Why local communities should have bigger share in national school slots

I have disagreed with some of Rigathi Gachagua’s political pronouncements. But on this one, he is right. It is a profound injustice when children from regions that have invested in schools and basic governance are denied quality options at home, only to watch scarce places taken by beneficiaries of counties that receive a disproportionate share of national resources—yet fail their own children.

It is about the qualified child from Nandi County who cannot access Kapsabet; the Siaya student locked out of Maranda; the Bungoma child who cannot get into Kamusinga; the Kipsigis girl denied admission to Kipsigis Girls; the Nyeri girl who cannot enrol at Ng’andu; the Kiambu student who is locked out of Precious Blood Riruta; ETC. The reason is simple: not all leaders invest time, effort, or conscience in the schools within their jurisdiction. And the tragedy is that this failure does not affect them personally. With money and political networks, their children attend top schools elsewhere—often outside their home counties, sometimes outside the country.

No Kenyan child should be left out of an educational opportunity because leaders stole money meant for schools. It is a constitutional violation. Article 53 guarantees every child the right to free and compulsory basic (quality) education; Article 27 guarantees equality and non-discrimination. Devolution was never meant to become an educational lottery that rewards theft and punishes responsibility. When leaders loot, and children pay, both the child’s right to education and the Constitution have been breached.

This is not an issue of Central versus North-Eastern Kenya, though the rage with which some leaders from North-Eastern have reacted to Gachagua’s remarks suggests less regional pride and more political discomfort. Truth often provokes the loudest resistance from those most exposed by it. Ironically, there was a time when Meru County’s best students hoped to secure places in the North-Eastern schools such as Garba Tulla and Marsabit. Today, because of decades of neglect, these schools struggle to attract even top students from the region.

From my time as Assistant Minister in the Ministry of Education, I saw firsthand why some schools thrive while others stagnate. Outside of the traditional national schools, most of the achieving schools in parts of Central, Eastern, Western Kenya and the Rift Valley did not succeed by accident. Local leaders mobilised resources beyond government, motivated teachers, influenced the composition of school management, and—most importantly—were present. They lived among their people. They understood local challenges because they experienced them.

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We also pushed the policy of two national schools per county and allocated equal resources to upgrade them. Yet the fierce competition for a handful of elite schools we are now witnessing in certain counties proves a painful reality: the expansion of national schools does not seem to have made a difference in many counties, and especially in Northeastern Kenya. So where did the money go?

The current education crisis goes beyond corruption; it is a crisis of conscience. I have never understood why so many leaders appear to despise the very people who elect them—citizens who ask only for service, dignity, and care. What else can we call it when those entrusted to serve become the harshest enemies of their own people, rather than their stewards and protectors? And yet, they get angry if they are not addressed as Honourable, while their dishonourable acts of omission and commission follow them everywhere.

What kind of leader walks daily among poverty, hunger, and despair—and feels nothing? How does one sleep knowing parents cannot feed their families or keep their children in school, while bursaries are denied because of political affiliation? How does one justify a top KJSEA candidate failing to enrol in a national school because funds meant for infrastructure were misappropriated? Or an A student dropping out of university for lack of support, while a leader boasts of children studying in elite Western universities at costs that could build an entire primary school?

We watch citizens die on roads that are never built or maintained because public money is siphoned into luxury SUVs, convoys, private property in Nairobi and Dubai, and sprawling rural mansions that resemble school complexes, except no children learn there, and no futures are built. Why should it matter, after all, if the leader owns a chopper that gets wherever they wish? We bury patients who reached hospitals with approved budgets—but no medicines, no equipment, no staff. Why worry, when the same leaders can fly abroad for private treatment at a cost that could stock a rural dispensary for an entire year? The monumental irony is that many of these men and women profess deep faith.

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It is because of the unfortunate inequality across the country in secondary school opportunities, driven by nothing but the theft of resources meant to lift the poor from poverty and indignity, that I am also for a national conversation. This cannot be a partisan shouting match. The guiding principle must be fairness—not entitlement. And because equity is a constitutional and national obligation, that conversation must be led by the President, whose mandate is to serve all Kenyans. This is not only about justice; it is about our country’s future. Equitable access to quality education is how nations build human capital. That is the lesson from Asia’s transformation. Kenya cannot afford to waste talent due to geography, neglect, or indifferent leadership.

That conversation must also confront accountability. Maybe it is time we made it a constitutional requirement that leaders seeking elective office demonstrate faith in local schools by enrolling their own children in them? Why should county allocations not be tied to evidence of locally generated revenue and transparent expenditure? Kenyans must decide whether public office is a path to service or a license for a few to steal from the majority.

A nation that normalises the suffering of its children while celebrating the comfort of its leaders is already in moral bankruptcy. Roads can be rebuilt, schools renovated, and systems reformed—but a conscience once abandoned is far harder to restore. History is unforgiving to leaders who choose self-preservation over justice. And when Kenya finally accounts for this era, it will not ask how much was stolen, but how many children were deliberately left behind—and who looked away while it happened.

Since we like shouting from the rooftops about being a God-fearing nation and have gone so far as to set aside a day to pray for Kenya, let’s then not forget that the Bible is clear: “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded.” How ironic it is that a leader who professes to be god-fearing can’t even for a moment heed the scripture: “If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck”.

Kenya’s Constitution is equally clear—sovereign power belongs to the people and must be exercised for their benefit. Leaders who divert public resources while children are denied education, healthcare, and dignity stand condemned by both faith and law. No office, title, or prayer can absolve the betrayal of a child. When leaders fail children, judgment is not optional—morally, historically, or politically.

By Kilemi Mwiria

The Writer is a Former Education Assistant Minister in Kenya