USAID’s Tujitegemee project in Kilifi County supported over 12,000 children, including over 1,800 children living with HIV.
Ruhiya Bakari, a teenage girl from Mombasa, still remembers how the Dreams project changed her life. The initiative, which mentored girls on sexual health, education, and avoiding gang violence, also provided her with school fees and sanitary pads. Now, with the programme gone, she worries about others like her.
“Dreams project helped me a lot while in school by providing fees, sanitary pads and also mentored me to follow good behaviour practices, I still wish it would continue to enable other needy girls to get assistance and also take us to college,” says Ruhiya.
Her mother, Khadija Hamid, a single parent of two, recalls how the project paid her daughter’s secondary school fees from Form one to Form four and helped her start a samosa business. The small income from selling samosas at the local market kept food on their table and helped cover basic household expenses. Now she continues with her samosa business and teaches her daughters Islamic teachings from the Quran to keep them focused on their lives.
“The Dreams project paid fees for my daughter from Form one to Form four. There was also a plan to boost my business and now I am in grief with no help as it is no longer there. We urge the government and other stakeholders to help us; our children are still at home,” Khadija said.
The impact of losing the Dreams project extends far beyond individual families. In Mombasa’s informal settlements like Kisauni and Likoni, where poverty rates hover above the national average, teenage pregnancies have spiked since the programme ended. Community health workers report seeing more girls dropping out of school, with some as young as 14 becoming mothers.
In 2025, a US policy shift under President Donald Trump’s administration froze foreign aid to Kenya, including programmes supporting orphaned and vulnerable children (OVC).
One of the hardest-hit initiatives was USAID’s Tujitegemee project in Kilifi County, which provided HIV treatment, stipends, and psychosocial support to 1,857 children living with HIV, and served 12,843 children in total across 4,584 households according to their unique needs. The project had been a lifeline for families dealing with the dual burden of poverty and HIV, providing monthly cash transfers that kept children in school and ensured they received proper nutrition.
“The abrupt termination… has placed these children at severe risk,” says Gabriel Mwanzia, a former USAID employee who spent eight years coordinating youth programmes. “They now face economic hardship, interrupted medical care, and potential loss of life. There might be a rise in stigma and economic instability for the families of the beneficiaries as the programme provided stipends.”
Mwanzia describes visiting families where children have stopped taking their antiretroviral medication because parents can no longer afford transport to health facilities. Without consistent treatment, these children face the risk of developing drug-resistant HIV strains, which could prove fatal.
The ripple effects have been felt across Kenya’s coast. In Malindi, a fishing community that relied heavily on USAID-funded vocational training programs, young people who were learning carpentry, tailoring, and computer skills suddenly found themselves without mentors or equipment. The abandoned workshop spaces now serve as painful reminders of opportunities lost.
With international funding gone, community groups, NGOs, and the county government are scrambling to fill the gap, though their resources pale in comparison to what was lost. Swahili Pot, a local outfit founded by former beneficiaries, is partnering with businesses to fund mentorship and training in entrepreneurial skills using locally available resources.
“We’re training girls to make soap and detergents they can sell in their neighbourhoods,” explains Amina Rashid, Swahili Pot’s coordinator. “It’s not as comprehensive as what we had before, but it gives them something to build on.”
Mwanzia adds: “We are partnering with Mombasa Swahili Pot so as to enable the youth understand their needs and we are also referring the youth needs to other stakeholders that provide service delivery to enable the youth have the necessary skills and have knowledge on their health and mentorship.”
Private sector involvement has been crucial but inconsistent. Some hotels along Mombasa’s tourist strip have agreed to offer internships to young people who were previously in USAID programmes, while small-scale manufacturers are providing limited apprenticeships. However, these opportunities serve only a fraction of those affected.
Mombasa’s story is now one of adaptation. While the loss of aid has been devastating, the community is proving that local solutions, backed by private partnerships and government action, can keep hope alive. The transition has forced communities to rediscover traditional support systems and develop sustainable, locally owned solutions.
But the cost of this transition is measured in young lives disrupted. For every success story like Ruhiya’s mother, who has managed to keep her samosa business running, there are dozens of families struggling to survive without the safety net they had grown to depend on. The fight isn’t over, but neither is their determination.
