The forest of my childhood is dying. I finally understand why.

Image Description: A split collage showing a lush forest on the left and a barren, degraded one on the right with a woman carrying firewood and a monkey sitting in the background.

My relationship with the forest began in childhood. My grandmother’s stories painted it as a place of wonder and mystery. Until I was seven, I truly believed a three-eyed monster lived there. The Kakamega Forest is deeply woven into our community’s identity. 

When I was nine, my sister and I joined the Kakamega Environmental Education Programme (KEEP), held within the forest. Every Saturday, we and a hundred other children would walk to the forest. We learnt about conservation through pictures and videos–of our forest, of beautiful and diverse species of birds, butterflies, monkeys, and snakes. Our favourite part was snack time:  juice and bread. Before the two-hour session ended, we had a short guided tour through the forest.

On the walk home, it was normal to see monkeys hopping from tree to tree. This was in the early 2000s.

Years passed, and life took me away. But sixteen years later, when the pandemic shook us with fears of the world’s end, I found my way back. The forest became my escape, where I could lose myself in the towering trees, the whisper of the wind, and the rhythm of my breath. I had also taken up a new dream: mountain climbing. The hiking trails beneath my feet were not just paths through the trees; they were my preparation. They connected me to a semblance of normality. 

Now, as I prepare for my biggest challenge yet—Mt. Kilimanjaro—the changes are undeniable. The forest feels different. The trees stand farther apart. The undergrowth has thinned.  Silence is often broken by the sound of axes and the crackle of dry branches. Sunlight now spills through the gaps in the thinning canopy, casting long, unfiltered shadows. Few butterflies drift lazily between leaves, their absence eerie. The once-familiar chatter of monkeys is fainter, their presence only noticeable when I venture deeper in.

At first, I thought it was my imagination that the forest I loved was changing in ways only an over-frequent visitor would notice. But then I started seeing the same women, again and again. Always at the forest’s edge, leaving just as I arrived, returning as I made my way out. I would greet them—“Mulembe” (meaning peace)—and they would mumble it back, eyes wary, their pace never slowing. It was clear they found my presence unusual. To them, only white tourists wandered the forest as I did. 

Over time, I grew acquainted with one of them. Her name is Annette Muchesia, 38, a mother of four.  In our brief conversations, I learnt she knew my mother well.

One day, unable to shake the feeling that I needed to understand, I asked if I could follow her. She hesitated, but didn’t refuse. As we walked, I noticed she never paused to admire the towering trees. Never stopped to breathe in the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, as I so often did. 

To me, the forest was an escape. To her, it was survival.

I followed mostly in silence. Our conversations were brief as she moved with practised ease through the thinning trees. She led me beyond the familiar trails, deeper into the forest, where the canopy was thick, and the air carried the scent of damp earth and untamed wilderness.

There, she wasted no time. With swift, deliberate movements, she stripped branches, gathering what she could with the efficiency of someone who had done this countless times before. I wandered nearby but didn’t stray far. Soon, she had her load secured tightly on her head, her pace unwavering as she retraced her steps.

That day, I saw the forest through her eyes—a lifeline. 

“Three years ago, one trip to the forest was enough to meet my family’s daily needs,” says Annette. “Now, I go at least twice a day, each time walking further and deeper into the forest. Before then, my tailoring business used to sustain us, but when people are struggling to put food on the table, buying new clothes is not a priority. Farming has become unreliable, the rains no longer come when they should, and the cost of fertiliser and seeds keeps going up. 

“We make do with what we can afford, but sometimes, like in 2023, that means using poor-quality inputs or not having enough at all. The forest is the only thing left within reach, so like many other women, I have turned to it. While it is not easy, we find a way to make it work.”

The cruel irony is that the more she takes from the forest, the less it gives in return. The trees that once called down the rains are vanishing, and with them, the water that feeds the crops. The cycle tightens, forcing more hands into the forest, accelerating the very destruction that makes survival harder still.

Forests feel vast, enduring, and beyond the reach of time. The thought of one simply vanishing seems almost absurd. And yet, when I asked Dr Chemuku Wekesa, a research scientist in landscape ecology at the Kenya Forestry Research Institute (KEFRI), if a forest can disappear, his response was hauntingly direct: “Yes.”

He illustrates this with the once-lush forests of the Taita Hills, now reduced to a mere two per cent of their original cover. Over the last century, unchecked population growth and increasing demand for forest resources have pushed this ecosystem to the brink. Historically, the absence of forest management laws led to what Dr Wekesa calls a “tragedy of the commons,” where unregulated community expansion into forest areas accelerated widespread degradation. 

What remains today are fragile forest fragments, small, scattered, and still under threat. Yet, within this crisis lies an opportunity to rethink our relationship with nature and to support communities as stewards of the land they depend on. The disappearance of a forest is not only possible; it’s already happening.

I feel this loss with every step I take.

Now, each hike feels like I’m chasing a memory, the landscape shifting in ways both subtle and undeniable. I hike these trails with a quiet urgency, as if trying to memorise the forest before it changes again.

According to Dr Wekesa, there are promising alternatives, especially for women like Annette, who depend on forest resources. “Agroforestry provides alternative products that the women, you see going to the forest can actually get on their own land,” he explains. It should focus on fast-growing types so that once planted, they can start harvesting in a short period.” 

One such example is Grevillea robusta, a fast-growing species embraced by many communities, which eases pressure on indigenous forests.

However, the issue goes beyond firewood. Forest fragmentation reduces access to vital resources and weakens the critical ecosystem services like pollination and rainfall regulation.

 “A sustainable balance between conservation and community use begins with local ownership and awareness,” says Dr Wekesa. “We need to get people to understand that the forest belongs to them. It’s not just important for firewood or poles; it’s also essential for agriculture.”

He reaffirms Annette’s remarks about declining land productivity, forcing women into the forest more often. “It’s all connected. Degraded forests mean fewer pollinators, which affects crop yields. And shifting climatic conditions are making agriculture more difficult.”

This forest, once a place of abundance, is now a battlefield. But it should not be this way. If we are to fight climate change, we must fight for people first. We must create alternatives for women like Annette, sustainable livelihoods that do not force them to destroy the very forest they depend on. 

Conservation cannot succeed when survival is at stake.

Long-term sustainability requires more than just planting trees. “Agroforestry must be done professionally,” Dr Wekesa insists. “We can’t afford to create monocultures. Instead, we should encourage a mix of trees, some for fuelwood, some for fruit, and some to improve soil fertility.”

He also highlights the potential of non-timber forest products (NTFPs) as part of the solution. These include beekeeping, medicinal plants, and ecotourism activities that generate income without harming the forest.

“These are products you can harvest from the forest without destroying it,” he explains. “Beekeeping can yield high-quality honey while preserving biodiversity.”

From the outside, climate change can seem abstract: rising temperatures, carbon emissions, melting ice caps. But here, it is a daily struggle. It is the choice between hunger and conservation. Between a child’s school fees and another felled tree. 

The women in this forest do not cut trees because they want to. They do it because they have no alternative.

On my early hikes, I felt nothing but anger and disappointment. How could they not see the destruction they were causing? When I heard that some had been arrested by Kenya Forest Service officers, I barely gave it a thought; just another case of people breaking the law.

But that day, after experiencing the forest with Annete, I left the forest with my backpack light, my legs strong, and my lungs full of fresh air. Yet grief nestled in my chest like a stone. That day, I helped, carrying the heavy load alongside her. As I listened to her story, I saw the weight she bore, not just on her head, but in her life.  I saw my own privilege laid bare, the privilege of knowing that my survival does not come at the forest’s cost. At least, not directly. 

The cost of survival is far too high. And those paying the price are the ones with the least choice.

I no longer feel anger toward them. I understand now. I empathise. 

The only anger I have left is for the leaders we entrusted with power. The ones who have failed their people, forcing them to choose between survival and the forest that sustains us all.

And so, I ask myself: What does survival mean? For me, it is reaching the summit. For her, it is finding enough firewood to sell. For the forest, the question is whether it will still stand a decade from now.

Edited/Reviewed by PK Cross, Caleb Okereke, Juliet Nkemdy, Awom Kenneth and Uzoma Ihejirika.

Illustrated by Rex Opara.