Sarah Shune

In a quiet corner of Isiolo, inside a simple one-room home, lives Sarah Shune. Her days unfold slowly now, guided by the changing light outside her window and the steady silence that fills her space. Once a mother of seven, Sarah and her husband built a life through small jobs and long hours. She washed clothes for neighbors while he cleaned and helped at a local hotel. Every day was about finding enough to carry them through. It wasn’t easy, but they made it work together. Over time, life began to shift. Sarah lost four of her children. The remaining three, though alive, are distant physically and emotionally. She knows where they are, but they don’t call. They don’t visit. Their absence settled in quietly. Then one day, she fell and broke her leg. The injury left her in hospital for three months. When she returned home, she couldn’t walk. She couldn’t even stand. And then, as if the ground beneath her hadn’t already crumbled, her husband passed away. Suddenly, she was alone no partner, no children nearby, no income, and no way to care for herself.

She remained in that state still, silent, surrounded by the four walls of a home that now felt more like a cage. A neighbor noticed her condition and stepped in to help. They placed a table beside her bed with everything she might need: a cooking pot, water, a few utensils. Sarah prepared what she could from that single spot. And when the neighbor left, they would gently lock her door from outside. It wasn’t just a gesture of safety it was care. This became her routine. Her world narrowed down to the things within reach. With no food security, hunger followed. Some days passed with very little. The energy to hope began to fade. Then came a shift, a quiet one, but life changing. Mama Ibado Charity enrolled Sarah into the Seniors Feeding Program. And with that, something she hadn’t felt in a long time returned: relief.

With every food delivery came a small restoration of rhythm and dignity. She no longer had to stretch one portion across days or wonder if she would go to bed hungry. The presence of food brought stability, consistency, and the subtle but profound message that she mattered. Her children may still be distant. Her health hasn’t returned. But she is no longer entirely alone. The food she receives is not just nourishment it’s a sign that her life hasn’t been forgotten. It’s a reminder that someone, somewhere, still sees her. 

Sarah Shune’s story is not about tragedy, though she has faced more than her share. It is about the reality of aging without support, and the power of small, consistent acts of care. Her life today is quiet, shaped by limitations, but it is also marked by the impact of a program that chose to show up. Sometimes, dignity isn’t restored in big, loud moments.