KCPE. Up until that moment, at least in her opinion, she had fared well. She had learned to let the people staring look to their fill, and her charm made her many friends. The teachers and the school administration were also extremely protective of her: always on the lookout for any type of bullying or mishandling directed her way. She passed the primary school exams, and, as it has been the norm, she received an invitation letter to study at a public high school in Kiambu County. She expected the usual stares on the day of her admission. But something more torturous lay in wait. "When I showed up, the principal, a woman, refused to admit me. She said I should be taken to a special school. "She said I would need a special bed and other special amenities that the school did not have. I was hurt to the core. "As we left, I had a new understanding of how I was perceived. I told my parents that I no longer wanted school. I was fine with calling it a day on matters of learning. "It was a big blow to my self-esteem. She was an old lady, almost like my grandmother. I did not understand how she could say that about me. I felt so discriminated," she says. Her parents were dejected too. But her father did not lose hope. He sought other high schools, eventually walking into Uthiru Girls. Upon explaining the A-Z of Alice's academic journey, the principal at the school told him to bring the girl to school. The principal was cautiously optimistic that Alice could sit for KCSE at the school. And she did: in 2017. "The principal and the teachers treated me so well," Alice says. At Uthiru Girls, Alice did not just course through like every other student; she also served as the Peace Club President. She mustered enough audacity to also become a scout and a first-aider. During games or tournaments, she would be at hand to provide reprieve to the injured. Alice got the first chance to competitively seek leadership at Cooperative University. "I joined the university in 2018 for a degree in Human Resource Management." Every year, the university conducted elections in which students voted for the next office holders for the students' council. "I went for the Gender and Special Needs Secretary position. As a PLWD, I knew exactly what needed to be done to address the interests of those like me," she says. Initially, she was part of a field of five. She was the unlikeliest candidate. But her popularity began to grow. Ironically, her height, for which many had ruled her out, became the main talking point and center of attention. On campaign stops, students swarmed around her to listen. She took to the stage for a debate between the candidates: using the opportunity to charismatically plead her case. "I will also need help for something as easy as opening the door. I have the key, but I need someone to give me a hand to reach the padlock" ((Photo: Stafford Ondego, Standard) "I was exquisite on that debate stage. I hammered my opponents with great points that drew lots of cheers from the audience." On election day, the field had shrunk to three candidates. Alice delivered a landslide victory to the chagrin of many. Being a student leader allowed her to meet political bigwigs. She also joined Amani National Congress (ANC) - the now defunct party that was headed by current Prime CS Musalia Mudavadi. She became the party's secretary of disability league for Nairobi. Having served the party for a year - before the elections - she successfully lobbied to be considered for nomination as an MCA to the Murang'a County Assembly. "My name was gazetted for nomination," she says. But she was about to come face to face with the intensive cutthroat competition political positions attract. "People started emerging from nowhere, claiming to be more deserving than I. My name was taken off the final gazette list," she says. But Alice was not willing to let go of the opportunity without a fight. With the help of a pro-bono lawyer, she submitted an affidavit to Milimani Law Courts, seeking judgment as to whether she deserved the slot compared to those who eventually did. She represented herself in court and won the case. "The judge gave his ruling and sent me with documents to formally declare me as the duly nominated MCA. But it was too late. The seat was gone; someone more powerful and with more money had taken it. "When I went to IEBC with the documents, inside the elevator, someone advised me to let it go. He told me: 'You are a young girl. The people you are fighting have money. If they ask for your head today, they will get it. Live to fight another day.'" With that warning, and feeling exhausted from the battle, she took a sabbatical from politics and exited ANC. Today, Alice is an acclaimed master of ceremony presiding over events. She is also an advocate of the rights of PLWDs. She gives talks and counsels those who need the inspiration to keep going. Her services are much sought after. Challenges abound as a short person. One of them being finding the right clothes. "I cannot walk into a boutique and find something that fits. Perhaps in the toddler section - in which case the clothes usually come with baby embroidery or toddler art that aren't quite befitting of my age." On the day of this interview, wearing a black waistcoat and an accompanying pair of trousers, she told us she uses 'plugs' - second-hand clothes merchandisers who pick clothing that would fit her or only need minor adjustments. "I also have a tailor who can work on an ensemble when I need one. The result of these struggles is that my clothes don't come cheap. On average, I pay more for clothes compared to normal-bodied people," she says. Even so, the biggest challenge living with short stature, she says, is that "the world is extra big for me." She explains: "Being able to move around as I go about my life is difficult. If I am using public transport, I need to be lifted to the seat. Because I am a lady, and I don't like being handled a certain way by every Tom, Dick, and Harry, many times I will use a taxi. Of course, it is expensive to protect my dignity. "I will also need help for something as easy as opening the door. I have the key, but I need someone to give me a hand to reach the padlock. In the house, I have stepping stools placed strategically around the house to help me maneuver around." Since last year, Alice found reprieve for some of these challenges thanks to her husband. Both Alice and the man requested that we don't publish anything about him. "He has really been supportive. What I can't do he will do or help me get it done," she says. As for the future, she says, she would love to have two children. Also, in 2027, she will be on the ballot. "I won't wait for nomination again," she says. To date, she still gets stares. "I only turn and say Hi." Generally, she says, people have been nice to her. She has been assisted with bags when traveling. She has been given priority on long queues. Her hand has been held by strangers who wanted to help in one way or another. "This is not to say we are having it easy. Perhaps I am talkative and very friendly, and therefore I get better treatment. There are others like me who have been treated horribly just for being short."

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