Nature Blog

By Howard Atubwa 

The first thing you notice about Kiang’ombe Hill is not what you see, it is what you hear. As dawn breaks over the Embu County horizon, a melody of croaks and chirps rises from the undergrowth. The Savanna ridged frog, that tireless mountaineer, calls from both the base and peak, its voice carrying through the mist like nature’s own clock. Nearby, something even more extraordinary is happening: an endangered Spawls’s pygmy forest gecko clings to a tree trunk, its presence here rewriting scientific understanding of its range. This forest is full of such surprises, if only we can protect it long enough to listen.

But the forest’s chorus is growing quieter each year. Where ancient Podocarpus trees once stood, blackened scars from wildfires now stretch across the landscape. The acrid smell of charcoal kilns hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil where farms encroach deeper into the woodland. Speke’s hinge-back tortoises, those armoured survivors, find their pathways increasingly blocked by cattle trails and fallen trees. Even the water itself is changing. Streams that once ran clear now choke with silt from eroded slopes, threatening the Marsabit clawed frogs that depend on them.

The tragedy of Kiang’ombe isn’t just what we’re losing, but what we might never discover. That Mt. Kenya dwarf gecko you nearly missed on the tree bark could hold secrets about adaptation and survival. Those variable skinks darting through the leaf litter are invisible engineers of this ecosystem. And the red-headed rock agamas basking on sun-warmed stones aren’t just beautiful, they’re barometers of the forest’s health.

Yet hope persists in unexpected places. Local guides from the Community Forest Association still walk these trails, their knowledge spanning generations. Conservationists are documenting species before they vanish. And the forest itself continues its quiet resistance. Frogs still sing where puddles form, geckos emerge after rains, and seeds take root in the ashes of old fires.

The question hanging over Kiang’ombe is not whether it’s worth saving, but whether we will act in time. This is not just about protecting reptiles and amphibians, it is about safeguarding the water sources communities depend on, preserving a living laboratory of evolution, and honouring a place where wilderness still whispers its secrets. The frogs will keep calling as long as they can. The question is whether anyone will answer.

By Gilbay Obunga

For generations, the communities living adjacent to the fragmented Taita Hills forests (a Key Biodiversity Area within the Eastern Afromontane Hotspot, sheltering endemic species like the critically endangered Taita Apalis, Taita Thrush, and Taita warty frog) have served as invisible guardians – their silent vigil protecting these critical ecosystems without official recognition. That changed on March 11th when the ink dried on historic Forest Management Agreements, transforming these informal protectors into recognised partners of the Kenya Forest Service. The signing ceremony at Dawson Mwanyumba Stadium marked the end of a 28-year wait for communities seeking legal standing in conservation since Kenya first adopted Participatory Forest Management.

Local elder Clarice Patrick’s hands, which once traced fresh tree stumps after nightly illegal logging, tell the story of this struggle. “We chased them by day,” she recalls, “but without authority, the destruction continued.” Now, those hands help draft firebreak plans and sustainable harvest quotas, embodying a remarkable transformation from passive observers to empowered decision-makers.

Seeds of Transformation
The agreements have sparked an unexpected transformation in which conservation now supports community livelihoods. As County Forest Officer Silvester Mwang’ombe observes, the challenge lies in balancing immediate community needs with long-term conservation – a tension yielding remarkable innovation. Honey profits now fund tree nurseries in a self-sustaining cycle, while patrols train future ecotourism guides, turning conservation into prosperity. Beyond economic gains, the agreements are rewriting relationships with the land – nowhere more visibly than in Ngangao forest, where some trees now bear identification tags in the Taita language, with each name serving as proof of renewed ownership.

John Maganga, Ngangao’s CFA chair, captures the paradigm shift: “We have moved from following distant rules to writing our own.” Delphina Malemba, representing the new generation’s perspective, echoes Maganga’s words. “Our ancestors protected forests out of obligation,” she reflects. “We are acting on evidence – watching springs flow again and wildlife return.” These voices chart the evolution from obligation to invested partnership, where every protected acre nourishes both forest and community.

Branching Out
The model’s success extends beyond the borders of Taita Hills. Taita Sub-County Administrator Ann Mwatika identifies a groundbreaking precedent: “These agreements legally intertwine traditional knowledge with formal conservation.” This innovative approach has already inspired five CFAs from Kilifi County to seek study visits, indicating its potential for replication nationwide.

Work remains to be done. As the ink dries, attention turns to implementation. Communities are establishing management units and initiating education programs like ‘Trees for School Fees.’ For communities, these signed agreements transcend paperwork – they represent generations of stewardship finally gaining legal standing. As the excitement settles in the hills, the communities stand ready to fulfil their ancient covenant, now bearing the full weight of law.