Where It All Started
The Foundation of Wokovu Way
Wokovu Way was born in the crucible of Goma, a city perched on the edge of survival in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). For decades, Goma has been a reluctant haven, its streets and hillsides swelling with those fleeing the region’s endless conflicts—warlords vying for power, militias clashing over mineral-rich land, and, most recently, the M23 rebel group’s violent resurgence. By the early 2020s, as this latest wave of fighting uprooted entire communities, a handful of local residents—teachers, traders, mothers—could no longer watch in silence. They founded Wokovu Way, a name drawn from the Swahili word for “salvation,” to answer a desperate need: shelter for the displaced. In the chaotic camps ringing Goma, where families sleep on volcanic rock under scraps of plastic, tents became our first offering—a modest but vital shield against a world unraveling.
Our beginnings were scrappy, fueled by necessity rather than grand plans. The founders pooled what little they had: a few dollars, a stack of secondhand tarps, and an intimate knowledge of Goma’s struggles. They’d lived through it all—the 2002 Nyiragongo eruption that buried half the city in lava, the refugee influxes from Rwanda’s genocide, the daily grind of a place where survival is a gamble. This wasn’t an abstract cause; it was personal. They saw neighbors lose homes overnight, friends scatter into the camps, children grow up knowing only war’s echo. From this raw urgency, Wokovu Way took shape. What started as a few tents handed out in the shadow of smoldering violence has grown into a lifeline for thousands, a grassroots movement proving that even in Goma’s darkest hours, salvation can be built one shelter at a time.
Our mission is simple yet daunting: to give displaced families a place to rest, to reclaim a shred of normalcy amid the upheaval. The camps around Goma—Bulengo, Lushagala, Rusayo—are sprawling testaments to human endurance, but also to human neglect. By early 2025, over 700,000 people crowded these makeshift settlements, their lives reduced to what they could carry on their backs. Wokovu Way stepped into this breach, driven by a belief that shelter is the first step toward dignity. We don’t just distribute tents; we deliver a promise—that someone sees their suffering, that someone cares enough to act. In a region where hope is a rare currency, we’re determined to keep that promise alive.
Our work kicked off with a single, defiant act: handing out a dozen tents to families in Bulengo camp, where the ground is a patchwork of black volcanic stone and the air hums with the cries of the displaced. By early 2025, Goma’s camps had become a human tide—over 700,000 souls packed into flimsy shelters, their numbers swelling daily as M23’s advance torched villages to ash. We started small, targeting places like Lushagala and Rusayo, where Lake Kivu’s winds whip across the shorelines, turning every night into a battle against the cold. We saw the toll firsthand: mothers wrapping babies in soggy blankets, fathers scavenging twigs for a fire that wouldn’t light, elderly women hunched under dripping tarps as rain pounded down. A tent, we knew, could change that. It’s not a home, but it’s a start—a dry floor, a wall against the wind, a space to breathe.
Those early days were a blur of motion. Volunteers—many displaced themselves—trudged through ankle-deep mud, their arms laden with rolled-up canvas. We’d spot a family in need: a widow named Marie, her three children clinging to her skirt, their only roof a shredded sack propped up by sticks. We’d pitch a tent right there, hammering stakes into the stubborn rock, showing her how to tie the flaps against the gusts. Her quiet “thank you,” barely audible over the storm, was fuel enough. Another day, it was an old man, Joseph, his hands trembling as he accepted a tent—his first shelter since fleeing his village months before. Each delivery was a thread in a fragile tapestry, weaving stability into lives frayed by war.
Resources were scarce—our first tents came from a local market, patched and faded, but we made them work. We leaned on Goma’s spirit of improvisation: a broken pole fixed with a stick, a torn flap sewn with fishing line. The camps taught us resilience—how a family of six could squeeze into a space meant for three, how a shared tent could spark a fledgling community. With every shelter we raised, we saw flickers of life return: a child laughing instead of shivering, a mother cooking a meager meal under cover. Wokovu Way became a quiet rebellion against the chaos, a refusal to let Goma’s people drown in the mud of despair.
The conditions in Goma’s camps are a relentless adversary. The rainy season, peaking in March, turns the landscape into a quagmire—water sluices off the volcanic slopes, flooding tents and washing away what little people have left. Lake Kivu’s winds howl through the night, snapping ropes and collapsing shelters like cards. The terrain itself fights us: jagged basalt that snaps metal stakes, slopes that defy anchoring, dust that coats everything when the rains finally pause. Tents wear out fast here—canvas splits under the strain, zippers jam with grit, and the constant damp breeds rot. Replacing them is a race against time and scarcity, a puzzle of logistics in a place where nothing comes easy.
Yet we pressed on, learning as we went. We trained teams to reinforce tents—double-knotting guy lines, weighing bases with stones when stakes failed. We scavenged for solutions: a ripped tent became a rainfly for another, a discarded crate turned into a makeshift floor. The weather wasn’t our only foe; the human cost was steeper. We met Amina, a young mother whose tent collapsed in a downpour, leaving her newborn soaked and feverish. We replaced it that night, our hands shaking from cold and urgency, vowing to reach her sooner next time. Then there was Paul, a teenage boy alone after his family vanished in the fighting—he helped us pitch his tent, his silence louder than the storm. Each encounter hardened our resolve: no one should face this alone.
Local knowledge was our compass. Camp residents guided us to the neediest—those too weak or overlooked to seek help. We found families tucked in corners aid trucks couldn’t reach: a grandmother shielding her orphaned grandkids with a sodden mat, a father digging trenches around his tent to divert the floods. Their grit inspired us, even as the odds stacked higher. Volunteers worked past exhaustion, their clothes caked in mud, their voices hoarse from shouting over the wind. Every tent we secured was a small defiance—a stake in the ground saying Goma’s displaced deserved better, that Wokovu Way wouldn’t stop until they had it.
By early 2025, the crisis in Goma hit a breaking point. The M23 offensive drove fresh waves of refugees into the camps—hundreds of thousands more, their villages now smoldering ruins. The population soared past 700,000, a sea of need stretching beyond the horizon. We scaled up, forging alliances to match the tide. Local organizations—small collectives of camp leaders and traders—became our scouts, threading through the labyrinth of tents to find those aid had missed: a family of eight crammed under a single tarp, a lone child sleeping in a ditch. International partners—humanitarian groups with deeper pockets—trickled in tents and tarps when supply lines held, their shipments a lifeline snagged too often by roadblocks and gunfire.
Collaboration was our strength, but the gaps were glaring. Fighting choked off routes from Kinshasa and beyond; one week, a truckload of tents sat stalled 50 miles away, guarded by soldiers as bullets flew. Donations ebbed as global crises competed for attention, leaving us to stretch every bolt of fabric. We faced impossible choices: a hundred tents arrive, but a thousand hands reach out. We prioritized—sick infants, pregnant women, the elderly—knowing each decision left others waiting. In Bulengo, we met Esther, her toddler coughing under a leaking roof; we gave her our last tent that day, turning away a dozen others with apologies that felt like knives. The math was cruel, but we adapted: repairing shredded shelters, bartering for materials, teaching families to patch their own.
Through it all, we held to our vision. Wokovu Way isn’t just about tents—it’s about presence. It’s the volunteer who sits with a weeping mother, listening as she mourns her lost home. It’s the extra hour spent rigging a tent to withstand the next gale. It’s the promise whispered in every delivery: you’re not forgotten. We’ve reached thousands, but millions still wait across eastern DRC. Our dream is bigger than Goma’s camps—it’s a network of salvation, a movement where every displaced family finds a roof, a voice, a chance. Until then, we fight on, one tent, one life, one step at a time.
Wokovu Way was founded on the belief that shelter is the first step to survival. In a region where over 25 million people need aid, and Goma’s camps strain under the weight of new arrivals daily, our mission remains focused: to shield communities from the harsh realities of displacement. From our modest beginnings, we’ve grown into a vital presence in Goma, driven by the resilience of those we serve and the determination to offer salvation, one tent at a time.