In government speeches and policy documents, cooperatives are championed as the backbone of Kenya’s bottom-up economic transformation—inclusive pathways for citizens to access affordable credit and secure livelihoods. But beyond these curated narratives of progress, a different reality is quietly taking shape.
At Mombasa’s Kongowea Market, I met three women whose lived experiences challenge the optimism surrounding Kenya’s cooperative movement, reflecting a broader pattern of exclusion rarely acknowledged in official discourse.
Sarah Anyango and Emily Omondi sit side by side selling omena under the open sky, while nearby, Selina Nyabuto boils green maize over a small charcoal stove. All three women are former members of different Saccos. And all three exited the system—not by choice, but due to circumstances that left them financially vulnerable.
“They told us the Sacco would help us grow. But when problems started, there was no understanding,” Sarah says, sorting her fish.
She joined a cooperative during her years of formal employment to save and access affordable loans. However, when she lost her job, her ability to repay evaporated. Instead of cushioning her during a difficult period, the Sacco became another burden, mounting pressure and rapidly accumulating penalties.
Emily’s experience mirrors Sarah’s, but she points to another challenge: internal governance. “Decisions are made without members being involved,” she explains. “Sometimes it feels like the Sacco is for a few people at the top.”
This disconnect eroded her trust, making the cooperative principles of member ownership feel entirely detached from her reality. Selina’s exit was also triggered by sudden economic disruption. After losing her income, she struggled to keep up with financial obligations.
“You try to talk to them, but the loan is still there, and the interest is still there,” she says. Eventually, she dropped out. “They talk about financial inclusion everywhere,” she adds, dropping maize into boiling water. “But when you are down, you are on your own.”
Their stories arrive as questions mount regarding the true inclusivity of Kenya’s cooperative sector. While official figures boast rising GDP and swelling Sacco assets, there is conspicuously little discussion about member attrition. Yet on the ground, growing evidence suggests many are quietly disengaging. Unpredictable informal incomes make consistent contributions difficult, and aggressive recovery mechanisms often overwhelm those who fall behind.
Furthermore, recent governance controversies—such as those linked to the Kenya Union of Savings and Credit Co-operatives—have amplified fears over the safety of members’ savings, serving as a powerful deterrent for individuals already operating on the margins.
At Kongowea, these systemic issues aren’t debated in technical jargon; they are lived through daily struggles and the glaring absence of a safety net. Sarah and Emily, now in their sixties, work long hours for earnings that depend entirely on daily sales. Selina, too, lives day-to-day. None of them speaks of dividends or interest rates anymore. The very language of financial inclusion feels distant from their immediate survival. What emerges is a profound sense of abandonment. While Kenya’s cooperative movement undeniably expands financial access for many, these women’s experiences reveal a starkly uneven distribution of benefits.
There is a glaring gap between grand policy promises and lived reality. If cooperatives are to truly serve as vehicles for bottom-up transformation, voices from the margins must be brought to the center of the conversation. Until then, the promise of financial empowerment risks remaining just that: a promise.
