When drama and film teachers met at Kisumu Girls last week for their annual trainers’ workshop, the agenda was simply to make the 2026 festivals safer and more creative.
But this year’s festival was tense after a dramatic walkout by Butere Girls, leaving everyone in the hall wondering.
To recap: Butere Girls never performed their play Echoes of War, a controversial piece written by opposition politician Cleophas Malala, who clearly missed the memo on keeping school drama apolitical. The play, by the former Kakamega Senator, was disqualified at the nationals. Accusations flew, hashtags trended, and soon everyone was asking: Who really decides what goes on stage? Do schools need consultants, or should the job fall to teachers like Mr Omondi and Kamau who teach Literature in the school?
“The guidelines in the rule book are clear: teachers remain the custodians of the festival,” said Chairperson Prof. C.J. Odhiambo.
Some teachers prefer a mix of professional teachers and outsiders, but with some caution.
“Drama is exhausting, and a teacher might not be able to do everything,” says theatre and film consultant Pish Kago.
“Imagine someone has 28 lessons, plus extra classes morning and evening—then you add drama. That person will burn out. That’s where we come in.”
He adds: “Now they’re saying we need a TSC number in the new guidelines. That feels like being pushed aside, unless they offer us something like a six-month crash course.”
It wasn’t always this way. The festival began firmly in teachers’ hands. But as competition intensified, many turned to professional actors and scriptwriters for help. In time, the contests grew fiercely competitive—some say excessively so—with unethical tactics creeping in just to win.
With that shift came higher costs. Schools began spending heavily on props and professional services, and what was once a celebration of talent turned, for some, into a high-stakes show of prestige.
Maureen Kwamboka, a film teacher at Statehouse Girls who directs her own productions, still believes outside expertise has its place. “Resources are a challenge in our field—we often have to source cameras and editing help ourselves,” she notes.
Yet the financial weight hits smaller schools hardest.
“If you give a consultant half a million shillings and they don’t get you to nationals, chase them away,” one anonymous consultant told me.
Still, some principals stand accused of colluding with consultants to inflate budgets and sideline drama teachers altogether.
“No one understands child safety and protection like a teacher does,” says Doris Rwito, a longtime festival participant. “That’s why the drama teacher should lead what a school presents. That role cannot be handed to a consultant.”
So where does this leave consultants? Their role may be uncertain, but most agree: when a teacher’s heart meets a consultant’s skill, something special happens.
“We don’t want to wish consultants away,” clarifies the chairperson. “Our role is to keep learners safe and let drama thrive—without bringing politics into it.”
