By Daniel Kituku
KATHONZWENI, MAKUENI COUNTY — The long, winding queues for relief food are back. So are the tears of hungry children and the pleas from local administrators.
In what now seems like a grim cycle of dependency, government officials in Makueni have renewed calls for emergency food aid—marking yet another chapter in the return of food handouts across drought-hit regions of Kenya.
Though the handouts come in handy to the needy, famine relief acceptance comes as a most dehumanising practice, particularly to able bodied humans in peace time. It speaks volumes when their land is arable and can produce enough food for them when the right actions are executed by all stakeholders at the right time. Sadly, famine relief, locally known as Mwol’yo, has been abused by successive governments since independence by being deployed as a voting bait.
Deputy County Commissioner Anabel Gitonga and Special Economic Zones Chair Fred Muteti made the call during a fundraising event for a school bus at Kiangini Comprehensive School, where speeches were overshadowed by the stark reminder that hunger remains a daily companion for many schoolchildren.
Gitonga said the failure of seasonal rains had left families and schools in crisis. “We are grateful for the recent consignment of 1,120 bags of maize and 300 bags of beans, but it’s not enough,” she said. “We are urging the government to increase the food supply, especially to support school feeding programmes. Without food, education collapses.”
Yet beneath the call lies a deeper crisis—one not just of weather, but of failed systems. Experts in the region have long warned of a dangerous mix: poor or outdated agricultural advisories, weak climate adaptation frameworks, and a government more engrossed in politics than food security. These are the ingredients of disaster now being witnessed across the counties of Machakos, Kitui, and Makueni.
Fred Muteti acknowledged this complexity, saying the lack of proactive measures had left even economically strategic regions like Makueni teetering on the edge. “We cannot industrialise an empty stomach. We must address food first,” he said, pledging to work with local administrators to avert further crisis.
Across the region, farmers who once relied on seasonal patterns now find themselves caught in uncertainty. The Kenya Meteorological Department’s advisories are either poorly disseminated or too technical to guide the average farmer. Agricultural extension officers are barely present. Climate change has rendered the old rhythms unreliable—but little has been done to build resilience.
Despite repeated declarations of bold policy frameworks—from the Big Four Agenda to County Integrated Development Plans—the reality on the ground tells a different story: the land is bare, granaries are empty, and communities are once again lining up for relief.
Cabinet Secretary for Public Service, Human Capital and Special Programmes Geoffrey Ruku, in response to the plea, said the national government would ensure food reaches all drought-affected areas. “No Kenyan should go hungry,” he said.
But for residents of Kathonzweni and the surrounding villages, promises have become familiar—even predictable—while solutions remain elusive. Many now wonder how, decades into independence, with devolved resources and modern technology, the country is still caught in the rut of relief food.
“The tragedy,” says a retired head teacher in Kiangini, “is not just the drought. It is that we forgot to plan for it even though we’ve seen it coming every year.”
In the background of all this stands the national political stage—buzzing with alliances, betrayals, declarations, and counter-declarations—while the real emergency plays out quietly in the rural classrooms and dust-choked farms of Makueni.
Food handouts are back. But they never really left.
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