Last week, I accompanied a friend and his family on one of their philanthropic visits to a school tucked deep in Rhoda slum, Nakuru. What I witnessed was not just poverty—it was a heartbreaking culture of deprivation embedded in every crevice of that community.
Poverty there does not hide. It walks openly, confidently—almost as if it has taken permanent residence. The Gilani family, well-known for their quiet but impactful acts of kindness, has for years been donating school uniforms to needy children. On that day, we visited a local primary school, home to about 2,500 pupils. Walking through the dusty compound and into the overcrowded classrooms, it was clear that hope fights hard to survive.
Children were walking barefoot, their uniforms torn or threadbare. Some wore shoes salvaged from refuse heaps—odd sizes and mismatched pairs. You could tell some had never owned a complete uniform in their life.
Then came the moment the new uniforms were handed out. Watching some children emerge from the changing rooms, transformed in their brand new attire, was deeply moving.
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Their backs straightened. Their smiles widened. Their eyes gleamed with a new-found pride. It was as though the simple act of wearing a clean, fitting uniform allowed them to believe—at least for a moment—that they belonged. That they mattered.
One child clutched at his new uniform as if afraid it would disappear if he let go. Another looked dazed, admiring her shoes with the glee of someone who had just discovered something in her wildest dreams did not believe would happen to her. These children, even without the luxury of talking, showed us what dignity looks like when restored. They were no longer just slum kids. They were students—scholars, even—beaming with confidence and joy.
But this was just a fleeting moment in the middle of a storm. The challenges in that school are enormous. The average class size is 60 pupils, and the teachers—heroes and heroines, if ever there were any—are stretched to the limit. One wonders how they manage to teach, to inspire, and discipline under such circumstances. But they do. Every day. And without much recognition.
Then there’s the issue of school meals. A plate of lunch costs Sh30, yet more than three-quarters go without it. I saw children watching silently as their classmates ate. Some pretended not to be hungry. Others walked away from the feeding area altogether, perhaps to avoid the shame. This is not just hunger—it’s institutional neglect.
The numbers don’t lie. Let’s do some quick math. If a child needs about Sh30 for a meal per day, that translates to about Sh600 a month (for 20 school days).
Multiply that by 2,000 children and you get Sh1.2 million a month. It sounds like a lot until you realise this is just a drop in the ocean compared to government wastage. And guess what? This term, the government allocated Sh10 per child per month – for what, only God knows.
I couldn’t help but reflect: if only we trimmed our national and county expenditure by just one percent—0.1 percent!—we could completely transform the lives of these children.
Instead, we continue to read headlines of leaders flying private jets, living in palatial homes, and awarding themselves obscene allowances while children in our slums survive on empty stomachs and dashed dreams. And because our leaders are pious, building churches takes precedence over feeding hungry children.
We must stop normalising this culture of poverty. Because poverty, when left to thrive unchecked, breeds hopelessness, anger, and ultimately, instability. It is in all our interests to ensure that every child, no matter where they are born, has a fair shot at life. Lift one child out of poverty and you probably will left her family from the mire of poverty.
Perhaps it is time we asked ourselves: what kind of society are we building if our children cannot even afford a uniform or a meal? The answers may be uncomfortable, but the truth always is.
-The writer is a communications consultant
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By Mutahi Mureithi