Let’s Not Wait Until the Mangroves are Gone

By Mshenga Mwacharo

Email, thecoastnewspaper@gmail.com

As Kenya loses precious mangrove cover each year, the coastal communities are fighting back, but the clock is ticking.

I was raised in Mombasa. The city shaped how I see the world: its chaos, its calm, and the pace of life tied to the ocean.

If you’ve grown up near the sea, you know one truth: mangroves are everything.

As a child, I would be driven across Makupa Causeway and Mtwapa Bridge, mesmerized by these twisted sentinels rising from the water at the Tudor Creek below Makupa Causeway (now Makupa Bridge) and Mtwapa Creek below Mtwapa Bridge.

Their roots formed natural cathedrals, their canopies whispered secrets to the wind.

At dawn on the Kenyan coast, fishermen push their boats through narrow channels lined with these very roots.

Children wade through shallow waters catching prawns with small nets as women gather firewood for the day’s cooking. This scenario has played out for decades, as local communities interact with these coastal allies.

But what happens when the protectors disappear?

For generations, coastal communities have depended on mangrove forests. They’ve used them to build houses, make boats, carve furniture, and cook meals. They’ve been part of daily life, quietly serving them, asking for little in return.

Today, those same forests are under siege. And time is running out.

Thin green line of mangrove trees, dot Kenya’s stretch of 61,271 hectares along our coastline. That’s just three percent of the country’s natural forests, a thin green line between land and sea.

Most cluster around Lamu and its surrounding islands, where 62 percent of Kenya’s mangroves are found. Nine native species spread across lagoons, creeks, and estuaries, supporting both marine and human life.

Yet each year, we lose precious mangrove cover. In areas closer to towns, the destruction accelerates.

Why are we sawing off the branch we’re sitting on? The reasons are painfully familiar: unsustainable harvesting for firewood and building materials, coastal urbanisation, poorly planned aquaculture, and climate change stresses from rising sea levels and shifting tides.

The impact isn’t just environmental. It’s devastatingly personal.

Lose mangroves, lose the fish that breed in their roots. Lose clean water filtration. Lose natural buffers against floods and storm surges. Lose livelihoods as fisherfolk and tour guides watch their income streams dry up.

Mangroves aren’t just trees. They’re nature’s multi-taskers. Their roots trap sediment and filter polluted water. They cool shorelines and bind soil together.

They store massive amounts of carbon, on average, 1,000 tonnes per hectare, making them crucial allies in fighting climate change.

The numbers tell a stark story. Globally, mangrove ecosystem services are valued at about Ksh2.7 million per hectare annually.

These forests support fisheries that feed millions, protect coastlines from storm damage worth billions, and store carbon that helps stabilise our climate.

In Kenya, mangroves support over 60 percent of the country’s fish catch and protect coastal communities from floods that could cost millions in damage.

Destroying mangroves is economic self-sabotage.

So why are they disappearing from our shorelines?

There’s no shortage of research. No lack of warnings. We’ve heard it all. The science is clear, the consequences obvious. Yet action remains frustratingly slow.

Think about it: Would you demolish your house’s foundation while still living in it? Because that’s exactly what we’re doing to our coastal marine ecosystem and communities.

Hope in the Horizon

Years later, as an adult, I visited Kipini in Lamu County. This remarkable place holds a unique distinction. It’s the only location in Kenya where all nine mangrove species grow together.

Here, I met communities who had chosen a different path, one of restoration rather than destruction. The people of Kipini didn’t just talk about conservation; they rolled up their sleeves and planted seedlings.

They established community-managed areas. They understood what I had learned as a child watching the mangroves of Tudor and Mtwapa: these forests aren’t just resources to be exploited; they’re partners in survival.

Their commitment was infectious. It showed me that change is possible when communities take ownership of their environment.

Time for Action

On July 26, 2025 as the world marks the International Day for the Conservation of the Mangrove Ecosystem, Kenya must face an uncomfortable truth: protecting mangroves is no longer optional. It’s essential for survival.

The path forward requires immediate, coordinated action across multiple fronts. We must establish a national mangrove restoration fund with dedicated financing for degraded areas, while counties mandate environmental impact assessments for all coastal development projects.

This financial commitment needs to be matched by genuine community support: providing clean cooking alternatives like energy-saving stoves or biogas systems to reduce firewood dependency, and offering microcredit for sustainable businesses such as ecotourism, sustainable aquaculture, and mangrove honey production.

Policy reform cannot wait any longer. We need to strengthen enforcement of the Forest Conservation and Management Act with dedicated mangrove wardens, create buffer zones around remaining forests, and implement “blue carbon” credits that pay communities for protecting and restoring mangroves.

These regulatory changes must be paired with economic incentives that make conservation profitable, like developing mangrove-based tourism circuits linking Kipini, Lamu, and other restoration sites, and supporting community-led nurseries that can generate income while rebuilding ecosystems.

Most importantly, we need to shift how we see these forests.

Mangroves are not wastelands. They’re not dead zones fit for landfills. They are living systems, deeply woven into the culture, economy, and survival of the coast.

Our legacy growing up,

I witnessed this intricate interaction between human life and mangrove forests every day. From the creeks of my childhood to the restoration sites of Kipini, I’ve seen both the beauty and the fragility of these ecosystems. I still see it now, but I also see it fading.

When our grandchildren come asking why the fish disappeared, why the storms became more destructive, why the coastline has changed beyond recognition, what will we tell them?

That we knew better but chose convenience over conservation? That we had the knowledge but lacked the will?

Or will we tell them about the generation that chose to act, that recognized mangroves not as obstacles to development but as foundations for a sustainable future? Will we tell them about communities like those in Kipini, who proved that restoration is possible when people care enough to act?

We stand at a crossroads where our actions today will echo through generations. The mangroves that sheltered my childhood journeys across Makupa Bridge and Mtwapa Bridge, and the restoration heroes of Kipini are all part of a larger story we’re still writing.

Every propagule planted, every policy changed, every mind shifted toward conservation adds another chapter to this story. We can choose to be the generation that turned the tide, literally and figuratively.

The question isn’t whether we can afford to save our mangroves. It’s whether we can afford not to. Because in the end, what we’re really protecting isn’t just trees. It’s the very essence of what makes our coast home.