I had known my friend for more than twenty years. She lived in the UK, and over the years we had always stayed in touch. Whenever she came back to Kenya, we made time to meet. Because of that long friendship, I trusted her when she called one day and told me there was an opportunity for my children and me to relocate to the UK. She said there was work available in adult social care, that healthcare and schooling were free, and that life there could offer us a fresh start and a better future.

At that time, Kenya was going through economic hardship, and I was already carrying heavy financial burdens after taking my daughter to India for heart surgery. Even so, the possibility of lawful work, stable income, and better opportunities for my children felt like an answer to prayer. I wanted security, dignity, and a chance to rebuild our lives.

The process of preparing to move was expensive and stressful. I had to take an IELTS English test, which cost around £170. I then paid for police clearance certificates, tuberculosis tests for myself and my two children, visa fees for all three of us, flights, and many other relocation costs. I was also required to show maintenance funds of £1,270. Before travelling, I sent the equivalent of that amount to my friend’s Kenyan bank account so it could be passed on to the employer for the Certificate of Sponsorship. By the time everything was completed, I had spent well over £6,000.

To raise the money, I sold some of my possessions and gave away many others to family and friends before leaving. I remember telling myself that sacrifice would be worth it once we arrived. I believed I was investing in a better future for my children.

I arrived in the UK on 4 August 2023 on a Health and Care Worker visa. My children travelled with me. We landed at Heathrow and then took a taxi to Ipswich, Suffolk, costing over £200. I arrived full of hope. I believed that after receiving my Biometric Residence Permit and completing my DBS checks, I would soon begin working and supporting my family.

Trying to build a life while the ground kept shifting

My friend kindly accommodated us for three months, and for that I remain deeply grateful. During that initial period, however, I was not working because my sponsor did not have enough hours available for staff. When work eventually started, I was given only around two hours a day, sometimes only three days a week. The income was nowhere near enough to cover basic living costs for myself and my two children.

After the three months ended, I had to leave that accommodation, I was given an eviction notice and because I could not afford proper housing, I moved to Dunstable and depended on informal arrangements. At different times, I stayed with acquaintances for extended periods. Later, my children and I shared a single room in a shared house with others. It was overcrowded, unstable, and deeply unsuitable for a family. One of my children has additional needs, which made those living conditions even harder. There were times when money became so tight that I had to seek help from home, and eventually two properties I owned in Kenya had to be sold to support us and buy a car for domiciliary care work.

In April 2024, I secured another role, which was presented to me as permanent employment in the care sector. I was determined to succeed. I worked caring for vulnerable adults and children, giving practical support, emotional care, and dignity to people who needed help in their daily lives. I treated my work seriously because I understood the responsibility of caring for others.

However, the reality of the job was difficult. Travel time between clients was not paid. Gaps between visits and breaks during shifts were unpaid. There were inconsistent and unexplained deductions from wages. Sometimes wages were delayed or withheld altogether. The workplace atmosphere often felt intimidating, with little transparency and little room to question decisions. Even so, I kept going because my children depended on me.

Alongside that job, I sought supplementary employment to survive. Through relentless effort, I eventually managed to rent a two-bedroom apartment for myself and my children. For the first time since arriving in the UK, we had our own space and privacy. It felt like a small victory after months of struggle, although the financial pressures remained intense.

During this period, I also became involved in Homecare Voices, a network where migrant care workers shared experiences and supported one another. It gave me a sense that I was not alone. I contributed by speaking honestly about the realities many sponsored workers faced: underemployment, fear tied to visas, unfair treatment, and financial hardship. Being part of that space gave me courage and reminded me that our voices mattered. I also had some union involvement, hoping that collective support could help workers understand and defend their rights.

In December 2024, I transferred my visa sponsorship to a new employer – my former friend I had known for over 20 years – after being promised better pay and improved working conditions. For December and January, everything appeared positive. I allowed myself to hope again that stability had finally come.

Then in February 2025, only two days before payday, staff were informed that salaries would be reduced to match the amount stated on our Certificates of Sponsorship. There had been no warning and no meaningful consultation. We had already budgeted based on expected wages. Before signing the sponsorship documents, I had specifically raised concerns about the salary figure and had been told it was only a procedural requirement and would not reflect what I would actually be paid.

When I raised concerns about the sudden pay reduction, my working hours were cut without explanation. Pressure was then placed on me to resign. I refused, because I had done nothing wrong and because resigning would have destroyed what little security I had left. After that, I was dismissed without warning. I was falsely accused of inciting colleagues – an allegation that was untrue and unsupported.

The human cost of inadequate systems

That dismissal ended my employment in the UK care sector.

The impact on my family was devastating. I had arrived with hope, believing that hard work and honesty would allow us to build a future. Instead, I faced underemployment, wage insecurity, debt, housing instability, and constant fear because my right to remain in the country depended on my employer. The very system that brought me to the UK also made it difficult to challenge mistreatment.

Emotionally, it was exhausting. I had tried to stay strong for my children, but the stress, uncertainty, and repeated disappointments weighed heavily on all of us. Financially, I was left with debts from migration costs and periods without work. Practically, there were few realistic options once my employment ended.

In the end, I made the painful decision to leave the UK and return to Kenya. I did so because I had lost my job, had no viable alternatives within the limits of my visa, and could no longer ignore the toll the experience had taken on my wellbeing and that of my children. My employer refused to provide a reference.

Returning to Kenya has brought its own challenges. Starting again from scratch has been far from easy. I have not been able to find work, so I remain at home, home educating my children because I cannot afford school fees. We have been sustained by the kindness of family and friends, who have helped us with food, but we still struggle to afford many of the essentials we need.

When I first left Kenya, I believed I was walking toward opportunity. I believed sacrifice would lead to security. Instead, I learned how vulnerable migrant workers can become when their livelihood, housing, and immigration status are tied to one employer.

I remain proud that I worked hard and cared for others with dignity. I remain proud that I spoke up. I also believe my experience reflected wider systemic failures: the potential for exploitation under sponsorship, weak enforcement of labour rights, fear among workers who depended on visas, and too little accountability for those who abused that power.

I tell my story in the hope that others may be protected from suffering the same fate, and that one day migrant care workers will be valued not only for the labour they provide, but for their humanity.

This piece was developed as a response to Issue 25 of Notes from Below , particularly the accounts in the ‘Caring on a Visa’ piece. The stories resonated with our respective projects around care work, organising, and trade union activity. Through Homecare Voices, the not-for-profit network founded by Rachel Kelso and led by fellow homecare workers, we were aware of a number of individuals like Margaret who had returned to their home country following difficult experiences with the UK’s Health and Care Worker visa.

Margaret’s account demonstrates the enduring effects of the injustices experienced by people who came to the UK to care. Having now returned to Kenya, it would be easy for stories like Margaret’s to go undocumented, especially as the Health and Care Worker visa is closed to new overseas applicants. Those who remain in the UK now face a potential fifteen-year wait before being able to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain, due in part to the ill-informed classification of care work as ‘low-skilled’. If their sponsoring employer is a domiciliary care agency which – as is common – only pays workers for the time they spend at care visits, that’s likely to mean fifteen years of gruelling, long working hours.

Homecare Voices campaigns for all domiciliary care workers to be paid for all their working time – ideally in the form of shift-based pay – to resolve this root cause of exploitative pay and conditions. Organisations such as the Work Rights Centre and UNISON campaign for changes that would offer migrant care workers safe routes out of exploitative employment without implicating their right to remain in the UK.

Meanwhile, people who have returned to their home country must rebuild lives subject to rupture and upheaval. This is due to a UK visa scheme that was inadequately managed from the outset, an extractive immigration system, and a marketised, fragmented adult social care ‘sector’ where providers face little consequence when treating workers in punitive ways. As Margaret writes, her and her family made sacrifices so that she could come to the UK to care for people. Caring is ubiquitous, universal, and human, but Margaret was let down badly through a failure of imagination, a failure of politics, and ultimately a failure to ‘care’ for migrant care workers.

Margaret Kimani, Duncan U Fisher, Rachel Kelso, and Grace Whitfield