In the absurd spectacle of Kenyan politics, education has devolved into a cruel joke; one where parents and children are the punchline, left holding nothing but broken pledges while politicians laugh all the way to the bank. The late President Mwai Kibaki, for all his flaws, at least understood that a nation’s future is built in classrooms, not rallies. His free primary education policy in 2003 was a beacon of hope, a rare moment where the government acknowledged that poverty should not be a life sentence to illiteracy. Enrollment surged from 6 million to 7.4 million in just four years, a feat celebrated despite overcrowded classrooms and teacher shortages, exposing the half-baked execution. Kibaki’s successors, ever the masters of optics, expanded the dream to subsidized secondary education, creating the illusion of progress while quietly dismantling the scaffolding holding up the system. Today, the facade is crumbling. The government, drowning in debt and mismanagement, cannot even print exams. Yet, the president and his deputy crisscross the country doling out “empowerment” cash like confetti at a wedding, never mind that the only thing being empowered is their voter base.
The irony is thick enough to cut with a panga. Kibaki’s free primary education, though flawed, was a radical attempt to level the playing field. Schools were flooded with children whose parents had previously weighed textbooks against breakfast, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed Kenya might actually care about its poor. But the plan was sabotaged from the start. No new classrooms were built, no teachers were hired, and the teacher-to-student ratio ballooned from 1:40 to 1:60. The result? A two-tier system where the wealthy fled to private academies (enrollment tripled between 2005 and 2009), while the poor were left to fight over tattered books in dilapidated buildings. The middle class, ever the opportunists, became “education entrepreneurs,” turning schools into profit centers rather than temples of learning. Meanwhile, billions of shillings meant for free education vanished into the pockets of officials, proving that corruption, like malaria, is a chronic condition in Kenya.
Fast forward to today, and the situation is a masterclass in systemic sabotage. The government’s capitation funds to schools are a joke, when they arrive at all. Secondary schools received only 50% of their allocated funds in 2025, leaving principals to either beg parents for “voluntary” contributions or risk their institutions collapsing. Primary schools are no better off, with per-child funding stuck at a paltry Sh1,420, far below the Sh2,238 recommended by education experts. The Ministry of Education, ever the creative accountant, claims it is “prioritizing” funds, but the only priority seems to be ensuring that political rallies have enough sound systems. Meanwhile, MPs openly admit that free education is unsustainable, yet none dare propose taxing the obscene allowances they award themselves. Instead, they float the idea of “cost-sharing,” a euphemism for squeezing parents dry while the political class sends their children to international schools, where fees are paid in dollars.
The cruelty of this charade is most visible in the slums. In Kibera, where 43% of girls and 29% of boys attend no school at all, classrooms are so overcrowded that five children share a single desk. The government’s solution? Nothing. No new schools, no scholarships, just empty slogans about “Vision 2030” while children are funneled into gangs or early pregnancies. The pandemic exposed this negligence in brutal detail: when schools closed, 16% of girls and 8% of boys never returned, opting instead for child labor or early marriages. The digital divide? A laughable 17% of Kenyans have broadband access, so “remote learning” was a fantasy for most. Nevertheless, while children studied under trees, the political elite were busy buying luxury cars and chartering helicopters to distribute “hustler fund” bribes, sorry, “empowerment grants.”
Let us not forget the universities, Kibaki’s other great “legacy.” In his quest to commercialize higher education, he turned campuses into mortuaries (literally, some started offering body storage services) and branch campuses into diploma mills. Today, public universities are drowning in a Sh10 billion debt, with their degrees as valuable as toilet paper. The government’s response? More slogans, less funding. Meanwhile, the Competency-Based Curriculum (CBC), the latest shiny object dangled before parents, is a chaotic mess. Grade 9 students are stuck in primary schools, unsure of their exam results, while secondary schools sit empty. The entire system is a Rube Goldberg machine designed to produce confusion, not competence.
The truth is, this is not incompetence; it is strategy. An educated populace asks questions, demands accountability, and, God forbid, votes based on issues rather than tribal allegiance or handouts. The current administration knows this. By strangling public education, they ensure a permanent underclass too desperate for “empowerment” cash to notice they are being robbed blind. Kibaki’s vision of equity through education is being euthanized, replaced by a regime that thrives on ignorance. The tragedy? Kenya’s children, especially those in slums and arid counties, are the collateral damage in this calculated war on knowledge. The exams may not be printed this year, but the lesson is clear: in Kenya, the only thing free is the hypocrisy.
