Kenya is not broke, but the glut of fraud takes all the resources

They keep telling us that Kenya is broke. That there’s no money for education. That we must be patient as the government “rationalises” spending. But every year, without fail, Parliament finds the money.

Capitation is approved. Billions are allocated. Budgets pass. State House cheers. Cabinet Secretaries beam for the cameras. MPs post updates boasting how much they’ve “secured” for schools in their constituencies. And yet, the crisis on the ground deepens. So why are head teachers borrowing money to buy chalk? Why are learners crammed under trees, in mud-walled structures, or in classrooms without desks, books, or blackboards? Why do thousands of students sit national exams in tents, their education interrupted by floods or collapsing roofs? Why, despite all these billions, is public education bleeding? 

The racket was laid bare by none other than the Auditor General. In a recent report, the office identified 33 ghost schools, institutions that exist only on paper, that collectively received Sh3.7 billion in capitation funds. Some of these non-existent schools were allocated up to Sh50 million each. Think about that. Sh50 million to a phantom. A building no one has seen. A head teacher no one has met. Students who exist only in imagination of bureaucrats and bank accounts of cartels. 

This isn’t an oversight. This isn’t an error. It’s a heist. A deliberate, systematic, state-sponsored looting of funds meant for children. The parliamentary committees know. The Ministry of Education knows. The National Treasury knows. The President and his Cabinet know.

Here’s how the con works: First, Parliament approves the education budget. With fanfare and flourish, leaders hold press briefings and issue patriotic soundbites about “investing in the future.” Media houses amplify the message. Social media timelines fill with praise. And while the nation is clapping, the looting begins. Quietly. Surgically. With ruthless precision. 

Because, make no mistake, the budget is just a receipt. It’s not the safeguard. It is the cover. The real theft begins after the allocations have been announced and the cameras have gone. That’s when money starts moving. Not to schools, but to fake suppliers, ghost payrolls, and fake institutions staffed by real crooks. When President William Ruto and his ministers proudly talk about budget allocations for education, they are not celebrating development. They are announcing the next feeding frenzy. It’s not an update. It’s a coded warning: billions are about to vanish. 

And vanish they do. Into the pockets of a political elite that has turned public service into private business. Into cartels dressed in suits. Into offshore accounts and election war chests. Meanwhile, the child in Turkana studies under a tree. The teacher in Kisii improvises with charcoal and cement walls. The girl in Kibra drops out because the school has no sanitary facilities. 

So next time they say, “We’ve allocated Sh20 billion for education,” do not clap. Ask: Which schools? Which students? Which suppliers? Which pockets? Until every shilling is tracked in real-time and published for public scrutiny, every budget announcement should be treated not as a promise but as a red flag.  

Because this is not about mismanagement. It is about betrayal. To steal from children is to mortgage the future. It is to destroy the very foundation of our society. It is to dig a national grave, one empty chalk box at a time. And the betrayal runs deep. In a functioning democracy, the discovery of ghost schools stealing billions would lead to swift resignations, prosecutions, and reforms. In Kenya, it leads to silence. Inaction. Cover-ups. And in some cases, promotions. This culture of impunity is why nothing changes. Every year, the same scandals play out with different headlines. Ghost schools. Ghost workers. Ghost dams. Ghost fertilisers. Ghost roads. And always money that disappears faster than it is printed. 

But let’s be clear: Kenya is not broke. The money is there. It just doesn’t reach you. It is diverted before it hits the classroom. Before it buys the chalk. Before it repairs the roof. Before it feeds the hungry learner. It is stolen by men and women who wear Kenyan flags on their lapels while bankrupting the soul of this nation.