More than trees: The fight to save vanishing shield in Kenya's Coast

At first light in Gazi Bay, the tide moves in quietly, threading through the exposed roots of mangrove trees as fishermen prepare their nets. For generations, these forests have been a source of food, protection, and identity. Today, however, some of the trees that have long anchored both coastline and culture are beginning to disappear.

Among them are two  species whose loss is being felt in different but equally profound ways: Xylocarpus granatum, locally known as Mkomafu, and Sonneratia alba, or Mlilana. Their decline is not dramatic at first glance, but to those who know these forests, it signals something deeper, an ecosystem under strain, and a way of life at risk.

For many coastal families, Mkomafu is more than timber. Its strong, durable wood has long been used to make furniture and, in Muslim communities, traditional funeral beds. Its fruit is valued for medicinal purposes and knowledge passed down through generations.

“Xylocarpus granatum is not just another tree,” says Judith Okello of the Kenya Marine and Fisheries Research Institute. “It is deeply woven into the cultural fabric of coastal communities. Families depend on it for traditional practices, and its fruit has medicinal value that has been passed down for generations.”

Yet that cultural and economic value has made it a target. Illegal harvesting continues, driven by demand for construction and carving wood. The species, already rare along the coast, is being pushed further towards decline. Despite this, it remains largely overlooked in policy: in Kenya’s 2025 National Mangrove Ecosystem Restoration Guidelines, Mkomafu is mentioned only three times, with no clear framework for its propagation.

“If we lose it, we are not only losing a tree, we are losing heritage, medicine, and a vital ecological pillar,” Dr Okello warns.

Further out, at the fragile edge where land meets sea, Mlilana tells another story, one of quiet collapse. This species forms the frontline of mangrove ecosystems, absorbing wave energy and shielding the forests behind it from erosion. But across Kenya’s coastline, it is under sustained attack from pests.

“Sonneratia alba, or Mlilana, plays a critical role in coastal defence,” Dr Okello explains. “Its roots absorb wave surges, shielding other mangrove species from erosion. But pests have plagued this species for decades, boring into its wood and leaving concealed damage.”

The damage often goes unnoticed until it is too late. “You don’t see it immediately, the frass hides it,” she says. “Then the tree tips dry out, and entire bands of forest begin to die. From the air, you can see the coastline changing. This is not just a biological issue; it is a warning that our defences against erosion are crumbling.”

Like Mkomafu, Mlilana is difficult to restore. Unlike species such as Rhizophora or Ceriops, it does not produce easy-to-plant propagules. Instead, it requires more complex nursery techniques, something many restoration programmes avoid.

“Nurseries often ignore Sonneratia because it is harder to grow,” Dr Okello adds. “But if we continue to neglect it, we will have no seedlings to replace what is dying. That is a dangerous oversight.”

Across Kenya,  mangroves cover about 61,000 hectares, just 1.8 per cent of the country’s forest area, but their importance far exceeds their size. Found along the Indian Ocean coastline in Lamu County, Kilifi County, Mombasa, Kwale County, and the Tana River County, they protect shorelines, support fisheries, and sustain coastal livelihoods. Lamu alone holds more than half of the national mangrove cover, while areas such as Tudor Creek and Port Reitz in Mombasa face intense pressure from urbanisation.

Their decline has been long in the making. Studies using Landsat imagery and ecological surveys show that from the 1970s to the 1990s, mangrove cover fell sharply due to overharvesting, particularly in Lamu and Kilifi. The 2000s brought further losses from aquaculture, salt production, and urban expansion. By the early 2010s, forests were fragmented and increasingly fragile.

More recently, however, there have been signs of recovery. Community-led restoration efforts, especially in Gazi Bay and Mida Creek, have helped stabilise mangrove cover in some areas. A 2022 study found that while overall cover has improved locally, vulnerability to coastal hazards such as erosion and flooding has increased, largely due to pest infestations and the weakening of key species like Mlilana.

For Henry Komu of the Kenya Forestry Research Institute, the challenge lies not just in restoring forests, but in rethinking how restoration is done.

“Planting millions of seedlings in a day looks impressive,” he says. “But without proper site assessment, without restoring tidal flows, and without understanding the ecosystem, most of those seedlings will not survive. Restoration is not a race. It is about patience, science, and respect for the environment.”

Too often, he adds, restoration has been reduced to numbers, with seedlings treated as commodities rather than part of a living system.

On the ground, these challenges are deeply felt. For coastal communities, mangroves are both a resource and a responsibility, but one that cannot be sustained without support.

“Funding is always short-term, one to five years, and then projects end, leaving communities stranded,” says Rassam Mansour, Chairperson of the National Alliance of Mangrove Community Forest Associations. “We have plans, we have the will, but without resources, we cannot sustain restoration.”

He warns that conservation efforts often overlook the realities of daily life.

“If you ignore livelihoods, you are asking people to choose between feeding their families and protecting mangroves. That is not a fair choice,” he says. “Communities must be part of the planning, not just the labour force.”

There is, however, a growing shift towards approaches that place communities at the centre. Community-Based Ecological Mangrove Restoration (CBEMR) focuses on restoring natural ecological processes such as tidal flows rather than simply planting trees. Conservation practitioners, including WWF-Kenya, say this method works because it allows communities to identify the root causes of degradation and take ownership of solutions.

“CBEMR is about listening to the land and listening to the people,” Dr Okello explains. “It means restoring tidal flows, understanding site-specific conditions, and empowering communities as custodians of the forest.”

She adds that planting should come last, not first. “If mature trees are producing seeds and tidal flows are intact, mangroves can restore themselves naturally. Communities know this, and when they are trusted, they can lead the way.”

The survival of these species is not just about saving forests. It is about safeguarding cultures, communities, and coastlines for generations to come.

As the tide rises again in Gazi Bay, it carries both uncertainty and hope. The fate of Mkomafu and Mlilana is tied not only to science or policy, but to whether the people who depend on these forests are given the means to protect them.

Because in the end, this is not only a story about endangered trees. It is about the fragile bond between people and place and the cost of letting it slip away.