Standing before a crowd, I felt a mix of gratitude and nervousness. Expressing my feelings openly was never easy, but on this particular day, I had to speak—because what I had received was more than just a gift; it was a lifeline.
For years, my daily life was defined by dependence. Moving from one place to another was a struggle, one that required constant assistance. Simple tasks that many take for granted—going to the market, attending social gatherings, or even just stepping outside to enjoy the fresh air—were nearly impossible without someone’s help. It was not just the physical limitation that weighed on me, but the emotional toll of always having to rely on others, of feeling like a burden.
Then came a conversation with my friend, James. He had observed my struggles, my silent battles, the moments when I hesitated to ask for help because I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. He saw what so many others overlooked. And from that moment, the idea of a motorized wheelchair was born.
I never truly believed it would happen. For so long, I had grown accustomed to managing with what little I had, to adjusting my life around the barriers placed before me. But then, the impossible became reality. Through the kindness and generosity of others, I received a motorized wheelchair—a simple device, yet one that completely transformed my life.
For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of independence. I could move freely, make decisions without waiting for someone to assist me, and regain a part of my dignity that had been slowly slipping away. It was a moment of overwhelming gratitude, but also a moment of deep reflection.
Why did it take so long for such a basic need to be met? Why do people with disabilities have to wait for a stroke of luck, a kind-hearted friend, or a rare act of generosity to access what should be a fundamental right?
Too often, society forgets us. We are left on the margins, our struggles invisible, our voices unheard. Infrastructure is not designed for us, workplaces hesitate to hire us, and even in social spaces, we are treated as afterthoughts. It takes extraordinary effort just to live an ordinary life.
As I looked at the faces before me that day, I knew that my gratitude was not just for the wheelchair itself but for the reminder that there are still people who care, people who see us. But kindness should not be the exception—it should be the norm. Inclusion should not be a favor—it should be a right.
I keep a small memento from that day, a reminder not just of the generosity I received but of the responsibility we all share. The responsibility to make sure no one feels forgotten.
Because disability is not inability. Being unseen is the real barrier.
By Zaddock Onyiego
