Kenya: A Nation Of Private Solutions To Public Robbery

There’s something uniquely Kenyan about our ability to adapt. We are the ultimate survivalists, the grandmasters of improvisation. If there was an Olympic medal for turning government failure into a private business opportunity, we would win gold, silver, and bronze all at once. But is that something to be proud of?

See, we are a nation where the government collects taxes as though it’s running a first-world economy but delivers services as though we live in a forgotten, war-ravaged territory. Roads that resemble the moon’s surface, hospitals that send you to the pharmacy next door for a paracetamol tablet, and schools where desks are shared like a community feast. But rather than demand accountability, we Kenyans have discovered a better trick—we privatize our problems.

No public primary schools? No problem! We build private academies in every corner, pay through the nose, and convince ourselves that education is a personal responsibility, not a public good. The state fails to equip hospitals? Easy fix! Private hospitals are everywhere, and if you can’t afford them, just die quietly. Who needs a national healthcare system when you have a WhatsApp fundraising group?

We have normalized a government that is present only when collecting taxes but absent when providing services. In its place, we have built an alternative Kenya—a shadow economy of survival, where private schools teach what public schools cannot, private hospitals treat what public hospitals ignore, and private security guards watch over homes the police refuse to protect.

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It gets even better. When the cost of living skyrockets, and we can no longer afford the taxes, rent, school fees, and medical bills, we turn to our other great equalizer—debt. Kenyans are not just broke; they are deeply, spectacularly, and historically indebted. It is a nation where everyone owes someone something, from the boda boda rider dodging Fuliza repayment texts to the businessman negotiating with auctioneers over unpaid loans. We have normalized debt as if it’s a rite of passage.

Instead of fixing the system, we have mastered the art of navigating brokenness. We prefer struggling through individual solutions rather than demanding collective reforms. We are like a man who, instead of fixing his leaking roof, keeps buying bigger umbrellas. We hustle, we work multiple jobs, we budget meticulously—but no matter how much we try, the weight of an incompetent government crushes us every time.

And let’s talk about our priorities. Kenya has more churches than factories. More bars than SMEs. The country’s two largest industries appear to be spirituality and alcohol—either we are praying for deliverance, or we are drinking to forget. The political elite steal in broad daylight, and instead of revolting, we seek divine intervention on Sunday and drown our sorrows at the local bar on Friday. A vicious cycle of faith and intoxication, all while our taxes finance luxury lifestyles for the people we elect.

Our politicians have figured us out. They know we complain loudly but do nothing. They know that even after we shout on social media, we will still line up like obedient schoolchildren and reelect them. They understand that Kenyans don’t punish corruption; they admire it. The man who loots and builds a church is seen as a philanthropist. The leader who robs but buys voters sacks of maize flour is called “mhesh.” The wealthy thief is envied, while the honest man is mocked for being foolish.

And this is why Kenya keeps getting worse. We have become so used to bad governance that we see it as a fact of life, like the sunrise and sunset. We don’t even ask for better anymore. We just try to out-hustle our problems. But how do you out-hustle a government that takes 30% of your earnings, taxes everything from your airtime to your salary, and then makes you pay again for the services it fails to provide?

The bitter truth is, we cannot outsmart this system. We cannot out-plan, out-hustle, or out-budget a government designed to keep us struggling. We cannot pray our way out of economic oppression. At some point, we must decide: do we continue living like this, or do we demand better?

But demanding better requires action. Not just hashtags, not just memes, not just complaining at family gatherings. It means uprooting the entire political class. Not replacing one thief with another, but removing them all—cleaning house from MCA to President. It means realizing that no amount of private solutions will fix a public system designed to fail us.

Until we get there, we will continue running in circles. More private schools, more private hospitals, more debts, more churches, more bars, more problems. A country where we live on borrowed time, borrowed money, and borrowed hope.

Wake up, Kenya. There is no private solution to public robbery.

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