Have you ever been in those scenarios where the baby wants to feed right now, not in five minutes, not when you get home, not when you find a “private place”, but now now? You’re in a mall, or church, or a family gathering, minding your business, and suddenly your baby starts rooting like they’re sniffing out a hidden milk stash. And before you even process what’s happening, you realise it’s feeding time, in public.
Every Kenyan mum knows that silent panic. You do a quick scan of the room, wondering who’s watching, who’s pretending not to watch, and who’s silently judging. Babies don’t care about any of that. They don’t take public opinion into account. They just demand. Loudly. And if you delay, they will embarrass you with a scream that echoes across counties.
So you take a deep breath, adjust your top or your shawl, or sometimes you just surrender to the moment, and you feed your child. And suddenly, you feel every pair of eyes on you. Some are supportive. Some are confused. Some act like you’ve started a live performance they weren’t prepared for. Some aunties who breastfed ten kids suddenly behave like breastfeeding is a scandalous modern invention.
But here’s the thing: breastfeeding in public is not a show. It’s survival. It’s nourishment. It’s you choosing your baby’s needs over society’s discomfort, because honestly, if the roles were reversed and adults screamed for food the way babies do, no one would question feeding them immediately.
With time, you learn the tricks. The multipurpose shawl that doubles as a superhero cape. The outfits that open like they were designed by an engineer. The confidence that grows with every outing. The slow realisation that you’re not the problem, people’s stares are.
And then there’s the sisterhood of Kenyan mums. The ones who give you an encouraging nod. The ones who whisper, “Feed your baby, mama.” The ones who shield you from the sun or hold your handbag while you settle the baby. Those tiny acts of solidarity remind you that motherhood is a shared journey, not a shameful one.
Breastfeeding in public is normal. Feeding a hungry child is normal. Being a mum in real time, chaotic, unplanned, beautiful, is normal.
So to every Kenyan mum who has ever hesitated, who has felt embarrassed, who has looked around before unhooking that bra clip, just remember: you are doing something powerful and natural. Your baby doesn’t care about the audience. They only care that you’re there.
And if anyone has a problem with that? They can simply look away. Because in that moment, the only person who truly matters is the little human in your arms who believes you are the safest, warmest place in the world.