Reflecting on Kenya’s Quiet Surrender of Education Ownership

The story of Kenya’s education system is, in many ways, the story of our nation’s hopes. It is the story of barefoot mornings, of crowded classrooms, of young minds opened to possibility. It is also the story of ambition, once bold, now hesitant, shaped by seasons of vision, seasons of uncertainty.

In 1979, the government introduced the School Milk Programme, known by generations as Nyayo Milk or rather Maziwa ya Nyayo. For those who attended school in the 1980s, the memory remains vivid. The small packets of milk, warm by midday, were handed out with care. For some children, it was the only meal that day. For others, it was the reason to show up at all. Behind that milk was an idea: that no child should go hungry in school. That school should be worth attending. That the state had a duty not only to teach, but to nourish.

This was not a donor-funded project. No foreign donor logo appeared on the milk packets. The initiative emerged from within — from a state that saw investment in children not as charity, but as responsibility. It was flawed, yes. It was eventually phased out, yes. But it spoke of a government that still imagined itself as the first guarantor of its children’s welfare.

Years later, another initiative followed. A quiet but powerful act. The School Feeding Programme targeting children in arid and semi-arid regions. The meals came in simple portions. Cereal. Beans. Maize. For children learning under trees, for schools surrounded by drought-stricken land, this food meant more than nourishment. It meant survival. It meant continuity. It meant hope. Attendance improved. Dropout rates declined. Parents gained confidence. The state had extended a lifeline, not through grants, but through policy. The programme was not perfect. It reached some, missed others. Yet it sent a clear message: education was worth feeding.

Then came another turning point. In 2003, Free Primary Education (FPE) was launched under President Mwai Kibaki. It was not the first such promise. Previous attempts had been made. What distinguished this one was political resolve. Schools reopened their gates to children long excluded. Families once buried under the burden of school fees could now breathe. Teachers struggled to adapt. Classrooms overflowed. Still, the momentum was unmistakable. Kenya was leading from the front.

Donor support followed, not the other way around.

That distinction matters.

Today, the centre of gravity has shifted. Kenya’s education sector continues to function. Children still sit for exams. Curriculum reforms continue. Buildings rise. Trainings happen. Yet the silent question undercuts it all: Who is really steering the wheel?

More often than not, it is not the government. Not fully. Not confidently. The vocabulary of reform has become donor-heavy. Implementation cycles mirror grant timelines. Curriculum rollouts wait on external evaluation. Digital learning projects begin with foreign funding, fade once budgets are exhausted. Teacher support systems, infrastructure upgrades, school feeding, and nearly every element of public education now carries a level of dependency.

Perhaps it began with good intentions. Partnerships that supported gaps. Grants that accelerated growth. Technical support that offered new insights. Yet somewhere along the way, the support became the spine. And the state — once decisive, once daring — became hesitant. Not incapable. Not unwilling. Just… quieter.

At first, this quiet surrender was not loud. It did not come with a scandal. It did not grab headlines. It crept in slowly. It manifested in delayed policy decisions. In unimplemented strategies. In school principals waiting for NGOs to fix their water tanks. In communities looking to development partners to train their teachers. In policymakers, checking funding cycles before announcing reforms.

This is not a condemnation. Development partners have played critical roles. They have brought resources, rigour, and innovation. They have filled voids left by constrained budgets. They have held systems accountable in ways governments sometimes have not. Their presence has value.

Still, the question remains: What happens when the funding stops?

The answer, increasingly, is silence. Programs end quietly. Pilots fade. Reports are written. Lessons are documented. Children move on. The system absorbs the gap or doesn’t. A different program begins. A different donor steps in. The cycle continues.

In the process, something is lost. Not just continuity. Not just scale. What is lost is belief. Belief in national responsibility. Belief in the capacity to finance what we value. Belief in education not as a gift to be granted, but as a right to be delivered.

It would be easy to point fingers. Easier still to accept the status quo. The harder path is one of introspection. Not every country that leads in education is wealthy. Not every government that funds its classrooms is debt-free. What distinguishes them is not just capacity. It is a choice. It is conviction.

Kenya has walked this path before. We gave milk. We gave free primary education. We did not wait for perfect conditions. We chose to act. To try. To carry the burden of service, even when the cost was steep.

What changed?

Perhaps the expectations shifted. Perhaps donor engagement made it easier to delegate. Perhaps fatigue crept in. Perhaps education became just one more sector among many, rather than the cornerstone it once was.

Today, headlines paint a troubling picture. National exam bodies sound alarms over lack of funds. Schools close midday, not for lack of students, but for lack of food. Teachers go unpaid. Parents face growing fees, previously waived under free education policies. The once-celebrated Free Primary Education model now sits under threat. Proposals to phase it out have surfaced, citing budget constraints. Children in marginalised counties suffer from hunger in silence. School feeding programs, once sustained by public funding, now depend heavily on donor goodwill. Many have collapsed.

Learners walk into class not knowing whether lunch will be served. Headteachers stretch strained resources. Support staff go without pay. Meanwhile, school infrastructure deteriorates. Some public schools lack basic teaching materials. Others rely on parents to fund essentials. The promise once made of free, quality education now feels distant.

And yet, new policies emerge. New reforms are introduced. New pilot programs are launched. Most with donor funding. Most with external timelines. Most without continuity guarantees.

The shift is quiet. The effect is loud.

What was once state-driven is now partner-led. What was once guaranteed is now conditional. What was once ours now feels borrowed. External support can help. It cannot lead. It cannot anchor a national system. Aid is not a foundation. It is a scaffold useful during growth. Dangerous when permanent.

The over-reliance has consequences. Programs stall when funding ends. Policies remain unimplemented. Learners face interrupted support. Teachers lose momentum. Communities disengage. When decisions rest on donor desks, national accountability weakens. The rhythm of reform becomes unstable.

Still, the question remains: What happens when the funding stops?

The answer, increasingly, is silence. Programs end quietly. Pilots fade. Reports are written. Lessons are documented. Children move on. The system absorbs the gap or doesn’t. A different program begins. A different donor steps in. The cycle continues.

In the process, something is lost. Not just continuity. Not just scale. What is lost is belief. Belief in national responsibility. Belief in the capacity to finance what we value. Belief in education not as a gift to be granted, but as a right to be delivered.

It would be easy to point fingers. Easier still to accept the status quo. The harder path is one of introspection. Not every country that leads in education is wealthy. Not every government that funds its classrooms is debt-free. What distinguishes them is not just capacity. It is choice. It is conviction.

Kenya has walked this path before. We gave milk. We gave meals. We removed school fees. We did not wait for perfect conditions. We chose to act. To try. To carry the burden of service, even when the cost was steep.

We must return to the question: What kind of education system do we want to own?

One that is responsive, relevant, and resilient? Or one that remains forever at the mercy of donor spreadsheets?

It is not too late. County governments hold new promise. Local philanthropy remains underexplored. Community structures, alumni networks, and religious institutions — all carry the potential to share in the burden of education. The state, however, must lead. Not through policy declarations alone. Through budgets. Through long-term commitments. Through visible ownership.

Let us remember that we once did more with less. That milk was not a luxury. That school meals were not conditional. That free education was not a grant deliverable. These were national choices.

Let us ask ourselves with humility, with honesty — What will our generation choose?

When the funding stops, will learning stop too?

The answer depends not on donor conferences. Not on external goodwill. It depends on us.