By Levis Sirikwa, co-founder, Ceriops Environmental Research Organization and GLFx Mombasa; founder, Casina Farms; 2023 GLF Ocean Restoration Steward

On the Kenyan coast, mangroves mean life. 

These trees, rooted along the ocean’s edge, filter and purify seawater and invite fish that fill our fishing nets and bellies. They also shelter an array of endangered species, including the green sea turtle, the hawksbill turtle and the dugong.

But in 1997–98, El Niño took a heavy toll on my community of Mwachideko, a peri-urban settlement outside Mombasa, the second-largest city in Kenya.

That year, unusually heavy rains brought flooding that swept away homes, crops and livestock.

In other years since, prolonged droughts have parched the land, leaving salt deposits in the soil and killing stretches of mangrove forests.

These weather fluctuations, partly driven by the climate crisis, killed most of our first-generation mangroves.

Meanwhile, relentless industrial logging has eroded our mangroves over the last three decades. Both local timber merchants and international companies have cut down forests for charcoal, construction poles and export markets.

While some community elders tried to resist the destruction, they couldn’t address the root cause: poverty and a lack of other economic opportunities.

And so, our once-thriving mangrove ecosystems shrank into degraded patches.

Many foreign initiatives came to plant mangroves, then abruptly left. These projects often failed because they were dependent on donors and disconnected from local conditions. 

In 2016, when I first stepped into a degraded mangrove swamp near my home, I too believed that planting mangroves was the only answer. That changed after I spent time listening to nature and observing the needs of local communities. 

With them, I unlearned and relearned better ways to restore land, including community-rooted action and learning more about ecology. This led me to co-found Ceriops, an environmental research organization in East Africa.

We rehabilitate mangroves by planting and cleaning water sources through hydrological remediation. Women collect seedlings and manage nurseries, and young people are being trained in sustainable fishing practices and working with elders to revive traditional knowledge about tides and seasonal planting. 

We’re teaching restoration in schools, partnering with local conservation groups and creating alternative livelihoods so families aren’t forced to cut down mangroves and sell them to survive.

At Ceriops, we embrace the philosophy rooted in the proverb: “Those closest to the problem are closest to the solution.” 

Community underlines everything we do. I recently spoke with five community members from Mwachideko, Jomvu Vuu and Mwawesa – three villages just outside Mombasa – to learn how mangroves have shaped their lives.

I’ve grounded each of their stories in an African proverb as a testament to the powerful wisdom passed down from our elders.

“Wisdom is like a baobab tree; no one individual can embrace it.” 

In Mwachideko, fish farmer and elder Wilfred Nzoka tells us:

“Our lives have always depended on mangroves. We are fishers and subsistence farmers. A decade ago, we extracted without caution. We thought the ocean was vast and resources were infinite. We were wrong! 

Poor catches and low agricultural yields, coupled with government restrictions on mangroves, taught us that caution is a collective responsibility. 

Some degraded areas responded to planting, but others, plagued by sedimentation and livestock browsing, needed new approaches. We had to ensure water flow, control sediment and build barriers.”

“When the roots of a tree begin to decay, it spreads death to the branches.” 

In Jomvu Kuu, Ali Mchicha, a fisher and official from the CBO Bidii Creek Conservancy, recalls:

“Unlike in Mwawesa, our land isn’t arable. We rely on fishing, and declining catches woke us up. Mangroves were our ocean farms back in the 1970s and 80s. 

As kids, we played with the mangrove propagules of muia (Bruguiera gymnorrhiza). We called it Pia. In this game, we would spin the propagules by their colorful caps, and the person whose spin lasted the longest would be the master of the game. This made us very happy!

This same species gave us firewood and building material and attracted bees for honey. Another unique mangrove tree, mchu (Avicennia marina), hosted bees with its massive branches and gave us termite-resistant timber for building, too. 

We also built fishing canoes from these trees due to their tough nature. We burned its dried sticks to repel mosquitoes and used fresh ones to clean our teeth. During droughts, its salty leaves fed our livestock.

These trees were more than plants – they were lifelines.”

“If you educate a man, you educate an individual. If you educate a woman, you educate a nation.” 

In Mwawesa, many women are self-organizing to rebuild forests and mangroves. Subsistence farmer Florence Chizi Chasimbo explains:

“We once used mangroves for firewood and charcoal without caution. But after the El Niño rains wreaked havoc, we saw their importance. Women and mothers came together to restore. 

We now keep bees, farm fish and plant mangroves.”

“Rain does not fall on one roof alone.” 

Thima Ahmed, a businesswoman from Jomvu Kuu, remembers:

“As a girl in Jomvu, decades ago, we received big fish from our brothers, fathers and grandfathers, and you could fill a plate with just one fish. 

But over time, the size, populations and abundance of fish shrank, and sometimes our men came home empty-handed. 

Industrial logging and the 1998 El Niño devastated our mangroves. After a decade of deep engagement in mangrove rehabilitation, we now see larger fish like snappers again, along with sharks, shrimp and prawns. This has been evident for the last three years. 

Our mangroves are now being restored. Our ocean is healing.”

“The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” 

In Jombu Vuu, Daniel Chege, a young volunteer working with Bidii Creek Conservancies, recounts: 

“As kids, we weren’t allowed into the forest; it was dense and dangerous. 

My connection to it began six to seven years ago, after secondary school. I was told to volunteer instead of staying idle. ‘An idle mind is the devil’s workshop,’ they said. 

As youth, we want quick returns – money in our pockets. But our elders remind us that long-term goals matter. 

Many Gen Zs drift to motorbike businesses, but I urge them to give back to something bigger than themselves, because that’s what humanity is all about.

We’ve started mangrove beekeeping and permaculture thanks to GLFx Mombasa, Ceriops and Casina Farms. These green economy ventures (permaculture) give us hope while we wait for blue economy returns, such as mangrove honey and fisheries.”

The power of community

Together, the voices of local community members echo a simple truth: when we restore mangroves, we restore ourselves. 

Despite the pressures on our coastal ecosystems, we hold onto hope that one fish can still fill our plates, and our forests can thrive again.

Together, we’re building climate-resilient communities and ecosystems, rooted in local wisdom and collective action. As the popular African proverb goes:“If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”