I am always late for work. There. I've said it. And the frustrating thing is that my lateness isn't caused by traffic or some unpredictable morning disaster. Most of the time, it is entirely my own doing. I wake up and make my coffee. Then I get back into bed, which is right by the window, cross my feet, face the window and slowly sip my coffee. And when I say slowly, I mean slowly. I look at the trees. I watch the birds. I feel the morning sun on my skin. Sometimes I just sit there with my thoughts. I really love these mornings. I've also noticed something else. When I give myself enough time in the morning, my body usually does what it needs to do. A slow morning often leads to a bowel movement, which, as far as I'm concerned, is one of the must-haves of starting my day. And so I find myself wishing for more time. More time to sit. More time to drink my coffee. More time to maybe get outside and do some yoga or mat Pilates on the grass while the sun is stil...
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 t...