The Karate Class Where Kenya’s Grandmothers Learn to Fight Back

The room fills slowly. Women who appear to be between their sixties and their nineties arrive one by one, greeting each other softly as they take their places in the hall. Some move with ease; others measure their steps carefully before joining the circle. A padded sack stuffed with old clothes hangs from the ceiling, swaying slightly. They are here to train in Karate. 

When the training begins, there is no music and no spectacle, only instruction and focus.

At the center stands Beatrice Nyariari. Her maroon dress shifts as she steps forward, a headscarf tied firmly in place. One arm rises, the other follows, controlled and precise, aimed at the hanging target. Her feet are set, weight evenly balanced. There is no urgency in her movements, only intention. Though her frame is slight, each strike lands with purpose.

Nearly twenty years ago, Beatrice was forced to learn how to fight.

Korogocho, one of Nairobi’s oldest informal settlements, is a dense maze of corrugated iron homes stitched together by narrow footpaths. It sits beside the Dandora dumpsite, East Africa’s largest landfill,  long associated with environmental and public health risks. Street lighting is limited, police patrols are infrequent, and after dark, safety is uncertain, particularly for elderly women.

It was in this environment that Beatrice, now 84, received a handwritten note slipped under her door. It warned her that she would be attacked.

At the time, she was already in her sixties. Elderly women in the area were being stalked, assaulted, and in some cases killed. The violence was driven in part by persistent myths about older women’s bodies. Some young men believed that having sex with an elderly woman could cure HIV/AIDs or cleanse them of wrongdoing: a dangerous misconception that turned older women into deliberate targets.

That night, someone tried to break into Beatrice’s home.

“I told him, ‘If you enter this house, one of us will go to jail and the other to the mortuary,’” Beatrice said.

When the door finally gave way, the man stepped inside, expecting to find an unarmed woman. Beatrice was waiting behind the door. She struck him, bringing him to the ground. His screams alerted neighbors, who rushed in to help.

“That night changed everything; I was not the woman they were used to. And I knew other women didn’t have to be either.”

Globally, one in three women experience gender-based violence. In Kenya, the figure rises to 45 percent among women and girls aged 15 to 49. Rights groups say the risks are often higher in informal settlements, where poverty, overcrowding, and limited security intersect.

But statistics only tell part of the story.

A recent report by Kenya’s National Gender and Equality Commission warns that violence against older women remains largely invisible in public data and policy. While most gender-based violence statistics focus on women aged 15 to 49, women above 60 face heightened risk due to harmful social norms, weak legal protection, and limited awareness of their rights, especially in marginalized communities. Accusations linked to witchcraft and land disputes frequently trigger abuse.

“At that time, five elderly women I knew were raped and killed,” Beatrice told More to Her Story. “That is why we started Shosho Jikinge. The name means: Grandmother, defend yourself.”

Nearly three decades later, Beatrice continues to train and to teach other older women.

The group, which now has more than 30 members aged between 50 and 105, meets every Tuesday. They practice simple but effective self-defense techniques: strikes to vulnerable points, loud verbal resistance, and coordinated movement designed to create time to escape and draw attention.

When the group began, they were trained by a foreign martial artist working in the area. After six months, Beatrice took over, occasionally supported by visiting instructors.

“At first, people laughed,” she said. “They said we were wasting time. But when women fought back, and attackers were beaten, that is when they believed.”

Today, only two women in the group have been attacked since joining. One of them is Beatrice herself.

Mary Njoki joined Shosho Jikinge decades ago, after witnessing neighbours dragged from their homes and attacked. Now 100 years old, she still attends training. She leans on a cane occasionally, but when she stands, she does so steadily, her posture upright, her balance intact.

“They were targeting elderly women because they thought we had no energy,” she said. “If they had found me alone then, I don’t think I would be here.”

For Mary, karate restored something deeper than physical safety. “It gave us courage and unity,” she said. 

Over time, Shosho Jikinge became more than a self-defense group. Members meet up to four times a month, combining training with discussions, counseling, and savings contributions. They run a merry-go-round fund to help cover food, medical bills, and emergencies.

Joseph Ngaga, Mary’s son, says the change in his mother is unmistakable.

“She is stronger. Less dependent,” he said. “When she goes for training, I feel at peace knowing she will live longer and stronger.”

Supporting the women is Restoring Dignity, an organization that has worked in Korogocho for years.

“We realized that elderly women were the most forgotten,” said Frederick Ogolla, the organization’s director. “People believe once you are old, you are just waiting to die.”

Restoring Dignity provides food support, counseling, legal referrals, and runs a short-term rescue centre for survivors of sexual and gender-based violence.

“Rape cases remain high because of corruption, threats to witnesses, and police inaction,” Ogolla said. “Perpetrators walk free. Survivors are left alone.”

For the Shosho Jikinge group, healing extends beyond physical defence. Weekly counselling sessions address trauma, depression, and isolation experiences often overlooked among older women.

“Many speak about land grabbing, poverty, abandonment,” Ogolla said. “Counseling that we offer helps restore dignity and hope.”

Back at training, Beatrice watches as women her age practice palm strikes and shout their refusal in unison.

“Every part of the body is a weapon,” she told them.

Nearly three decades after that night at her door, fear no longer defines Korogocho’s elderly women. Violence has not disappeared, but silence has.

“We are not helpless,” Beatrice told More to Her Story. “We are strong. We just needed to believe it.”