NAIROBI, Kenya — When Josephine Ndunge gave birth 31 years ago at a Nairobi hospital, she expected the usual cries of joy that welcome a newborn.
Instead, she was met with whispers, stares, and accusations. Her daughter, Eunice Ruben, had been born without legs — the result of an exceptionally rare congenital condition known as phocomelia.
“Seeing my baby for the first time was the most traumatic moment of my life,” Josephine recalls. “People started saying all kinds of things, that I’d tried to abort, that it was a curse. I was devastated before I even held her.”
Phocomelia, a limb malformation disorder that can result from genetic mutations, exposure to certain drugs like thalidomide, or environmental toxins such as mercury during pregnancy, is one of the world’s rarest conditions.
In Eunice’s case, her arms developed normally, but her legs never formed.
Now 31 years old, standing just 59cm tall and weighing 26kg, Eunice describes her early life as “a battlefield of emotions.” The stares, mockery, and pity she endured left scars deeper than her physical condition.
“One relative once called me ‘half a person’,” she says quietly. “For a long time, I believed them. I hated myself for being the way I was.”
Her despair grew so profound that she attempted suicide several times. “I felt trapped in a body that didn’t match who I was inside,” she admits.
But everything changed when a compassionate teacher saw beyond her physical difference. “My teacher told me, ‘You are unique. You can do things even an able person can’t do,’” Eunice recalls. “Those words gave me a new life. That’s when I was truly born again.”
From that moment, acceptance became her revolution. With her sister Christine as her steadfast companion and cheerleader, Eunice learned to redefine what strength means. “When she can’t walk, I tell her, ‘My legs are yours,’” Christine says with a smile. “For two people, we have one pair of legs.”
Today, Eunice lives independently, cooking, cleaning, exercising, and even playing football with her hands. Her daily routines are acts of quiet defiance against a world that once saw her as less.
“People often measure worth by what they see,” she says. “But I tell them — I do what makes me happy. The rest is nonsense.”
In a country where disability often carries deep social stigma, Eunice’s story is more than a personal triumph; it is a mirror to a society learning to see ability where it once saw difference.
“Self-worth,” she concludes, “is not in centimetres or kilograms — it’s in spirit, resilience, and joy.”
