Recognising Kenyan Sign Language means nothing without real accessibility in schools, hospitals and courts

When we learn to sign, we do more than communicate. We open doors to inclusion, because silence is never the absence of a voice; sometimes, it speaks through signs. The tragedy is that Kenya has spent years talking about inclusion while failing to listen to the people it claims to include. We love the language of equality. We celebrate diversity in speeches. We issue polished statements about leaving no one behind. A Deaf Kenyan walks into a hospital and struggles to explain what is wrong. A parent goes to a government office and cannot communicate with the official behind the desk. A child enters a classroom where the teacher cannot adequately communicate in Kenyan Sign Language. A citizen encounters the justice system and discovers that the right to be heard means very little when the system has failed to make communication possible. It is exclusion wearing a suit and tie. Kenya’s Constitution recognises Kenyan Sign Language, and the Kenya Sign Language Bill, 2024, seeks to strengthen access to information and education, provide a framework for sign-language interpretation and promote the rights of Deaf, hard-of-hearing and Deafblind people. The Bill also proposes a Kenyan Sign Language Council to regulate sign-language interpretation. But Kenya has become remarkably good at producing beautiful words and painfully slow at turning them into reality. A law cannot interpret a doctor’s instructions. A constitutional promise cannot translate an emergency. A government press release cannot teach a child. A national celebration cannot replace an interpreter. And the consequences are not decorative. UNICEF has highlighted continuing challenges affecting inclusive education for children with disabilities in Eastern and Southern Africa, including gaps in data, policies and funding, while stressing the importance of sign language in Deaf children’s education. Think about the absurdity. Kenya can find money for political rallies, branding, publicity campaigns and endless meetings, yet accessibility is too often treated as an afterthought. Why should a Deaf citizen have to fight for something as basic as communication? Why should a child have to overcome an institutional barrier before even getting the chance to learn? Why should a family become an expert in navigating bureaucracy simply because the State has failed to accommodate a communication need? And why are we still talking about these things as though they are acts of kindness? That distinction matters. For too long, disability has been approached through charity: give someone assistance, express sympathy, take a photograph and move on. Deaf Kenyans do not need pity. They need functioning institutions. They need schools equipped to teach them. They need hospitals capable of communicating with them. They need courts where interpretation is available. They need police services they can access.