By Okoth Otieno
Valerie Matha, a fish vendor in Homa Bay’s Modern Fish Market
On the shores of Lake Victoria in Homa Bay County, mornings begin with the thud of wooden boats docking and traders calling out prices for the night’s catch. Smoke rises from charcoal stoves, tilapia glints in the first light, and women count coins before sunrise. Among the crowd are young mothers with babies tied to their backs and baskets at their feet, already calculating how to stretch the day’s earnings into school fees, rent, and food.
In this beach economy, survival depends on speed, stamina, and negotiation skills. For many young women, however, it also depends on how well they can balance income with childcare. They buy, sort, smoke, and sell fish, often as primary breadwinners, while managing households and raising children. A single day can include preparing children for school, working long market hours, budgeting expenses, and returning home to evening caregiving. Responsibility comes early, and it is immediate.
Among them is Valerie Matha, a fish vendor in Homa Bay’s Modern Fish Market whose workday begins not with customers but with her children. She wakes at 5am each morning after nights spent nursing her two-month-old daughter. The late start is not idleness. It is recovery from a different shift.
“I start by making tea for the children,” she says softly. School comes first. Once they leave, she wraps the baby securely on her back and heads to the market.
Fish trading is the backbone of Valerie’s household economy. Her earnings pay rent, cover school fees, and keep food on the table. Across lakeside communities, small-scale fish trade remains one of the few accessible income sources for young mothers without formal employment. Yet such work rarely comes with childcare, insurance, or predictable income. Her stall is both a workplace and risk zone, a place where profit depends on presence, and presence is complicated by motherhood.
Valerie did not inherit the trade or receive formal training. She learned by watching others, studying how they selected fresh fish, bargained with buyers, and calculated margins after transport costs. Eventually someone guided her, but most of her skills came through observation and persistence. Today she works independently, with no contract and no guaranteed earnings, only the daily gamble of supply, demand, and fluctuating prices.
The hardest part of the job is not the bargaining or long hours. It is the divided attention motherhood demands.
“When you come with a child, you don’t know how they are doing,” she explains. “Maybe they are sick. You leave them for a moment to serve customers. When you return, people tell you to carry the baby. But if you carry the baby, customers leave.”
Her dilemma is constant. She must hold the baby and risk losing income, or serve customers and worry about the child. It is a quiet calculation repeated daily by young working mothers across informal markets, largely invisible to policy planners and market designers.
Despite their contribution to local economies, many face stigma. Some are dismissed as irresponsible or judged for entering trade at a young age. Valerie says even at home her work is questioned.
“He says it doesn’t mean anything,” she says of her husband’s doubts. “But to me, it means a lot.”
Her response is not confrontation but persistence. She keeps working.
Like many small traders, what Valerie wants most is capital. Fish prices change unpredictably, and limited starting funds restrict how much stock she can buy or how long she can withstand slow sales. Without financial buffers, growth remains fragile.
“If we had funds, we could grow,” she says. “Without capital, it is very hard.”
Her experience mirrors a wider pattern. Development analysts note that informal economies often rely heavily on women’s labour while offering little structural protection. Policies supporting young mothers, such as school re-entry guidelines or youth enterprise programs, exist, yet access barriers, complex procedures, and lack of childcare infrastructure mean many women rarely feel their impact. As a result, support systems often emerge informally through shared childcare among traders, savings groups, mentorship from older vendors, and carefully managed household budgets.
Contrary to stereotypes that early motherhood ends ambition, many young mothers describe clear goals. Some plan to return to school or enroll in vocational training. Others hope to expand businesses, stabilize housing, or save enough to increase stock. Their aspirations are practical and incremental, measured not in distant dreams but in daily progress.
Valerie measures success the same way, through her children’s future rather than her present comfort. Her earnings disappear quickly into fees, food, and rent, yet she counts each payment as proof that her effort is moving her family forward.
“What I want my child to understand,” she says, pausing, “is that I don’t want them to go through what I have gone through.”
By late afternoon the market noise softens. Valerie counts the day’s earnings while gently rocking her baby with her foot. The child sleeps, unaware of the calculations being made for her future. Valerie looks down and smiles.
“This work,” she says, “will change their lives.”
Her story is not an exception but a window into how young mothers sustain households and local economies while navigating stigma, financial limits, and caregiving demands. Along the lakeshore, their labour keeps markets alive, their decisions shape families’ futures, and their persistence quietly challenges the idea that motherhood diminishes ambition.