There’s a certain stillness in Magarini, Kilifi County, that takes a moment to understand. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from peace but from wear. The land is tired—scorched by years of relentless sun, carved by wind, and emptied by a long, slow deforestation. Trees were cleared steadily over the decades, not out of disregard but necessity. They were fuel. They were a source of shelter. They were income. So, two years ago, when I decided to plant a forest here, it wasn’t a bold gesture. It was a quiet one. The kind you make when you know what you’re up against but choose to begin anyway. Someone had told me that if you plant a 100-acre forest, you can “reclimate” an area, attract more rain and increase productivity in an area. That became my ambition – to grow a 100-acre forest.
Pouring water on the ground
With the patient and consistent support of One Million Trees 4 Kilifi, a young, passionate organisation that has tree planting at its core, I committed to growing a 100-acre forest – acre by acre – in a place where even the idea of shade had grown distant. We didn’t begin with an ambitious launch. We began with one acre. After the first acre, my friend Tom Orrell helped me to plant the second acre, which we named Jasmine’s acre.
It was never going to be easy. The land is dry, and the water is distant. Every drop that makes its way there must be purchased and hauled, often by a donkey or hand. In Magarini, water is planned, preserved, and rationed. It’s measured against meals, against school days, against livestock – the idea of buying it to pour onto seedlings felt – to the villagers around us—extravagant.
And they weren’t wrong to ask.
But we poured it anyway. Slowly, carefully. Not to see immediate results but to make it possible for something to take root where little else had. We planted 333 trees on that first acre. A few withered early on. Others bent under the sun. Livestock roamed through and grazed freely. Still, most held on.
And the trees grow
Over time, we added two more acres. We’ve now planted 6,333 trees. 908 were lost to drought, grazing, or the simple truth that not everything thrives. But the others have grown. Their roots run deeper now. The land is slowly changing.
In the early days, people observed from a distance. Some watched with amusement. Others wondered, why would you pour water on trees in this heat. Here? But as the trees began to grow—firm, green, quietly established—the tone began to shift.
The air around the forested patches became noticeably cooler, and the earth held a little more moisture. Goats, once drawn to the fragile stems, now wandered past them. Perhaps most significantly, the questions changed.
People stopped asking why and started asking how.
Neighbours began requesting seedlings. Some came to walk through the growing forest, and others began planting on their own land. In that sense, the most powerful thing we’ve cultivated isn’t the forest itself. It’s belief. That something can grow. That something can change. That care—consistent and patient—can alter the texture of a place.
We’ve learned a lot in two years. We’ve learned that planting is the smallest part of the work. The larger part is returning—daily, in sun and wind—to tend, to water, to protect. We’ve learned how to read the land’s rhythms, how to anticipate loss, and how to allow space for it without letting it deter us. We’ve also learned that when the community begins to take ownership—when the work is no longer “ours” but “theirs”—the pace of change accelerates.
Today, the forest is still young. The trees are not towering. They don’t make for grand photos. But they stand. Quietly. And they offer something this land had almost forgotten: shade, yes—but also a sense of continuity.
As we mark the International Day of Forests, I reflect not on how far we’ve come but on how far we are willing to go.
We intend to grow this forest across 100 acres. We will take our time because resources to plant trees are not readily available. They come from my savings and from the friends I have made over the years. Our job is to keep showing up.
If you ever find yourself in Magarini, I invite you to visit. Walk the land. Let the stillness speak to you. You may notice the difference in the air, or the way the trees hold themselves now. You are most welcome to contribute to this quiet work by supporting it, joining it, or simply carrying its story forward.
While we may be planting trees, we are restoring relationships with land, community, and possibility.
And that is a future worth growing.
