The collapse of a staffroom in Homa Bay County, where several teachers narrowly escaped death, has exposed a simmering national crisis: unsafe school buildings. Across Kenya, from lakeside towns to arid plains, many classrooms, dormitories, and staffrooms are not only dilapidated—they are disasters waiting to happen.
The tragedy is not without precedent. In September 2019, the collapse of a two-story classroom at Precious Talent Academy in Nairobi shocked the nation. Eight pupils lost their lives, and more than 60 others were injured when the walls gave way just as lessons were beginning. Investigations later revealed poor workmanship and weak structural design. Just two years later, in March 2021, tragedy struck again in Kakamega County when a classroom wall collapsed on pupils during a lesson. Several learners were hospitalized, and the incident exposed the vulnerability of schools in rural counties where aging infrastructure rarely receives professional inspection. In Kisii, a similar collapse in 2016 injured dozens of pupils, prompting calls for urgent audits—but the recommendations soon faded from public memory. More recently, schools in Bomet, Kitui, and Makueni have reported wide cracks in classrooms, with some abandoned by teachers but still used by learners desperate for a space to study.
Such incidents are not rare. Ministry of Education audits in 2024 found 348 boarding primary and junior schools unsafe, failing to meet basic requirements under the national Safety Standards Manual. Many of these institutions lacked solid structures, safe boarding facilities, or even secure compounds, putting thousands of learners at daily risk. In some regions, particularly Rift Valley and Eastern Kenya, the highest number of non-compliant schools were reported, forcing the government to direct parents to transfer children to safer institutions. The problem extends beyond structural weaknesses. From January to September 2024 alone, 107 fire incidents were reported in schools, most sparked by faulty electrical systems or poor safety preparedness. With more than 85 percent of schools uninsured against such disasters, learners remain exposed to both immediate danger and long-term disruption.
“When it rains, we rush to cover books and mark under umbrellas,” says Mr. Lonyang, a teacher in West Pokot. “The staffroom roof leaks so badly it feels like sitting outside in a storm. Sometimes we are forced to abandon the room altogether.” His voice captures the humiliation of professionals working in conditions that are both unsafe and undignified. Parents share the same anxieties. “If teachers cannot sit safely in their own staffroom, what about our children in their classrooms?” asks Mrs. Atieno, a mother of two. “Every heavy downpour makes us wonder if our children will come home alive. That is no way to live.”
The fears extend beyond collapsing walls. Many schools stand exposed to violent thunderstorms, yet very few are fitted with lightning arresters. Each rainy season, children are killed or injured by strikes. In 2018, more than 50 pupils were hospitalized in Uasin Gishu after lightning hit their classroom. In Kisii and other highland counties, similar deaths have been recorded. “Every time thunder rumbles, we are gripped with fear,” says a teacher from Kisii. “The children know a single strike could change everything. Installing lightning arresters should not be optional—it should be law.”
Electrical systems pose another silent hazard. A fire sparked by faulty wiring destroyed a dormitory in Kericho in 2022, forcing learners into the cold night. Exposed wiring, overloaded circuits, and outdated switchboards are common in many schools, yet regular electrical checks are rare. Adding to the risks, many schools remain unfenced, with open compounds that expose learners to intruders, theft, and even wild animals in arid regions. A proper fence, a single guarded gate, and safe entry points are not luxuries—they are the very basics of a secure school environment.
The neglect of school infrastructure stems less from ignorance than inertia. Inspections are rare, renovations postponed, and budgets skewed toward expansion rather than repair. County governments celebrate ribbon-cuttings for new projects, while decades-old buildings quietly deteriorate. Globally, countries have shown what is possible when safety is prioritized. In Japan, every school undergoes rigorous annual safety checks. In South Africa, lightning arresters are mandatory in public buildings, including schools. Kenya’s wait-and-see approach is a gamble that has already cost young lives.
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Teacher unions have raised the alarm for years. KNUT and KUPPET have demanded regular reassessments of school structures, while education advocates argue that lightning arresters, safe wiring, and fencing should be enforced as national policy. “We cannot keep gambling with the lives of learners and teachers,” says Martin Sembelo, a unionist in West Pokot. “Every school should undergo regular reassessment, and no building should be used if it poses a threat. Safety is not a privilege—it is a right.”
The urgency is compounded by climate change. In 2024, floods damaged at least 62 primary schools, leaving more than 15,000 children unable to resume learning. In other regions, drought and heavy storms alternated, weakening structures never designed to withstand such extremes. These climate shocks, paired with poor workmanship and neglect, make reassessments and safety audits more critical than ever.
The collapse in Homa Bay should not be dismissed as an isolated accident but treated as a final warning. How many schools in Turkana, Kitui, Kakamega, or Bomet are just one storm away from catastrophe? How many children sit daily in classrooms with cracked walls, leaking roofs, faulty wiring, or open compounds where anyone can walk in? As Mrs. Atieno bluntly put it: “If we can’t guarantee safety in schools, then we are failing the very future we claim to be building.”
Kenya cannot afford another Precious Talent Academy, another Kakamega wall collapse, another Homa Bay near-miss. The next storm, the next crack, the next spark, or the next lightning strike could make the difference between life and death. The time to act is not tomorrow. It is now.
By Hillary Muhalya
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