He hoped a national ID would open doors. His missing fingerprints kept them closed
- For 62 years, Ben Mukur Taboi waited for a document every Kenyan is supposed to get at 18. But a lifetime of crawling had erased his fingerprints, and the system had no way to account for him.
Image Description: A close-up of two worn hands resting on dry, cracked earth. The skin is rough and speckled, with faint scars and no visible fingerprints.
Mid-morning in Kochei village, Trans-Nzoia County, demonstrates the region’s agricultural richness with its lush corn plantations and locals crossing the road into farms, hoes slung over their shoulders.
Yet, beneath this idyllic scene lies a tale of waiting, pain, and lost chances. From a mud hut at one of the homesteads situated behind a dense maize plantation, an elderly man emerges, crawling. He is an 80-year-old Ben Mukur Taboi, unable to stand and walk upright due to severe disability in both feet. He settles onto a small bench that his daughter quickly provides.
This is not a congenial condition. Taboi recalls that when he felt a sharp pain in both knees at the age of 12, neither he nor his parents thought much of it. They took him to a local traditional healer, believing the pain would go away.
The healer made incisions on both his knees to drain the ‘bad blood’ that was causing the pain. But when the pain persisted, it was time to try conventional medicine.
“My parents took me to one of the hospitals, hoping that the problem would be resolved, but unfortunately, it was too late. My legs had become feeble,” Taboi says, moving one of his legs with his hand.
That marked the beginning of troubles. His father stopped paying his school fees when he was in Class Five, saying there was no need to educate someone with such a condition, as he would not be of any help in the future. He turned to his uncle, who also eventually ran out of means to support him.
Furthermore, with no wheelchair and minimal knowledge about disability in the community at that time, he resorted to moving around on his hands, a practice that would leave a painful, lasting mark on his life.
One major consequence came when he was eighteen. In 1978, while living in the Chebyuk settlement scheme at the foot of Mt. Elgon, where he was born and raised, Taboi set out to obtain a national identity card, hoping it would open doors to better opportunities. The process went smoothly at first, until it was time to take his fingerprints.
That moment marked the start of a decades-long ordeal.
He realised that years of hand-walking had worn off his fingerprints, making it impossible to complete the registration process, as fingerprints were a core requirement. He returned home, hoping that with time, he might try again and succeed. But that was not to be.
“Since then, I have tried countless times to acquire an identity card unsuccessfully, even after relocating from Chebyuk to Trans-Nzoia in 2017,” he says with a seemingly forced smile, perhaps recollecting the struggles he has endured.
Without visible fingerprints, even the local administration could not assist him in getting the document.
In Kenya, National Identity (ID) cards are mandatory for all citizens aged eighteen and above and are issued through the National Registration Bureau (NRB). These cards are more than just proof of citizenship—they are the key to participating fully in society. An ID is required to access essential services such as healthcare, education, and banking, as well as to vote, open a bank account, or receive government benefits. It serves as a legal identifier, enabling social and economic inclusion while also playing a vital role in maintaining personal and national security.
While there is no single definitive figure for the number of Kenyans without National ID cards, reports from 2021 estimated that more than two million adults lacked one.
Stephen Kiriboti, a village elder, attests to Taboi’s long struggle to obtain an identification. As a community leader, he was among those at the forefront of advocating for this crucial document.
“I have tried my best to speak on his behalf, but with no visible fingerprints, nothing much was achieved,” Kiriboti says.
Every time there was a mass ID registration drive, Kiriboti kept Taboi informed, but their efforts always hit a snag. But that did not water down their resolve.
In 2024, a close relative called Taboi to ask whether he was receiving the Older Persons Cash Transfer, commonly known as Inua Jamii (“Lift the community” in Swahili). a government grant for citizens aged 70 and above. When he replied that he had not, due to his lack of an ID card, the relative decided to help.
The relative gathered all of Taboi’s documents and returned to the registration offices. After several months of waiting, the identity card finally arrived in late 2024.
Today, in Kenya, individuals with disabilities who are having trouble getting a National ID through the conventional method can be registered through an alternative process that uses other biometric data, such as facial recognition, along with supporting documents. The National Registration Bureau typically handles the registration in coordination with the National Council for Persons with Disabilities (NCPWD).
Even as Taboi expresses gratitude for finally obtaining his identification, he laments the many opportunities he missed that could have bettered his life, including the monthly stipend for persons with disabilities, which requires an ID card to register.
For Taboi, it is a mixed bag of emotions—happiness and relief at finally holding his ID card, tempered by regret for the years lost.
“I wanted to be a court clerk, but my condition denied me the chance to go to school to get enough education to fit in that profession,” he says. “Nevertheless, life goes on. My responsibility is to educate my children and make their dreams come true.”
Edited/Reviewed by PK Cross, Caleb Okereke, Awom Kenneth and Uzoma Ihejirika.
Illustrated by Rex Opara.
