By Milliam Murigi
In Turkana County, survival has always been measured in livestock. For generations, families have built their lives around cattle, goats, sheep and camels.
Walking long distances in search of pasture, watching the skies for rain, and counting their wealth in hooves. Crops, for the few who managed them, were a fragile bonus.
But in 2022, the rhythm of that life broke. One of the worst droughts in decades swept across northern Kenya, scorching pasturelands and drying up water sources. Animals weakened, then died in large numbers, leaving families not just without income but without identity.
“I lost about 120 goats,” recalls Simon Muya, a pastoralist from Turkana. “It felt like everything I had worked for was gone.”
With nothing left, Muya did what many pastoralists do, he started again. He bought a small herd, hoping to rebuild, hoping the rains would return.
They didn’t. Instead, the drought lingered, stretching from one failed season into another. Pastures never fully recovered. Water remained scarce. And each year, the risk of losing everything again grew heavier.
“We kept hoping and praying that it would end,” he says. “But it only became longer and more severe. There was no pasture and no certainty about the future.”
Across Turkana, the land itself seemed to be giving up. Once-productive grazing fields turned bare and brittle, unable to sustain either animals or people. The traditional system already strained by climate change and growing herd sizes was collapsing under its own weight.
It was in the middle of this uncertainty that an unlikely alternative took root. Not livestock. Not crops. Trees. At first, the idea sounded almost absurd.
A project dubbed Integrated Management of Natural Resources for Resilience in Arid and Semi-Arid Lands (IMARA) led by World Vision Kenya introduced moringa trees to the community.
The project was designed to help communities move beyond vulnerability by restoring degraded landscapes while creating sustainable livelihoods. However, in a place where survival depended on animals, the suggestion that trees could sustain livelihoods felt disconnected from reality.
“Some people thought it was a joke,” Muya says. “They couldn’t imagine that trees could replace livestock.”
Still, a small group of residents came together, forming what would become the Tingasia Self Help Group. There were only 15 members in the beginning, and even among them, belief was tentative. They set aside a quarter acre of land and planted the unfamiliar crop, unsure of what if anything would come from it.
Then came the drought of 2024. Once again, pasture disappeared. Livestock struggled to find food. Families braced for another season of loss. But something unexpected happened. The moringa trees stayed green.
While everything else withered, their leaves remained edible, resilient against the harsh conditions. With few options left, farmers began feeding the leaves to their animals out of desperation not conviction.
“People started using it because it was the only green thing left,” Muya says. “Some even wanted to destroy it.”
Instead, it began to save what remained. The animals that fed on moringa grew stronger. They survived longer. Slowly, a realization spread through the community. What had been dismissed as useless was becoming essential. That shift from doubt to dependence marked a turning point.
Today, the small experiment has transformed into a growing livelihood. The Tingasia group now manages 17 acres of moringa, and its membership has expanded from 15 to 64. Beyond the shared farm, individual members have planted trees on their own land, extending the impact across the community.
What began as a survival strategy has evolved into a source of income. Each month, the group harvests about 500 kilograms of moringa leaves, which are dried and grounded into powder.
A kilogram sells for around Sh1,600 (US$12), while seeds fetch about Sh1, 000 (US$ 8). The products are used locally for nutrition—added to porridge, vegetables and tea and sold in markets where demand continues to grow.
For households that once depended almost entirely on livestock, the shift represents more than diversification. It is a buffer against an increasingly unpredictable climate.
Moringa is not the only tree reshaping livelihoods in the region. Communities are also restoring acacia trees. Once heavily cut down for charcoal this time for gum arabic production. The hardened sap, widely used in the food and beverage industry, has become a valuable commodity, turning restoration into income.
The results are visible. Gum arabic production has risen sharply, while degraded landscapes are slowly recovering. As trees return, so do other opportunities.
Beekeeping is emerging as a new source of income, supported by the flowering cycles of both moringa and acacia. Honey production is adding yet another layer to a livelihood system that is no longer dependent on a single, fragile resource.
“We introduced multi-purpose trees because we wanted to motivate people to grow more and protect trees. When a single tree offers multiple benefits to the community, it becomes more acceptable and easier for people to adopt,” says Obadiah Kisang, IMARA Programme Director.
The changes are not only economic they are social. In areas once marked by conflict and cattle rustling, new livelihoods are reshaping choices. According to Kisang, livestock theft has declined significantly in some communities, while places like the Teren Triangle, long associated with insecurity are experiencing relative stability.
Former cattle rustlers have reformed and shifted into legitimate businesses, including tree-based enterprises and other income-generating activities. Within the Tingasia group itself, many members are former warriors who have shifted away from cattle raiding.
“They are now engaged in tree-based enterprises and other income-generating activities,” says Kisang. “It has helped move them into more stable livelihoods.”
The transformation is gradual, and not without challenges. But it signals a broader shift, from competition over scarce resources to shared investment in regeneration.
Across northern Kenya, more than 23,000 hectares of degraded land are now under restoration courtesy of the project, with over 1.24 million trees planted across counties including Baringo, Elgeyo Marakwet, Isiolo, Laikipia, Marsabit, Narok, Samburu, Turkana and West Pokot—regions long defined by climate shocks and marginalization.
For policymakers, the lesson is increasingly clear. Land restoration is not just an environmental goal it is an economic and social strategy.
“When communities see tangible benefits, they are more likely to protect natural resources,” says Susan Boit from the Ministry of Environment.
