SPECIAL REPORT: Kenya’s War Against Its Most Vulnerable – The Children We Choose Not to See

There is no kinder way to say this: Kenya is actively failing its children with disabilities. Not by accident. Not by lack of knowledge. But by deliberate, generational, systematized neglect, camouflaged under a thousand policy papers, smiling ministry officials, and well-funded conferences that achieve absolutely nothing.

The news that over 2,000 special schools may close in two weeks due to delayed capitation is not shocking. No. It is predictable. This is what happens when a government has perfected the art of budgeting for visibility and delivering invisibility. These schools were never truly safe. They have been surviving on prayers, parental sacrifices, and the stubborn love of caregivers for far too long.

Let’s call this what it is: a state-sponsored betrayal of disabled children. Not mere oversight. Not financial hiccups. Not logistical delays. Betrayal.

Because what kind of government delays the basic lifeline of institutions that support the most vulnerable members of society? What kind of leaders draft budgets that allocate billions for “special economic zones,” overpriced cars, and globe-trotting, but can’t fund a physiotherapist for a child with cerebral palsy?

The Ministry of Education, that powerful custodian of Kenya’s intellectual future, has been alarmingly silent. But perhaps silence is a strategy. After all, how do you defend a system that has no reliable data on the number of children with special needs? You keep quiet and hope the storm will pass. You wait for a distracted public to move on. Maybe blame the teachers, or the parents, or — in classic fashion — the devil.

In the world of education for children with disabilities, numbers are sacred. And in Kenya, they are also suspiciously absent. The last credible national census of persons with disabilities was in 2009, and even then, the data were vague and poorly categorized. Why does the state fear data? Because once numbers are published, accountability begins.

Let’s talk policy — or the decorative art of policy-making in Kenya. We have frameworks and strategic plans that gather dust in government offices. We have “inclusive education” policies that promise everything and deliver nothing. Ask any parent trying to get their autistic child into a public school. They will tell you how many headteachers suddenly develop amnesia when they hear the words “sensory integration.”

Read Also: 60 Mothers And Children In Kilifi Benefit From Nutrition Education And Free Health Checks

And the Ministry of Health? A haunted mansion of missed diagnoses and misdiagnoses. A place where children with ADHD are either ignored or stuffed with adult antipsychotics. Early intervention? In Kenya, that’s a foreign language. Speech therapy? Only if you can afford to fly to Nairobi or Mombasa. Occupational therapy? It exists, mostly in PowerPoint presentations at workshops.

Let us not forget the county governments. Our MCAs, forever enchanted by benchmarking trips to Singapore and the Bahamas, have shown zero interest in building local therapy centers. Instead, they compete over who can launch the largest bronze statue of a rooster. Meanwhile, rural parents walk tens of kilometers with children who cannot walk, speak, or eat properly, just to be turned away by a clinic that has no capacity.

At the heart of it all is the President. A man who, despite leading a country with a rapidly growing population of children with developmental disabilities, has never once addressed this crisis in any State of the Nation address. The Commander-in-Chief of a war he refuses to fight. When he speaks of “bottom-up economics,” one wonders — are the disabled not at the bottom enough?

The National Council for Persons with Disabilities is supposed to be the government’s arm in advancing the interests of people living with disabilities. But it operates more like a lottery fund, where only the connected and vocal get wheelchairs, bursaries, or ramps. What about systemic change? Infrastructure? Policies that train, equip, and empower special needs educators? Silence.

Now, pause. Because here’s where it gets nuclear. Every year, more children are being born or diagnosed with autism, cerebral palsy, Down syndrome, ADHD, speech, and sensory processing disorders. Why? Part of the answer lies in changing environmental factors, birth complications, genetic predispositions — issues we can’t control. But another part — the bigger part — lies in delayed diagnosis, lack of awareness, and a society that still believes “a disabled child is a curse.”

The rising numbers should trigger investment. But in Kenya, rising numbers only trigger increased denial. We’d rather spend millions celebrating international disability days than build a single state-of-the-art therapy center in every county. And let’s not even talk about training. Our universities offer fewer options for special needs training than they do for theology. A nation with more pastors than therapists.

Ask Generation X and millennials raising neurodiverse children in this country. The struggle is daily, brutal, and isolating. There are no support networks, no trained child-minders, no affordable therapies. Parents are quitting jobs to care for children who need 24-hour attention, while the state gives them a KSh 2,000 monthly token and calls it “support.” A joke so cruel it could only be Kenyan.

But the joke is becoming a threat. Because with no infrastructure, no policy, and no funding, we are creating a timebomb. Thousands of children with unmanaged neurodevelopmental needs are growing into adults. Adults with no jobs, no social support, and no education. What will happen when they grow up in a society that has taught them they are a burden?

We are not just neglecting children with special needs. We are manufacturing national dysfunction, one ignored child at a time. And when the explosion comes, it will not be confined to therapy rooms. It will hit our streets, our schools, our economy, and our politics.

This is a call to arms. Not pity. Not sympathy. Action.

To the Ministry of Education: wake up. You cannot build a knowledge economy while letting children with learning disabilities rot in abandoned classrooms.

To the Ministry of Health: invest in diagnostics. Train therapists. Build centers. Include neurodiverse conditions in your public health priorities.

To county governments: take your eyes off flags and gates. Build something that matters.

To Parliament: pass legislation that mandates inclusive infrastructure in every school, not just the elite ones.

To the President: Say the word “autism.” Let us know you are aware. Then do something — anything — that shows you’re not complicit.

To parents: speak louder. Shame this system into action. The personal is now political.

To NGOs and the private sector: stop hosting galas. Fund real things. Build sensory rooms. Sponsor therapists. Create jobs for these kids when they grow up.

And to the Kenyan public: stop calling them “crazy,” “retarded,” “possessed.” Learn. Change. Grow. Because the only curse here is a government and a society that refuses to see these children as fully human.

The future is already here. And it is screaming, stimming, flapping, confused, delayed, brilliant, beautiful, and angry. And unless we build for it, it will burn everything down.

Read Also: Who Will Take Care of Your Children If You’re No Longer Here?