I will die on this hill: KNH vs Talanta Stadium

 

I will die on this hill: the KSh 40 billion earmarked for Talanta Stadium would have been far better spent at Kenyatta National Hospital specifically in oncology, nephrology, and cardiology research, infrastructure, and patient care. Not because sports don’t matter. Not because national pride is meaningless. But because priorities matter, and people are dying while we build monuments.

This is not an argument against football, athletics, or national celebration. It is an argument for proportionality. It is a question of moral arithmetic. When a country is hemorrhaging lives from preventable and manageable diseases, pouring tens of billions into concrete and seats should at least provoke discomfort.

At KNH, cancer patients line corridors waiting for radiotherapy slots that come too late. Kidney patients crowd dialysis units where machines run nonstop and still aren’t enough. Heart disease patients delay treatment because the cost of specialized care is catastrophic for ordinary families. These are not abstract problems. These are lived realities, repeated daily, quietly devastating households across the country.

Oncology, nephrology, and cardiology are not niche concerns. They are the frontlines of Kenya’s disease burden. Cancer incidence is rising. Hypertension and heart disease are becoming epidemic. Kidney failure is no longer rare or age-restricted. These conditions don’t just kill individuals; they financially ruin families. They drain savings, sell land, pull children out of school, and trap households in generational poverty.

A stadium hosts events. A hospital saves lives.

Let’s talk numbers honestly. KSh 40 billion invested in KNH could transform healthcare outcomes for decades. It could fund modern radiotherapy machines, expand dialysis units, train specialists, subsidize treatment costs, and establish serious research centers that reduce dependence on foreign systems. It could mean early detection instead of late-stage diagnosis. Management instead of mourning. Survival instead of fundraising posters on WhatsApp.

A stadium does not do that.

Supporters of the stadium will argue national pride, global visibility, economic stimulation, and youth empowerment. All valid points on paper. But pride does not resuscitate a patient. Visibility does not clear chemotherapy backlogs. And economic trickle-down does not pay hospital bills in real time.

We are told the stadium will inspire the youth. What about the youth whose parents die prematurely because treatment was unavailable or unaffordable? What about the children forced into adulthood early because a breadwinner succumbed to a treatable condition? There is no inspiration in that.

Kenya does not suffer from a lack of talent or passion in sports. What we lack is a healthcare system capable of protecting the very people we claim to represent. A country cannot celebrate athletic excellence while failing at basic survival.

This is also about cost efficiency. Preventive and early-stage healthcare saves money massively. Treating cancer early costs a fraction of managing terminal disease. Proper cardiac care reduces emergency admissions and long-term disability. Dialysis access delays the need for expensive transplants or palliative care. Investing in healthcare is not charity; it is economic sense.

Yet Kenyan families are left to crowdfund treatment, beg online, and appeal to strangers while national budgets chase visibility projects. We normalize harambees for surgery while applauding billion-shilling infrastructure announcements. Somewhere along the way, the moral compass drifted.

There is also the issue of sustainability. Stadiums require maintenance, security, staffing, and constant funding to remain functional. Many public stadiums across Kenya become white elephants, grand openings followed by slow decay. Healthcare infrastructure, by contrast, compounds in value. Trained specialists train others. Research produces protocols. Systems improve outcomes year after year.

A well-funded KNH could become a regional center of excellence, attracting patients, talent, and research funding from across the whole of Africa. That is soft power. That is legacy. That is development.

This is not a call to abolish sports funding. It is a call to reorder urgency. Build the stadium when fewer Kenyans are dying waiting for machines. Build it when hospitals are not rationing care. Build it when families are not selling property to stay alive.

Right now, the choice feels obscene.

The harsh truth is this: a nation reveals its values not in speeches but in budgets. Where money goes is where importance lies. When we prioritize spectacle over survival, we are making a statement—whether we admit it or not.

Some will say this is an emotional argument. It is. It should be. Policy without empathy is cruelty with spreadsheets. But it is also rational, data-driven, and painfully obvious to anyone who has spent time in a public hospital.

Others will say development requires multiple tracks. Fine. But when resources are finite, trade-offs are real. Every billion spent somewhere is a billion not spent elsewhere. Pretending otherwise is intellectual dishonesty.

You can disagree with me. You can accuse me of being anti-sport, anti-progress, or pessimistic. But I will still stand here. Because I have seen too many families broken not by fate, but by policy choices.

If the goal of government is to protect life, then healthcare is not just another sector—it is the foundation. Without healthy citizens, everything else is theater.

KSh 40 billion in KNH into oncology, nephrology, and cardiology would have saved more lives, reduced more suffering, and created more lasting national value than Talanta Stadium ever will.

And until our priorities reflect that truth, no amount of celebration will feel honest.