The Matiang’i Myth: How the Education Sector Lived Through the Agonising Lie of a Reformist Tyrant

By Fred Allan Nyankuru

Kenya has a dangerous habit. We cheer noise instead of results. We mistake fear for discipline. We confuse intimidation with leadership. Few people illustrate this national weakness better than Dr. Fred Matiang’i —the “super minister” who, in truth, left the education sector wounded, humiliated, and poorer.

Behind his image of a “no-nonsense reformer” was not a saviour, but a bully. His reign was not about building an education system for the future, it was about stamping authority, silencing dissent, and turning public institutions into stages for his own performance.

Teachers remember Matiang’i’s school visits not as opportunities to improve, but as days of terror. Head teachers who had dedicated decades to moulding young lives were paraded like criminals for the smallest of mistakes, sometimes over things beyond their control. These inspections were not about accountability; they were about humiliation. They destroyed morale and dignity, reducing professionals into trembling subjects before a man who thrived on fear.

This was not leadership. It was bullying. And Kenya’s children paid the price.

Our universities, once proud centres of learning, still limp under the scars of Matiang’i’s decisions. When he scrapped the parallel degree program, he killed off a vital source of revenue without providing an alternative. What followed was financial ruin: unpaid lecturers, crumbling infrastructure, and a brain drain of brilliant minds.

Public universities sank into debt —over KSh 56 billion —and students lost opportunities. To Matiang’i, it was a “reform.” To those inside the system, it was sabotage.

Perhaps the cruellest betrayal was how he used children. The same man who barred politicians from school grounds thought nothing of interrupting lessons so that pupils could sing and dance for his publicity tours. For those children, their classroom —their sacred space of learning, was turned into a campaign rally.

He did not see learners. He saw props. That is not reform; it is exploitation.

Matiang’i’s myth of incorruptibility collapsed under the weight of real scandals. The reckless closure of Kenyatta University campuses wasted nearly KSh 600 million. Worse still, the Ruaraka land saga exposed the rot. A Senate probe confirmed that a KSh 1.5 billion fraud happened under his watch, despite clear evidence that the land in question was public. The Senate even recommended prosecution. Nothing happened.

The same hand that was heavy on teachers became feather-light when it came to corruption. This is the hypocrisy of strongmen: merciless on the powerless, indulgent with the powerful.

When students, overwhelmed by suffocating rules and harsh decrees, set dormitories ablaze across the country, Matiang’i responded with the only tool he knew —force. He never asked why students felt cornered. He never paused to listen. Instead, he tightened the screws further.

A leader heals unrest with dialogue and understanding. A tyrant mistakes silence for peace. The fires in our schools were not acts of hooliganism; they were the desperate cries of a generation suffocated by dictatorship.

Today, as the dust of his era settles, we are left with broken universities, demoralised teachers, and children who learned that in Kenya, authority can be cruel and arbitrary.

Matiang’i’s legacy is a warning. If we celebrate him, we risk convincing ourselves that democracy is too messy, that we need “iron-fisted” saviours to fix our problems. That is a dangerous lie.

Kenya does not need Matiang’i. We do not need strongmen. We need strong institutions —transparent, fair, and accountable. We need leaders who serve, not bullies who perform.

Dr. Fred Matiang’i was not the cure for Kenya’s education sector. He was the disease. His reign should remind us that the worst tyrant is not always in military uniform. Sometimes, he comes dressed in a sharp suit, armed with decrees, and cloaked in the applause of a deceived nation.