Kenya’s catastrophic flooding is a tragic reminder that it’s time to rethink how aid is delivered

My mother and I were climate refugees. When I was a baby, we left our drought-stricken rural home for Nairobi, hoping the city would offer stable work and secure a better future for our family. With few options, we landed in Kibera, Africa’s largest slum, living on the edge of survival without enough food to eat and without access to clean water, healthcare, or formal education. We scraped by on sheer will and survival instincts.

In recent months, torrential rains and floods have been the most catastrophic in Kenya in decades, killing 300 and displacing 300,000. The majority live in slums, crowded into metal shacks on land that quickly turns to mud. There are no government services and no safety net, even when crisis hits. Rivers have become clogged with waste, leading to the outbreak of waterborne diseases like cholera; food insecurity has surged; and homes have been destroyed. The damage will be felt for years to come—and the problem is quickly accelerating. More than 110 million people in Africa were affected by climate-related hazards in 2022, and 700 million people will be displaced due to food and water scarcity as a result of climate-related events by 2030.

In times of emergency, community-based organizations become trusted frontline responders, drawing upon a vast network of local volunteers to coordinate efforts and mobilize faster than any other groups. When you’re part of the social fabric, you can activate entire networks, going where outside organizations can’t to reach the world’s most vulnerable populations.

Yet despite this, they’re often the least involved in climate preparedness and response planning. But what they may lack in technical capabilities, local leaders make up for with lived experience and cultural knowledge. These are invaluable skills that make local organizations the quickest to deliver aid during a crisis, especially in hard-to-reach, poor communities where existing relationships and trust are key. When a crisis hits, local responders embedded in the community deserve a larger share of the funding pie.

But that’s not enough on its own. These local groups must be part of the global climate agenda, and long-term solutions must be implemented in partnership with community organizations. This is not an abstract exercise for policymakers. It’s about real-world planning, so communities on the margins don’t get washed out.

Twenty years ago at age 15, I started Shining Hope for Communities (SHOFCO). We provide Kenya’s slum dwellers with clean water, healthcare, job programs, and girls education. All of our programs are run by local leaders and staff members who live in the communities they serve and have a firsthand understanding of the issues they face. Our focus is on directing resources and decision-making power to local leaders who are able to design and execute initiatives they know will create long-term change.

Currently, international organizations receive 400 times more humanitarian aid funding than community-based organizations—$39 billion versus $98 million in 2022. Too much of this funding is never received by the communities who need it most. Aid funding from governments typically flows through multiple agencies and organizations—each taking a percentage for administrative fees—before reaching the target population. When funds finally reach local partners, they’re heavily restricted in how they’re spent, and community leaders often aren’t consulted on what will be most effective.

Local organizations are also significantly more cost effective and can stretch aid dollars further. An independent analysis found that shifting 25% of aid funding to local organizations would strip out expensive overhead costs and free up $4.3 billion in savings annually. This win-win would benefit aid funders, sustain local organizations, and promote a more equitable aid system.

At a local level, communities are already implementing solutions to prepare for extreme weather events. In Kenya’s urban slums, they’re planting trees along riverbanks to protect against flooding by strengthening the soil and curbing erosion. They’re installing rooftop gardens and rainwater collection to improve access to food and clean water; and they’re organizing river cleanups to remove waste that becomes hazardous during floods.

My organization created an aerial water piping system that was designed to withstand extreme weather events, which remained unaffected during the floods even when waterborne disease was rampant. In Kenya’s rural communities, local climate adaptation efforts include improving farmers’ access to drought-resistant seeds for steadier food supply, constructing “water pans” to improve clean water collection year-round, and introducing climate-resilient irrigation techniques.

In Zimbabwe, a savings collective of urban poor communities offers loans for small-scale projects like solar energy systems or dry toilets in flood-prone areas. In Bangladesh, an adaptation fund for community groups provides startup grants to farmers whose livelihood is threatened by climate change.

Local communities are already on the front lines of this new climate reality. It’s time for the international community to make good on its climate adaptation commitments in developing countries. To bridge this gap and accelerate progress, policymakers must consult with local organizations on climate adaptation solutions, especially in slums; funders should identify and support local organizations who are critical first responders during climate disasters; and governments should reform aid mechanisms to spend less on pass-through overheads, and more on essential operating costs that strengthen local organizations.