Uprooted from the forest: The Ogiek fight for survival, identity

Kotioko Ngusilo, 83, emerges slowly from the smoky shadows of his makeshift house — a ramshackle structure pieced together with old timber, faded polythene bags, and rusting iron sheets — in the Sassimwani area of Narok County.

The afternoon is heavy with clouds, and a damp chill lingers in the air. This once-thriving land, a vibrant village in its prime, now lies in ruins, swallowed by wild bushes. The only sounds are the distant calls of birds and the occasional bleating of Ngusilo’s few remaining sheep.

His loyal dog stands guard as he steps outside, his frail figure leaning on a crooked walking stick.

A few metres away, a rusted iron sheet — the last remnant of what was once his family home — covers an aged, battered cupboard, warped and useless against the elements. The scene is haunting, a grim reminder of a life violently uprooted.

“This was my home. Over there was the children’s room, and here, where we are standing now, was the sitting room. That was the bedroom where my wife and I used to sleep. And now? Look at this. Nothing but ruins,” Ngusilo says, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow as he gestures towards the overgrown patch where his house once stood.

The Ogiek elder is one of over 500 members of his community evicted from this area by the government in November 2023. They were accused of encroaching on the Mau Forest, a critical water tower in the country.

The government justified the eviction as part of its efforts to conserve the forest.

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“Where would I go? This is where I was born, where my father and grandfather lived. How can they tell me to leave my own home?” he asks, his voice breaking.

Ngusilo takes a few cautious steps around his tiny homestead, leading the way through the scattered ruins of his past. He points out what remains: a broken cattle shed, charred by fire; a patch of land where his bed once stood; and a gap in the thorny bushes where the main door to his house used to be.

Ngusilo’s existence is a testament to quiet defiance. He says armed forest rangers have returned multiple times, each visit marked by further destruction and threats.

“They told me to leave, or they would arrest me. I told them, ‘If you want to kill me, kill me here. I have nowhere else to go.’ This is where I married my wife, where we raised our children,” he says.

For the Ogiek, the Mau Forest represents more than just land—it is a vital part of their spiritual, cultural, and personal identity. Ngusilo speaks of the agony of losing not only his home but also the way of life that has sustained his family for generations.

“This land isn’t just a place. It’s who we are. When they take it away, it’s like they’re ripping out our hearts,” he says.

As the day grows darker, Ngusilo sits by a small fire, his dog curled up beside him. The flickering flames cast long shadows across the bushes, a haunting reminder of what was once a lively village.

At Olekirkirai trading centre, a lively yet disorganised hub nestled amidst rolling plains, Ngusilo’s wife, Sompet Ngusilo, sits on a wooden stool outside her small, rented wooden house.

Her hands, marked by years of toil and foraging, rest gently on her knees as she gazes at her grandchildren playing in the dusty compound. Surrounding her are rows of rental houses and small shops, their faded paint telling stories of time gone by. The area hums with activity as people from diverse communities—Kikuyu, Kisii, and Maasai—move about, a stark contrast to the tranquil forest she once called home.

“This is not our life. When we were evicted, they tore us away from everything—our homes, our way of life, even our identity. Now we live scattered like leaves blown by the wind. We have nothing,” Sompet says, her voice heavy with sorrow.

Sompet, like many Ogiek women, bears the brunt of this displacement.

“My grandchildren no longer attend school. They are sent back home because we can’t afford fees. The cold bites, and we barely have enough food to eat. Everything we had—our land, our honey, our traditions—was left behind in the forest,” she says, her voice trembling.

Margaret Nasieku Ngusilo, one of Sompet’s granddaughters, joins the conversation. Her face tells a story of exhaustion and resolve.

The Ogiek culture, rooted in harmony with the forest, revolved around honey harvesting, traditional ceremonies, and communal living. Now, Margaret laments, that connection is fading.

“Our language is disappearing. Our children are growing up without knowing who they are. We used to have initiation ceremonies in December like this, but how can we do that here?” she says.

The challenges are not just cultural but also economic.

“The only jobs available to us are menial. We work on farms for a few coins, barely enough to buy food. Rent, school fees, clothes—it’s too much. Many of our girls drop out of school and fall into dangerous situations. Some get early pregnancies; others contract diseases. We’ve lost so much,” Margaret explains.

Her words are interrupted by a shriek of laughter from a group of children playing with a plastic bottle. Margaret watches them, her face a mixture of pride and pain.

For Sompet, the loss of their land is deeply personal and historical. She recalls a time of peaceful coexistence with the neighbouring Maasai community, the abundance of honey, and the unity of their people.

“Those carbon credit people should have come to the ground, talked to us, and understood our way of life. Instead, they came with their plans and pushed us out, as if we don’t matter,” she says.

Margaret echoes her grandmother’s sentiments, her frustration directed at both the government and conservationists.

“What is the purpose of these courts if they do not protect the mistreated and defenceless?” asks Wilson Memusi, Chairman of the Ogiek Elders in Narok County.

He highlights the ongoing struggles they face even after independence, noting that the Ogiek have never truly known peace or freedom, whether in Narok, Nakuru, or Uasin Gishu.

For the Ogiek, once proud stewards of the Mau Forest, their fight has evolved into more than just survival. It is now a desperate struggle to reclaim their heritage, their identity, and their rightful place in a land that has nurtured them for centuries.

“The forest is our soul. When they take it from us, they take our very essence. How can a tree thrive without its roots?” asks Steve Ngusilo, another grandchild of Kotioko Ngusilo.

The Mau Forest Complex, spanning a vast 400,000 hectares across six counties, is East Africa’s largest indigenous mountain forest.

Comprising 22 interconnected forest blocks, swamps, and rivers, it serves as Kenya’s most crucial water tower, feeding rivers, lakes, and underground aquifers. Beyond its ecological significance, the Mau Forest is central to Kenya’s climate resilience and water security. Yet, this lifeline has become a battleground for resources, rights, and identity.

The Ogiek have faced relentless forced evictions since the 1920s under British colonial rule—a struggle that continues to this day. Successive governments have justified these displacements under the guise of environmental conservation, arguments the Ogiek vehemently reject.

“They say we destroy the forest. But who cleared Mau for tea plantations? Who allowed loggers to cut down our trees? It wasn’t us. We have lived with this forest, not against it,” says Steve Ngusilo.

In 2017, after an arduous eight-year legal battle, the African Court on Human and Peoples’ Rights ruled in favour of the Ogiek.

Kenya has positioned itself as a leader in climate action, championing initiatives like carbon trading. In September 2023, President William Ruto highlighted the country’s ambitions at a global forum:

“Implementing carbon tax and trading mechanisms can unlock Africa’s renewable energy potential, accelerating the transition to cleaner, sustainable energy.” He further emphasised, “We need to be practical and forthright, which is why Kenya has passed a law to facilitate carbon trading.”

Yet, for the Ogiek, this push represents a direct threat.

“They tell us to leave our land for carbon credits. But what about our lives? Who benefits from this so-called conservation? Certainly not us. The forest is our medicine, our food, our shelter. Without it, we are nothing,” Steve asserts.

He adds, “Carbon credits mean the death of the Ogiek. They sell our forest, our home, to foreigners while evicting us. Is this justice? We conserved this land for generations, but now they tell us we are the problem.”

Kipkoech Ngetich, a human rights lawyer, warns that the carbon offset industry poses significant threats to Indigenous communities. He explains that much of the Ogiek’s land is now inaccessible because the government has mortgaged these forests to secure international funding for carbon credit projects. A condition for accessing these funds is that the forests remain off-limits to everyone, including the Ogiek.

“Kenya is violating its commitments. Indigenous communities like the Ogiek are proven conservationists. You cannot claim to protect their rights on international stages while dispossessing them at home,” says Nyang’ori Ohenjo, Team Lead at the Centre for Minority Rights Development (CEMIRIDE).

As Kenya marks Minority Rights Day, the plight of the Ogiek people stands as a stark reminder of the struggles Indigenous communities face. Their lives, deeply intertwined with the forest, are under severe threat from government-led conservation efforts and carbon credit projects that displace them from their ancestral lands.