Nairobi's night heroines: The women who keep the city running after dark
From left: Peris Khayo, Mary Achieng' and Agnes Kangu. These women who brave insults, arrests and unpaid wages to feed their families.
What you need to know:
- Nairobi's night economy thrives on the labour of single mothers who brave danger and harassment to support their families.
- From street sweepers to security guards, these women transform the feared darkness into opportunity, working through cold nights while orchestrating their children's daytime lives.
- Their sacrifices forge paths to education and stability for their dependents.
While Nairobi's skyline dims and office workers retreat to their homes, an invisible army of women emerges from the shadows. These are the nocturnal heroines of Kenya's capital—sweepers, vendors, guards, and hustlers who surrender their nights to claim a better tomorrow.
Under the cold glow of streetlights, they battle not just the darkness, but a gauntlet of challenges: the biting cold that seeps through layers of clothing, unpredictable encounters with intoxicated passers-by, and the constant threat of harassment from city officials known as kanjos. Their workspace is a city transformed—quieter yet more dangerous, offering both opportunity and vulnerability in equal measure.
These women have rewritten the rules of motherhood and survival. Each night, as they step into Nairobi's darkened streets, they carry with them not just the tools of their trade, but the weight of their children's dreams. Their hands sweep streets, serve hot tea, or guard buildings—not just to earn today's bread, but to fund tomorrow's education and possibilities.
In the heartbeat of Nairobi's night economy, these women have found an unlikely path to independence—turning hours others fear into the foundation of their families' futures. Their stories challenge our understanding of work, motherhood, and resilience in a city that never truly sleeps.
The midnight custodian: How Mary sweeps her children's path to success
The city has quieted down as I meet Mary Achieng', 38, at Nairobi's Harambee Avenue on a Friday night in late February. Under the dim streetlights at 11pm, she methodically sweeps leaves, plastics, and papers from the parking lot, her movements practiced and efficient.
Bundled against the night chill in a long black coat and beanie, her green Nairobi City Council reflector jacket catches the light as she works. Unlike many who find themselves working the graveyard shift, Mary chose this path deliberately.
Mary Achieng, an employee of Nairobi County, cleans the Sunken Parking on the night of February 28, 2025. She says working at night has helped her stay focused, she doesn't have free time for outings or socialising.
"I began working as a night sweeper in September 2023," she explains, pausing briefly from her work. As the sole provider for her four children, the 10pm to 6am shift allows her to run a small business during daylight hours to supplement her modest salary.
Mary's day begins when others are ending theirs. After her night shift ends, she returns home to wake her children, helps the youngest prepare for school. Only then does she allow herself a few hours of rest before heading back to the city to open her side business.
The careful orchestration of her household runs like clockwork.
"Before I leave the house each night, I ensure my children's meals are all cooked," she says. With her eldest at boarding school, responsibility falls to her second child to oversee homework. "I pay for remedial classes, and most times they finish their homework before coming home," she adds with quiet pride.
Even when rain lashes the city streets, Mary continues her work diligently, protected by council-issued raincoats. The unconventional hours have become a normal part of life for her family.
"Working at night doesn't affect my personal or family life as much as you might think," she reflects. "In fact, it has helped me stay focused. I don't have free time for outings or socialising."
Mary's face softens when she speaks of her children, revealing the core of her motivation. "They are my biggest cheerleaders. They keep me going," she says. "Through my hard work, I can pay their school fees and provide what they need."
She recalls a moment that sustains her through difficult nights: "I remember when my eldest told me, 'Mum najua unastrain lakini hutastrain for long kutakuwa tu kusawa (Mum, I know you're struggling, but you won't struggle forever. We will be okay.)” Her voice catches slightly. "That melted my heart and confirmed they see my efforts."
Despite working through the night in a major city, Mary feels secure. "I'm okay," she assures me. "We're never alone. There are county constables and police officers around, so we're well protected."
Though she downplays challenges, Mary acknowledges occasional difficult encounters with intoxicated passers-by. Her approach is one of calculated restraint.
"A while back when I was working along Accra Road, a drunk man wanted to urinate in the parking lot. When I asked him not to, he ignored me," she recounts. "So, I simply moved to sweep another area. Sometimes drunkards hurl insults when I correct them, and I just ignore it."
The cleaning teams work on rotation, with three days off after eleven consecutive nights. Mary treasures these breaks as opportunities to reconnect with her children's lives.
"I have all their teachers' contacts," she says with the diligence of a parent determined not to miss anything important. "We talk if there's any issue."
As Mary resumes her sweeping, the empty streets of Harambee Avenue begin to shine under her care—much like the future she is determinedly cleaning up for her children.
Kernels of resilience: Alice's midnight maize stand feeds a family's dreams
The clock strikes midnight on Tom Mboya Street when I find Alice Nyaguthi tending to her humble enterprise. At 55, she stands vigilant beside her jiko where maize cobs simmer in boiling water, steam rising into the cool night air. Dressed in a vibrant short-sleeved floral blouse and a well-worn apron, Alice chats amiably with a street child seated nearby who keeps her company in the late hours.
Alice's journey to this nocturnal trade began after a decade of searching for her commercial niche. Her weathered hands and determined expression tell the story of a woman who refused to surrender to failed ventures.
"For three years, I was selling second-hand clothes from 4pm to 7pm and many people were not buying," she recalls, adjusting the maize in her pot. "Then, I sold potatoes in Marikiti Market but competition and the high prices of potatoes made me think otherwise."
Ten years ago, she discovered her calling in the simplicity of boiled maize—a popular Kenyan street food that draws customers even in the midnight hours. Six nights a week, Monday through Saturday, Alice transforms this corner of Tom Mboya into her open-air shop, serving customers until her inventory depletes, usually around 1am.
Her business model is straightforward but effective. "Per day, I buy a stock of 100 maize from Marikiti for Sh2,000. I boil and sell at Sh20 and Sh40 for a full maize and make a profit of a minimum of Sh900 every day," she explains.
But beneath this apparent simplicity lies the constant threat of disruption. Alice's eyes narrow slightly as she describes her ongoing battle with city authorities. As a mother of six, these interruptions threaten more than just her business—they endanger her family's stability.
"Sometimes, they take my jiko and maize, and I am left without work," she says, gesturing to her cooking equipment that had been confiscated just days earlier. "It is frustrating because four of my children depend on me for livelihood plus, I have other bills to pay."
Despite these challenges, Alice's demeanour brightens when she speaks of her customers. Her voice carries unmistakable pride as she describes earning a living through her own enterprise. The unexpected generosity of late-night patrons—the extra shillings left as tips after purchasing her maize—serves as both financial boost and emotional affirmation.
As another customer approaches her stand, Alice straightens, ready to serve the steaming, aromatic maize that has become both her signature product and her family's lifeline in Nairobi's nocturnal economy.
Brewing determination: Agnes serves hope one cup at a time
The night has settled over Kimathi Street when I encounter Agnes Kangu, a 36-year-old mother serving steaming cups of tea to soldiers patrolling the area. Moving with her thermos and supplies through the cooling night air, Agnes has discovered an untapped opportunity in Nairobi's darkness.
"I opted to sell tea at night because there's much less competition," she explains.
As the city's office workers stream homeward around 5:30pm each evening, Agnes moves in the opposite direction. She enters the bustling downtown, ready to begin a marathon night shift that will stretch until 3am—all for the sake of her waiting children.
Agnes Kangu sells tea to her clients along Kimathi Street, Nairobi, on the night of February 28, 2025. She opted to sell tea at night because there's much less competition.
The rhythm of her day follows a careful choreography of motherhood and entrepreneurship. "Before coming to work, I always make sure my children have their supper ready," Agnes says. Her evening routine is precisely timed: "From 6pm to around 6:20pm I leave the kitchen ready to sell."
Her pricing structure is simple but effective: "I sell a cup of tea at Sh30, while bread and mandazi at Sh20. If you want a big piece of bread, I sell it at Sh50," she says.
Agnes is nothing if not mobile. Six nights a week, she traverses a carefully planned route through Nairobi's core—starting at Khoja Street, moving to Tom Mboya, then serving drivers and conductors at the Mount Kenya University stage, continuing to Moi Avenue, and ending her rounds at Kimathi Street. At each stop, her regular customers await their nightly brew.
But the darkness that shields her from competition also harbours dangers. Her face grows serious as she recounts the hazards of her trade.
"I have met clients who have given me fake money, half notes," she says, her voice tinged with resigned frustration. "I remember I was once given Sh500 that was fake and the client was in such a hurry." Her expression darkens further as she recalls a recent encounter with city authorities: "Mid last month, I was arrested by kanjo and they even hurled insults at me. I had to sleep in the cells for that night."
Despite these obstacles, there are moments of grace that sustain her. Agnes's expression softens as she shares how her persistence has earned respect from her clientele. "So many of my customers thank me for choosing to work to provide for my children," she says with quiet dignity, a smile briefly illuminating her tired features.
Guardian of two worlds: how Peris protects buildings by night, families by day
When I meet Peris Khayo, the 37-year-old is technically on leave, though her body—accustomed to nocturnal vigilance—struggles to readjust to daylight hours. As a night security guard responsible for some of Nairobi's towering office buildings and single mother of four, Peris brings the same watchful attention to both her professional duties and family responsibilities.
Peris Khayo, a night guard , during the interview at Nation Centre on March 3, 2025. Before departing home each evening, she ensures her children have eaten supper.
She began her career in security last year after completing two weeks of rigorous training. Now, her workday begins when many are heading home, reporting for duty at 4:30pm at one of the city's prominent high-rises and standing guard until 5:30am the following morning—though she notes that the standard shift for most cadets runs from 6pm to 6am.
"I take 30 minutes to change my clothes from civilian to uniform then change shift three times in the building," she explains, describing the routine that structures her nights.
The careful organisation that marks her professional life extends to her home. Before departing each evening, Peris ensures her children have eaten supper. For mornings when she might be delayed returning home, she leaves detailed instructions for her eldest daughter.
Her morning directives reflect both the care and practical challenges of a household living on a security guard's income: "When you wake up, make some tea if sugar and tea leaves are there. If there is an accompaniment you can share and if there is none, take tea like that then prepare your younger sisters and brother."
Like her counterparts working through Nairobi's nights, Peris faces distinct challenges. The physical discomforts—mosquito bites and cold weather—are manageable, but financial instability threatens her carefully balanced system of support.
"Around August last year our salaries started delaying till to date. I have not received my January and February salary yet," she reveals, the concern evident in her voice despite her composed demeanour.
Nevertheless, she finds pride in her work record. "I was posted in February last year and worked for one full year before being changed," she says. "You see, in security work when you keep on being changed, just know there is somewhere you have done something wrong."
Behind her dedication lies a web of responsibilities that extends beyond her immediate children. Since losing her father, Peris has become a pillar supporting an extended family network.
"My father passed away in 2020, and I support my mother, pay school fees for my children and youngest siblings, and cover expenses such as food, rent, and even seedlings for our farm," she explains.