Kenya's silent food crisis of hunger amid plenty

At dawn in Trans Nzoia, the golden light falls on endless rows of maize stalks swaying in the wind. To the untrained eye, this is the picture of abundance.

Yet for John Mwangi, a farmer who has tilled these lands for decades, the sight carries both pride and dread.

Pride, because the harvest promises full granaries. Dread, because he knows from experience that a good portion of it will never make it past his small storehouse. 

“Last season, I lost nearly a third of my harvest to pests,” he says, picking up a cob riddled with holes.

“By the time I carry what’s left to market, I’ve already lost so much. Sometimes I even burn the spoiled maize because I can’t feed it to my family.”

His words cut deep. For a man who plants to eat and sell, to destroy what he has worked so hard for is nothing short of cruel. 

Mwangi’s story is not an exception—it is the norm. A new report by the World Resources Institute (WRI) Africa shows that Kenya loses up to 40 per cent of the food it produces every year.

That is nine million tonnes of food, valued at Sh72 billion, going to waste in a country where one in four people struggles to find enough to eat. It is a contradiction so sharp that it borders on tragic. 

Consider the mango orchards of Murang’a. When harvest time comes, farmer Ruth Njeri and her neighbours pick crates upon crates of ripe, golden mangoes.

But many days later, the trucks never arrive. The fruits sit in the heat, slowly softening, until they are worthless.

“We wait and wait, and when no one comes, the mangoes start to rot,” Ruth says.

“I’ve seen truckloads spoil in just two days. That is school fees gone, hospital money gone.” She speaks not just of fruit but of futures spoiled. 

The report paints a devastating picture. Between 20 and 36 per cent of maize is lost, mostly in storage.

Potatoes? Almost a quarter disappears before they reach consumers. Mangoes are the worst—over half rot before anyone tastes them.

Even fish, hauled fresh from the Indian Ocean or Lake Victoria, spoil in heaps on the shore because ice runs out and transport is unreliable.

A fisherman in Kilifi put it simply: “When the ice runs out, the fish run out of time.” 

It is easy to think of this as just numbers—percentages, tonnes, billions of shillings. But these losses carry a human face.

For the farmer who spends months planting, weeding, and harvesting only to see her produce rot, it is despair.

For the mother in Mathare who spends half her income on food, it is hunger. For the nation, it is the heartbreak of watching plenty slip through our fingers while millions go without. 

The irony deepens when you realise what is at stake. If Kenya reduced food loss and waste by just half, it could feed more than seven million people every year, inject Sh36 billion into the economy, and cut over seven million tonnes of carbon emissions.

This is not just about food. It is about livelihoods, dignity, and survival. 

The government knows this. The Agriculture Ministry has rolled out a strategy to tackle food loss between 2024 and 2028.

Some counties have even localised the plan, creating action steps for farmers and traders. But progress is painfully slow.

Weak coordination, lack of financing, and poor monitoring keep us stuck. Meanwhile, farmers like Mwangi and Ruth continue to shoulder the losses alone. 

And yet, hope glimmers in small ways. Hermetic bags, which keep maize airtight and free of pests, are changing lives where they are used.

Cold storage facilities, though scarce, have saved countless kilos of fish and fruit. Community groups are redirecting surplus food from supermarkets and hotels to hungry families.

These are seeds of change. The question is whether we have the courage and commitment to scale them up. 

Dr Susan Chomba of WRI Africa believes it is possible. “By providing reliable data, strengthening policies, mobilising finance, and fostering entrepreneurship, we can turn food loss and waste into food security, green jobs, and climate resilience across Kenya,” she says.

Her words point to a future where the mango in Ruth’s orchard and the fish in Kilifi’s baskets actually reach a plate. 

But time is running out. The world set itself a goal of halving food waste and loss by 2030. That is just five years away, and already the world is off track.

Kenya cannot afford to falter. Hunger is no longer a distant threat—it is here, it is real, and it is cutting across villages and cities alike. 

Walk through Nairobi’s informal markets and you will see the paradox in plain sight. Piles of overripe bananas selling for next to nothing sit next to families bargaining for a few tomatoes. Some cannot afford even those.

“Food is expensive, yet farmers are crying that they cannot sell,” says Mary Achieng, a mother of four in Mathare. Her words pierce the heart of the matter: waste on one end, scarcity on the other. 

Kenya’s silent food crisis is not caused by drought alone, nor by poor soils, nor by lack of hard work.

It is caused by inefficiencies and neglect along the journey from farm to plate. And unlike the weather, this is a crisis we can change.

Farmers need storage, transport, and fair markets. Fishermen need reliable cold chains. Consumers need awareness about household waste.

And the government must push its strategy from paper to practice, with urgency and coordination. 

Every mango saved, every sack of maize preserved, every fish kept cold long enough to feed a family represents more than food.

It represents dignity, hope, and resilience. The report makes it clear: reducing food loss and waste is not just about saving what we grow—it is about securing the future of a nation. 

The tragedy of abundance wasted while children go to bed hungry is one we can end. But it will take all of us—farmers, traders, government, businesses, and consumers—to act with urgency.

Kenya does not lack food; it lacks the systems to keep that food long enough to reach the people who need it. 

The dawn in Trans Nzoia will always bring the sight of golden maize fields. The question is whether we will continue watching them rot away in storehouses and markets—or whether we will finally ensure that the harvest of our hands becomes the nourishment of our people.