I had just stepped into Karura Forest, the late morning sun filtering through the canopy, when the thought struck me. Why is it that so many Kenyans, when given the opportunity to own land or build a home, begin by clearing every sign of life from the soil? We clear every tree, scrape off the topsoil, and replace grass with cabro. Then we head to plant nurseries and buy potted palms to ‘bring life’ into our homes. A strange cycle: nature out, then purchased back in, at a premium. Why is nature—especially dense, forested, untamed nature—treated not with reverence, but with suspicion?
This isn’t just about trees. It’s about psychology, memory, fear, and aspiration. And it might explain why, in a country with incredible biodiversity, we still pour concrete where grass could grow, chop trees only to later hang plastic vines on our balconies, and consider seclusion in nature to be more dangerous than restorative.
The Fear of the Wild
Dense nature is often associated with risk. Places with tall grass, thick trees, and silence are seen as dangerous: sites of crime, animal attacks, or hidden threats. Urban legends of forests as hideouts for thugs or haunted remnants of colonial trauma linger.
This fear seeps into our collective decisions. We tell children not to walk past overgrown paths. We avoid greenbelts unless they are curated, fenced, patrolled. When you buy land in places like Kitengela, Juja, or Kiserian, the first thing many people do is “clear the bush”. Not for farming, but because untouched nature is viewed as threatening, primitive, or backwards.
In Nairobi estates, even grass is tamed. Cabro reigns supreme. Hedges are clipped with military precision. Open plots are stripped bare until a developer decides what should stand there.
The Cabro Paradox
Visit any new development and you’ll likely see a curious contradiction: plots stripped of all trees and shrubs, with concrete laid from fence to doorstep. Then, as if to compensate, potted plants are bought to soften the interior. Imported succulents in clay pots stand where indigenous trees once did.
This aesthetic isn’t just about taste. It’s about control. Cabro doesn’t grow wild. You don’t have to prune it, fear it, or make peace with the unknown. Green becomes decoration, not participation.
It reflects a desire for safety, order, and predictability—especially in a country where unpredictability has often meant danger.
Nature is now aestheticized. We want ‘plants’ but not ecology. We want ‘green’ but not wilderness. So we buy succulents and snake plants, hang vines in our balconies, and install wallpaper of banana leaves. Our desire for nature is curated, controlled, domesticated. Forests feel too chaotic, too uncertain.
Is It a Post-Colonial Hangover?
Partly. Under colonial rule, forests were policed and weaponized. Some became sites of resistance, others of exile or control. Indigenous connections to land and trees were disrupted, criminalized, or repackaged as 'conservation' only permissible under state rule.
The Mau Mau used forests as their base. The British cracked down on them harshly. Even before and after that, traditional stories often warned of spirits, wild animals, or danger in the woods. Forests were where people went to get lost—or to lose others.
In post-colonial Kenya, development became synonymous with clearing land. The more concrete, the more modern. Trees were backward. This mindset persists today: a place isn’t ‘clean’ until it’s cleared.
So while colonial settlers built stone homes in lush green compounds, the African population was pushed into overcrowded, barren areas where green became a luxury or a liability.
That fracture in our relationship with land and nature has yet to heal. Today, owning land is often about demonstrating control, conquest, or arrival—not communion.
The Social Layer: Safety, Status, and Shame
We associate wild spaces with disorder. A bushy compound is ‘shagz.’ Overgrown grass is ‘neglect.’ In Nairobi, it might even invite county notices or curious stares. Neatness—especially cement neatness—signals progress. A plot with no cabro is ‘unfinished.’
There’s also fear. Dense vegetation blocks views. It could conceal intruders. Many people, especially women, are warned not to walk in leafy or unlit areas. In cities where safety is never guaranteed, openness (even barren openness) feels more secure than a natural screen.
But this fear limits us. We clear trees for security and end up with heat islands. We avoid public parks for fear of theft, then complain there are no safe places to walk. We want connection to nature but don’t trust it enough to live near it.
What Are We Protecting Ourselves From?
Maybe it's not the trees we're afraid of, but what they represent:
Loneliness or vulnerability in open, natural spaces
Memories of poverty linked to rural or "bush" living
A sense of exposure without the visibility of neighbors, streetlights, or walls
Our urban lives teach us that safety comes from walls, locks, cabro, and CCTV. Nature doesn’t offer those. So we turn away from it.
Where Do We Go From Here?
This isn’t a call for everyone to live in a forest or become a conservationist. But it is an invitation to rethink what nature means to us—and why we fear or destroy it even as we yearn for it.
Can you leave one tree standing when you build?
Can you learn which indigenous plant attracts butterflies, birds, or holds the soil better than cabro?
Can we reframe safety to include shaded walkways, soundscapes of birdsong, the dignity of coexistence?
We are in a climate crisis. Nairobi is hotter. Rain patterns are shifting. Water is running out. Rewilding is no longer just aesthetic—it’s necessary.
A Few Are Pushing Back
There are pockets of resistance. Permaculture gardens in Nairobi. Regenerative farms in Laikipia. Forest walks in Karura and Ngong. Some developers now include preserved trees as part of their value proposition. But it’s still niche.
Too many still equate "modern" with "grey." And until we deal with the emotional roots of our fear, Kenya’s green spaces will continue to shrink—not out of ignorance, but out of a desperate need to feel safe.
Reclaiming Our Roots
Maybe the question isn’t why we stopped protecting our forests. Maybe it’s why we stopped trusting them.
And until we rebuild that trust, no amount of potted plants can bring us back to nature.
Somewhere between the concrete driveways and the snake plants on balconies, we lost our relationship with the wild. Not because we didn’t care—but because we were taught to fear it, control it, pave it.
It’s time to undo that learning.
We don’t need to conquer nature to coexist with it. We need to remember we are part of it.
Maybe the next time you visit a plot, you’ll leave a tree untouched.
Maybe the next time you dream of ‘landscaping,’ you’ll think of soil, shade, and seed, not cement.
Maybe the future is not in running from the wild—but walking back to it, slowly, one leaf at a time.
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