By Kepher Otieno - Reporter
Kenya, 25 January 2026 - Deputy President Kithure Kindiki’s pushback against the opposition’s threat to scrap the Social Health Authority (SHA) is more than a defence of a policy choice; it is a window into how healthcare has become the new frontline in Kenya’s succession politics.
Speaking from an interdenominational prayer service in Kericho’s Soin/Sigowet, Kindiki framed the opposition’s pledge—championed by former Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua—as reckless nostalgia.
In his telling, the debate is not about ideology but numbers, impact, and lived reality. Under Taifa Care, administered through SHA, he noted, nearly 29 million Kenyans are now covered by public health insurance—almost four times the 7.5 million who were registered under the defunct NHIF.
That statistic is the government’s sharpest weapon. It allows Kindiki to recast the SHA debate from one about painful transition to one about inclusion. NHIF, long criticised for inefficiency, corruption, and elite capture, had effectively become a safety net for formal-sector workers, leaving millions in the informal economy exposed. By contrast, SHA is being sold as universal, redistributive, and aligned with the constitutional promise of healthcare as a right rather than a privilege.
The opposition’s promise to scrap SHA and reinstate NHIF, therefore, hands the government a rare political gift.
It enables Kindiki and the Kenya Kwanza administration to paint their rivals as defenders of a broken past—leaders willing to reverse reforms even if it means shrinking access to healthcare for millions. In a country where medical bills remain a leading cause of household poverty, that framing is potent.
But Kindiki’s intervention also reveals a deeper anxiety within government circles. SHA remains controversial, especially around contributions, implementation glitches, and public mistrust born from decades of failed health reforms.
By confronting the opposition head-on, Kindiki is attempting to freeze the narrative early: that whatever its flaws, SHA is reformable, while NHIF was fundamentally irredeemable.
The choice of venue—a prayer service—was not accidental. By invoking morality and collective responsibility, Kindiki elevated the debate beyond policy mechanics into the realm of ethics. Scrapping SHA, he implied, would not merely be a political decision but a moral failure—an abandonment of the sick, the poor, and the previously uninsured.
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Politically, the clash underscores how healthcare is emerging as a defining issue ahead of the next general election.
For the opposition, attacking SHA offers a rallying point for public frustration with new deductions and administrative confusion. For the government, defending it provides a counter-narrative of reform, scale, and long-term payoff.
Kindiki’s message was also a warning shot to populist politics. Promising to abolish SHA without offering a credible alternative that expands coverage, he argued, is easy rhetoric designed to harvest anger rather than solve problems. In that sense, the Deputy President positioned himself as the voice of continuity and pragmatism against what he portrayed as emotional, short-term politics.
Ultimately, the SHA-versus-NHIF debate is becoming a proxy war over Kenya’s development path. Do reforms endure even when they are uncomfortable, or are they reversed every election cycle? Kindiki’s defence suggests the government is betting that voters will reward expansion and ambition over familiarity and retreat.
Whether that bet pays off will depend less on speeches and more on delivery. If SHA translates coverage numbers into real, accessible, and affordable care, the opposition’s pledge to scrap it may indeed sound out of touch.
If it stumbles, the promise to return to NHIF—however flawed—could gain traction.
For now, Kindiki has drawn the battle lines clearly, and healthcare has firmly entered Kenya’s high-stakes political arena.
