For decades, the global development script has been predictable: African countries face a crisis, and aid flows from the West to respond. But today, the funding is drying up—and with it, the illusion that this model was ever sustainable.
As U.S. foreign assistance contracts and donor priorities shift in the U.K. and elsewhere, nonprofit leaders across Africa are navigating a quiet reckoning. Just this week, UN agencies announced they would slash food aid to millions of refugees as funding collapses. It’s not an isolated event—it’s a tragic symptom of a global retreat and a warning shot to all of us who have long depended on international solidarity to fight poverty, hunger, and inequality.
U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio recently declared, “We’re not the government of the world,” signaling that the United States will no longer shoulder the majority of global humanitarian aid. That may play well politically in Washington, but in places like Kenya, it lands as an inevitable reality check.
Rather than mourning what was, it’s time to cut our losses and focus on what we can build ourselves—because when global aid retreats, African ingenuity must step forward.
That spirit of local ownership is at the heart of Food4Education, the organization I founded in Kenya to tackle classroom hunger. Today, we feed 500,000 public schoolchildren daily at just $0.30 per meal—and have served more than 100 million meals to date. Our funding model is simple but systemic: government co-investment, parent contributions, and philanthropic capital working together to power clean-energy kitchens, employ over 4,400 people, and source 80% of food from smallholder farmers (like a woman named Mary who scaled from a single motorbike to 65 delivery trucks).
This isn’t charity. It’s infrastructure. And it’s already working.
Yet the work of African nonprofit CEOs like me is getting harder, not easier—not because we lack solutions, but because the language we use to describe our goals is increasingly under fire. We’re seeing backlash to words like equity, justice, and even inclusion. These terms are being labeled political, divisive, or ideological fluff in certain funding circles.
But we don’t have the luxury of debating the vocabulary—we’re too busy doing the real work.
When 600 million African children face irreversible developmental loss due to hunger, equity is not a concept or a slogan. It’s a kitchen. It’s a lunch bowl. It’s the difference between a child showing up hungry or ready—potential fulfilled, or potential wasted.
I understand that governments are recalibrating priorities. And they should—hard choices come with leadership. But what we need now isn’t a retreat. It’s reinvention. If we want sustainable progress, the aid conversation must shift from how much is given to who’s trusted to lead.
African leaders are not waiting. We are designing, implementing, and scaling solutions already embedded in our communities and economies.
At F4E, we’ve seen that when local governments commit to school feeding, it means real kitchens, real budgets, real policy changes. It means that instead of a child relying on an NGO that might leave tomorrow, they can depend on something stronger—a public commitment to their right to food and education. That’s the kind of system we need to see across Africa.
Ultimately, what we need are partners, not patrons. Capital that’s patient and trusts local infrastructure. Funding models that don’t expire with election cycles.
This moment, as sobering as it is, holds a powerful opportunity: to reimagine the architecture of global support not as a rescue operation, but as a shared investment in dignity, sustainable growth, and resilience.
That’s what we’re doing every day in Kenya—building new systems from the ground up. And with the right partners, we can do it across the continent.
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