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Miraa Is Unstoppable:The Case for Sorting out Kenya’s Convoluted Catha Edulis Agro-Industry

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Meru, Kenya – OILING THE WHEELS OF COMMERCE IN THE 19TH CENTURY

The American explorer William Chanler set up base in the Nyambene Range in 1893. He found a thriving local economy that attracted traders from across the region; a unique feature of this market was the use of the narcotic reddish-green twigs of a tree (Catha edulis), known as miraa locally, to seal deals and cement relationships among traders in a convivial atmosphere. He commented on their mildly pleasant effect. For visitors who came from as far as the hinterland of Lake Turkana, the botanical stimulant was a rare treat reinforcing ties of fictive kinship connecting their diverse communities.

Miraa, known as khat throughout the Middle East, has been intrinsic to the region’s prosperity ever since. It should be contributing to Kenya’s prosperity as well. The fact that it is not mirrors larger problems of colonially induced confusion and the failure to recognise Africa’s adaptive cultural economies. Like coffee and tea, Kenyan miraa should have been another lucrative generator of post-Independence agricultural capital.

The same origin story is invoked to explain the discovery of miraa and coffee in Ethiopia and Yemen. Concerned over the occasional disappearance of his goats, a herder follows their tracks to a forested glade. He finds them contentedly munching on wiry shrubs. So he tries chewing the twigs (or berries) himself, and finds he is refreshed and energised. You hear the same story in Meru, although the plant’s domestication and the area’s sophisticated ethno-pharmacological tradition is clearly a legacy of interaction with ancient hunter-gatherer clans.

The transition of Catha edulis and Caffea arabica from cultural consumables to market commodities has followed parallel but contrasting trajectories. Both commodities’ migration out of their traditional milieu initially generated religious opposition and political condemnation

The transition of Catha edulis and Caffea arabica from cultural consumables to market commodities has followed parallel but contrasting trajectories — although the 48 hour half-life of the former restricted its circulation until the era of modern transport. Both commodities’ migration out of their traditional milieu initially generated religious opposition and political condemnation. Coffee was banned in 16th century Mecca and subsequently labelled ‘the drink of the devil’ by Europeans.

THE PENNY UNIVERSITIES OF EAST AFRICA

The beverage surmounted these barriers and by the middle decades of the 1700s, coffee houses around Europe and the Middle East were providing an alternative to the recreational role of alcohol. Coffee houses became focal points for sober discussions of economics, politics, religion, and the issues of the day. The sobriquet ‘Penny Universities’ recognised coffee’s contribution to the European Enlightenment.

Today, Catha edulis facilitates the exchange of information in the same way, but the ‘Tree of Paradise’ rarely receives acknowledgement outside academic circles for promoting integration and mediating social change. Rather, it is routinely demonised and banned where regulation and social controls would work better.

In Yemen and across the Horn of Africa, users praise its medicinal qualities. The plant’s two active alkaloids, cathine and cathinone, are organic versions of ingredients used in many over-the-counter cold and flu medicines. Such attributes are obviously not the primary drivers of its consumption. Miraa is stronger than coffee, and considerably so in the case of certain varieties. Its highly variable stimulatory effects are one of the more complicated differences between drinking the bean and eating trees.

There is no fixed standard for khat, miraa, chat and other local varieties of the plant. Rather, the variegated morphology of Catha edulis makes it a one-species exemplar of diverse bio-morphology. Wildlings growing in full canopy forests can reach seventy feet, but the diverse domesticated kinds of chat found in Ethiopian markets can appear as different as the celery, broccoli, and basil sold in your neighbourhood supermarket.

Quality is a function of a number of factors such as differences among sub-varieties, altitude and climate, and place of cultivation. The plant usually appears as a wiry but leafy shrub whose branches are harvested several times a year. At maturity Meru miraa resembles the old olive trees of the Middle East, and age is a primary determinant of quality.

THE MOST SOPHISTICATED EXAMPLE OF AFRICAN PERMACULTURE

The mbaine miraa from the older trees was formerly reserved for ceremonial occasions, marriage negotiations, and featured in the deliberations of njuri elders. Adult men were only allowed to join these sittings and chew after fathering their first child.

Meru’s miraa agriculture presents the continent’s most sophisticated example of African permaculture. In contrast to Ethiopia and Yemen, where it is usually mono-cropped, Meru miraa is cultivated within a sophisticated agroforestry system. The typical miraa farm features a multi-storey ensemble of indigenous species providing food, forage, human and animal medicines, and other household use products. Where its lifespan does not exceed 50 years elsewhere, a Meru miraa farm is a multigenerational enterprise that only reaches adulthood after half a century.

The ‘Tree of Paradise’ rarely receives acknowledgement outside academic circles for promoting integration and mediating social change. Rather, it is routinely demonised

These agro-jungles include trees that conserve soil moisture and fix nitrogen, while the miraa trees are manicured and shaped as they grow to maximise exposure to sunlight and to minimise the space they occupy. It is an extremely efficient system in agro-ecological and economic terms: Meru trees continue to produce even during extended droughts.

While people obviously chew miraa for the buzz, consumers across the region value the milder and less edgy varieties both for their more subtle but superior high and minimal side effects. Formal analysis has yet to quantify variations in the physiological state induced by chewing the diverse spectrum of local varieties, but they are significant and market prices usually provide the best indicator of consumer preferences.

Multiple variables influence potency; quality and strength are not the same thing in this instance. In general, Catha edulis grown at lower altitudes and in drier settings is stronger, longer lasting, and less expensive. Kenya’s mbaine miraa can now sell for over Ksh5,000 ngs for a bundle where young mithairo miraa from the same locale may fetch one-tenth the price.

Veteran chewers are the most reliable source of information on the stimulant’s ridiculously diverse variations and comparative psycho-physiological effects. But localised environmental factors can make evaluation a tricky business. I once found miraa growing on the grassy knolls high up in the Chyulu Hills that looked like a spikey version of crab grass. Ingesting several of the short red-green stalks cost me a night’s sleep.

When it comes to the idiosyncratic characteristics of this Afro-Arab commodity, indigenous knowledge is paramount. Yet such arcane insights, including the oft-noted quality of suspending differences of race, religion and identity in gatherings where it is chewed, has been of little consequence outside the cultural universe of Catha edulis.

 

Historical and anthropological studies illuminate the role social commodities like coffee, tea, chocolate, sugar and other non-food consumables play in the process of socioeconomic transition. Miraa is clearly following a pathway similar to coffee’s spread in Europe, but remains controversial due to a combination of spurious criticism and biased science, including clinical findings isolated from the social and long-term context of khat consumption.

For decades, most of the commentaries proffered by European explorers like Richard Burton and other early Western observers deemed the act of chewing and its unique social dynamics as a curious if innocuous practice. Systemic biases, some of which can be traced to its historical association with Muslims, often punctuate contemporary critiques of Catha edulis. Regardless, the contested merits of chewing and khat commerce were a non-issue for governments until recently.

A MARKET COMMODITY IN ITS OWN RIGHT

The miraa trade was originally a by-product, and not the centrepiece, of this cultural-agricultural complex. Miraa was shifting from a facilitator of regional trade to a market commodity in its own right by the onset of colonialism. Modern commercialization took off during the late 1950s, after the Mau-Mau curfew was lifted.

In Kenya, the 48-hour economic half-life of Meru’s miraa limited colonial era circulation to Nairobi and Mombasa. Nyambene traders migrated to urban centres across the country after Independence, drawing in a new generation of aficionados from non-chewing communities. Kenya’s Anglophile Attorney General, Charles Njonjo, lobbied for its ban.

The mbaine miraa from the older trees was formerly reserved for ceremonial occasions, marriage negotiations, and featured in the deliberations of njuri elders. Adult men were only allowed to join these sittings and chew after fathering their first child

Around the same time, Saudi Arabia hosted an international conference on Catha edulis. Results of the papers presented were published in 1967 as a bulky compendium. The Kingdom subsequently criminalised the consumption and import of khat. Decades later, an Ethiopian participant in the Saudi conference told me the Saudi’s anti-khat agenda was clear from the onset, and that the Western scientists present were happy to play along.

Back in Kenya, a Meru delegation visited president Jomo Kenyatta to argue the case against prohibition. Mzee raised a bouquet of 200-year old mbaine to signal his recognition of miraa’s cultural legitimacy and economic role in the rural economy.

Since that moment, socioeconomic controversies and calls for legal control at home and elsewhere have mattered little to the Nyambene Meru, who remain comfortable living in their bucolic wooden cottages surrounded by miraa trees, some of which predate the Industrial Revolution. When queried on the possibility of legal impediments disrupting the ever-accelerating flight of their economic flagship, the standard response was ‘miraa haipingiki’ — miraa is unstoppable.

For years, there was little evidence contradicting the haipingiki thesis. After all, in the end, prohibition usually fails and the twigs wrapped in the leathery green leaves of the false banana (Ensete ventrilosum) had been conquering new markets for the past half-century.

Everything became more complicated after miraa became mixed up with the multinational Somali population. Somalia’s infamous president Siad Barre banned imports in 1982, then allowed the surreptitious smuggling of miraa to reward loyal clan militias. Their opponents chased him out of Mogadishu 10 years later. The civil war erupting after his 1993 exit ignited an exodus of Somalis into neighbouring Kenya and beyond — with major ramifications for Meru’s miraa.

Thousands of refugees transiting through Nairobi or settled in the world’s largest refugee camp in Garissa came into contact with miraa for the first time. ‘It helps us process the upheavals overtaking our lives,’ one told me; I heard similar sentiments from aid workers coping with the chaos in Mogadishu.

The backstories were ignored by tabloid journalists more interested in branding khat as a drug of war. The US secretary of state for Africa chipped in by referring to combatants as ‘khat-crazed Rambos getting pumped up for evening raids.’

Agents supplying antagonistic Somali warlords, however, coexisted peacefully in Maua. Displaced Somalis flocked to Maua looking for work, some of them sleeping under trees at the edge of town. Before long, more organised entrepreneurs replaced the clan buyers and agents, their fleets of immaculate Land Cruisers speeding out of their loading bays every evening en route to destinations across the stateless region.

THE REAL ACTION FOLLOWS THE SOMALI DIASPORA

The real action followed the Somali diaspora. Refugee Somalis pioneered lucrative new export destinations in London and Holland that served as depots for other northern markets. The high prices the lower-grade export miraa fetched abroad turned some of the new khat merchants into overnight millionaires. It also created new frictions. Two boycott in Meru designed to deprive the Somalis of direct access to miraa in 1996 and 1999 underscored the souring relations between producers and exporters.

The second action coincided with the death of a popular Meru political activist, Nkuraru wa Ntai, who collapsed while dining with Somali friends in London. Kenyans claimed he was poisoned. His brother dismissed the conspiracy theory, informing the large crowd gathered at the funeral that his Somali associates were ordering miraa from Nkararu to help him pay for his higher degree studies.

THE SOMALIS RETURN, BUT LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN

The rumours persisted. Some Meru politicians from outside the miraa zone exploited the confusion by inciting youths who set up roadblocks and stoned miraa vehicles. An angry mob converged on Maua as the Somali community left for Isiolo in two large convoys. The local Meru business community, who for the most part appreciated the Somalis’ cosmopolitan presence, saw the politicians as opportunists manipulating the issues in order to take over the London trade.

Their gambit collapsed and the Somalis returned, but these events marked a new phase in the commercialisation process.

Several decades of commercialisation had spawned an efficient economic monoculture that was also eroding the smallholder agroforestry permaculture. Their ability to efficiently manoeuvre among the maze of spindly miraa branches made adolescents the harvesters of choice, while the high wages earned discouraged educational progress beyond basic written and numerical literacy. The economically abusive practice of renting miraa farms from cash-hungry farmers increased. Decreasing on-farm self-sufficiency and easy income combined with demographic increase to create a developmental cul-de-sac.

Formal analysis has yet to quantify variations in the physiological state induced by chewing the diverse spectrum of local varieties, but they are significant and market prices usually provide the best indicator of consumer preferences

The new markets had only partially alleviated the problem by the time the rising foreign-exchange returns from miraa began to garner belated recognition of its benefits for Kenya’s national economy.

A 2011 survey reported that miraa exports, growing at a rate of 9.7 per cent annually for several years, were now generating Ksh.16.5 billion ($231.7 million) annually — and represented 54 per cent of the fresh produce Kenya exported to other African countries. Earnings from the 12 tonnes exported to London and Amsterdam no doubt exceeded the value of the 20 tonnes of miraa exported to Somalia every week. Kenya is still the primary market and some 40 tonnes are consumed at home.

NUMBERS ABATE THE NOISE

It is not exactly surprising that the noise associated with miraa abated in the presence of such numbers. But the miraa export industry was facing formidable new challenges in the form of Wahhabi Muslim reformers and other Islamist opposition.

Miraa powers open discussion and information sharing. Users in Kenya often comment on the propensity of miraa gatherings to vaporise differences of race, class, and ethnicity among the participants. Researchers in Yemen and Ethiopia note the same, corroborating its role as social glue mediating social and class divisions. This makes it anathema to many Islamists.

In the UK, the government launched an enquiry supported by independent research. In 2009, the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs concluded that most arguments against the substance were overstated; criminalisation would create more problems than it would solve.

Although Al Shabaab attempted to suppress miraa and chat consumption in areas under their control, they later quietly relaxed this stance in favour of taxation.

But the issue resurfaced and the UK banned Catha edulis in 2014, ostensibly because the government did not want London to become the transit point for smuggling khat to neighbouring countries where it is banned.

In both instances, the Kenya government did next to nothing to intervene on behalf of producers’ interest. No Kenyan organisation attempted to counter the arguments behind the ban, although the largest miraa producer association (Nyamita) eventually produced a quaintly worded although ineffective statement in defence of the commodity.

In Meru’s traditional miraa producing areas, informants estimate miraa now employs seven out of 10 people. The UK ban has flattened the economy in adjacent areas linked to the European markets. ‘In this area, ten out of ten people earn their living from miraa,’ one prominent trader from the area opined, ‘and under prevailing market conditions it is only a question of time until our people become poorer than they ever were in the past.’

In April 2016, President Uhuru Kenyatta announced the creation of a Ksh1 billion fund to assist farmers affected by the UK ban. The news came out of the blue, and the locals were suspicious, especially after an official statement referred to ‘amendments to the Crops Act giving the national government authority to establish mechanisms for promotion, production, distribution and marketing of miraa as a cash crop.’

Kenya’s smallholder producers have for decades struggled to assert greater control over cash crops like coffee and tea only to become dependent on buyer-driven commodity chains controlled by large international retailers. The more autonomous Nyambene Meru, in contrast, after years of longing for official acknowledgement of their indigenous cash crop, now face an economic double-whammy in the guise of new taxes and potentially negative forms of government intervention.

WAS BILLION SHILLING COMMISSION A POLITICAL SLUSH FUND?

The qualifications of the members appointed to the commission exacerbated these suspicions, and the preliminary findings of their work confirmed the flawed assumptions operating underneath the surface. These findings, surfacing in the press recently, reveal a basic ignorance of the dynamics of the miraa agronomy and agroforestry — especially the recommendation to provide miraa farmers with fertiliser.

Not only does this run counter to the organic synergies of miraa permaculture, fertiliser applied to miraa trees actually makes the twigs unpalatable and impossible to consume. Placing more trash receptacles in places where the heavy leaf-clad twigs are sold was the most practical recommendation on offer. Miraa growers, who saw the billion shilling commission as a political slush fund from the onset, are demanding that the full proceedings of the commission be made public.

The focus of the Nyambene agricultural system began to shift after the value of miraa passed the value of food crops during the early 1970s. Discouraging monocultural cultivation and promoting the traditional biodiversity-based production model would be a positive intervention from both an agronomic and household economy point of view.

This is not the first time a Kenyan government commission has raised more questions than answers. It is hardly surprising that Coastals are demanding similar support for the problems behind the precipitous decline of coconut production, while climate-stressed pastoralists are asking similar questions about the state’s lack of investment in lasting solutions for the aperiodic but predictable droughts ravaging their animals and settlements.

The civil war erupting after Siad Barre’s 1993 exit ignited an exodus of Somalis into neighbouring Kenya and beyond — with major ramifications for Meru’s miraa 

That some farmers formerly selling to the European export market report they are now making better profits by selling to regional markets reminds us that the regional market has always been the driver of miraa commoditisation. At the same time, the case for educating the larger public about the unique qualities of the Tree of Paradise is long overdue.

A proper long-term strategy would address Western prejudices, refute the findings of bad science, document its history as a legitimate African social institution that forges ties among communities, highlight the ecologically sustainable practices of Nyambene miraa cultivators, and share the cross-generational knowledge informing proper consumption, including the cultural controls limiting its abuse.

EDUCATION IS THE KEY TO A RATIONAL POLICY

The Somali are both the most successful pioneers of new miraa markets and the primary source of opposition to its consumption. An educational initiative as discussed above — including support for investigating the role of Catha edulis as an antidote to religious radicalisation – would help rehabilitate the prejudicial portrayal of the commodity supporting its ban.

This will take time. Policies regulating the sale to minors at home and the type of miraa sold abroad represent a more useful approach to reverse the problem than the current state-based methods to rescue the situation.

The arguments featuring here are not intended to minimise the problems that come with the spread of Catha edulis consumption. But sorting out the issues of a socially interactive botanical stimulant is a more feasible proposition than parallel efforts to combat the considerably more serious problems of drugs and criminality plaguing the region, like the heroin scourge and criminal networks associated with it recently reported in these pages.

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Dr. Goldsmith is an American researcher and writer who has lived in Kenya for over 40 years.

Culture

Taita Taveta: The Land of Dietary Contrasts

Low investments in the agricultural sector, inadequate rainfall, reduced crop yields, lack of water for irrigation, land scarcity, and poverty are among the challenges that affect food production in Taita Taveta, rendering the county food insecure.

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Taita Taveta: The Land of Dietary Contrasts
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The Taita occupy the three sub-counties of Mwatate, Voi and Wundanyi in Taita Taveta County. They are thought to have migrated northwards through present day Tanzania to settle around Taita Hills, the northernmost part of the Eastern Arc Mountains. Taveta, the other sub-county within Taita Taveta County, is occupied by the Taveta-speaking people, and borders Tanzania to the South. Taita Taveta is a melting pot of ethnicities although the Taita and the Taveta are the majority. The county covers an area of approximately 17,100 square kilometres, with 62 per cent of the land taken up by the Tsavo East and Tsavo West National Parks. The rest of the land is occupied by ranches, private estates, and human settlements. Landlessness is acute in the county owing to poverty, displacement, evictions and the limited amount of land available for human activity.

The varied topography of Taita Taveta County—the upper zones which include the Sagalla, Mwambirwa and Taita Hills, the lowlands or plains of Voi and Mwatate and the volcanic foothills of Taveta—affect climatic conditions, water availability, and the viability of the land for agricultural purposes. Due its topography, most of the underground water in the county is to be found in the springs in Taveta and around Lakes Chala and Jipe. Higher rainfall is experienced in the highland areas where the forest cover provides a good catchment area. The plains are mostly semi-arid, experiencing very low rainfall. Three rivers—Lumi, Voi and Tsavo—traverse the county and the largest spring, Mzima Springs, is in Voi sub-county. The temperatures average 17°C in the high altitude areas and 30°C in the lowlands. Rainfall is in two cycles annually: the long rains between March and May and the short rains between October and December.

Like other Kenyans, the Taita eat ugali—the Swahili name for a stiff porridge made with maize meal that they call mswara—with an accompaniment of green leafy vegetables such as sukuma wiki (collard greens) spinach, cabbage, mnavu ghwa soko (cowpea leaves), mwapa (cassava leaves), pumpkin leaves, or foraged wild varieties such as mnyunya (wild lettuce), mgagani (Cleome gynandra), mwapa (cassava leaves), mchicha (amaranth leaves), ndunda (black nightshade), etc. Ugali flour is made from dried maize traditionally pounded with a mortar and pestle, then further ground either by hand or machine. Pounded maize is also used to make another Taita favourite called pure (a mix of pounded maize and beans). The maize chaff is traditionally used for making mbangara, the local beer. The Taita used to eat game meat when hunting was legal, or farmed livestock such as cattle, sheep, goats, chickens, ducks, pigs, etc. The meat was either dried on rocks (mdanda) or smoked over a wood-burning stove. Nowadays, most eat their meat fresh.

Habitual approaches to consuming food in Taita are no different from those of other communities around the country. For the Taita, breakfast and the evening meal are centred around family, but lunch is consumed individually wherever the family members are, which could be at work, home, or school. The packed lunch will most likely be the remains of the previous evening’s meal. However, those who can afford it eat this meal in restaurants and cafés.

Gender, feasts and memories

There is a gendered dynamic in Taita homes as food preparation falls to the womenfolk, and the knowledge is passed down the generations from grandmother to mother to daughter. However, many Taita men also know how to cook and in fact, my sister and I learnt how to cook mswara from our dad. Women’s labour is not limited to food preparation; women are involved in the entire food production chain, from cultivation, harvesting, processing, storage, transportation, buying and selling, and finally, preparation.

Food is central to celebrations in Taita. The community comes together to prepare food for communal functions such as funerals, weddings, and other festivities. Women do most of this communal labour although of late those with means pay for outside catering. Meals to celebrate religious holidays such as Easter, Christmas or Eid are made within the family, with sharing in mind. In our Christian household for instance, whenever an animal is slaughtered for such celebrations, it is done by a Muslim in a halal manner, enabling us to share and celebrate with our Muslim kin and friends.

No celebratory Taita meal is complete without pilau, chapati, kuku fry, maharagwe ya nazi, mbuzi fry, choma, kimanga and mbangara. Oh, and tea, litres and litres of tea. As is the case with many other ethnic groups in Kenya, the Taita food culture has been influenced by the culinary traditions of other Kenyan communities, introducing a demand for new foods that were previously not part of the traditional diet.

Food, land and devolution

Rain-fed subsistence agriculture is the main economic activity in Taita Taveta County, with farmers growing maize, beans, sorghum, cowpeas, pigeon peas, green grams and vegetables for their own consumption and selling the surplus. Livestock farming is either on communal or government ranches, or by small-scale farmers rearing animals in their homesteads or bomas in the plains (kireti). Agricultural labour is provided by the farmers’ families and hired full-time or part-time labourers.

The 2013 devolution of agricultural functions to the county level prompted the County Government of Taita Taveta to work together with farmers, the County Assembly of Taita Taveta, traders, Agro-NGOs and consumers to ensure the county’s food security. According to the county’s budget estimates for 2019-2020, approximately KSh800 million was earmarked for the agricultural, water, and ecology sectors, as well as agribusiness development. Some of the allocated funds came from development partners such as the World Bank, the European Union, and Sweden. This money was intended to improve the agricultural food supply chain starting with production, i.e. development of water infrastructure for irrigation, access to seeds, agricultural extension services, etc., to enable farmers produce the food. To ensure that this produce gets to markets, investments in infrastructure like feeder roads and actual markets were planned for. Investments in the areas of agri-business were meant to supplement farmers or individuals in establishing value addition businesses. As Taita’s main economic activity is subsistence agriculture, the county government hoped that this investment would improve farmers livelihoods thereby increasing their purchasing power.

As is the case with many other ethnic groups in Kenya, the Taita food culture has been influenced by the culinary traditions of other Kenyan communities.

However, a look at the 2020 County Budget Review and Outlook Paper, which reviews the county government’s actual fiscal performance for 2019-2020, shows that out of a budget of KSh4.73 billion, KSh3.96 billion or 84 per cent of the budget, was used for recurrent expenditure, leaving about KSh77 million for all county projects, a far cry from the budgeted KSh800 million for the agricultural and water sectors alone.

Besides the low levels of expenditure for agricultural projects, a myriad of other factors including low rainfall, reduced crop yields, lack of water for irrigation, environmental and climatic factors, land scarcity, and poverty affect food production and accessibility, rendering Taita Taveta food insecure. This food insecurity is felt the most in the drier Taita region and for decades now Taveta has been Taita’s key food supplier. Taveta is able to supply the Taita region for two reasons: its topography and its location.

Sitting on the volcanic foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro, Taveta has fertile soils and, more importantly, it has both aboveground and underground water that can be used for irrigation. With water from Lake Chala and from Njoro Springs, Taveta has been able to irrigate up to 53 per cent of its potentially irrigable acreage, compared to Taita where only 14 per cent of land is under irrigation. In addition, Taveta has more smallholder irrigation schemes per square kilometre—4 per cent, compared to Taita’s 0.55 per cent.

The second reason why Taveta is important as a source of food supply for the Taita region is its location. Taveta borders Tanzania to the South and has a thriving border economy with the country that has been enhanced following the opening of the Taveta-Holili one-stop border post. In addition, the new Taveta market has increased Taveta’s access to agricultural produce—such as maize, beans, vegetables, fruits and rice—from the Northern Kilimanjaro region. To the west, Taveta also has access to food markets in the Kenyan interior via the Loitokitok Sub-County of Kajiado County.

This food insecurity is felt the most in the drier Taita region and for decades now Taveta has been Taita’s key food supplier.

The county government of Taita Taveta is trying to promote a move towards commercialisation of farming as evidenced by the mandates of both its departments of Agriculture, Livestock, Irrigation & Fisheries and Water, Environment & Sanitation. These departments have drawn up strategies that include increasing the acreage under irrigation, developing irrigation infrastructure, mechanising farming, encouraging the formation of cooperatives in the agricultural sector, supporting value addition agri-businesses, etc., to improve farming output and the agricultural supply chain. The government is also supported by development partners in this commercialization push, either through direct funding or expertise. Livestock farming, fish farming, macadamia farming, bee keeping, rice farming, and groundnut farming, are some of the areas being encouraged and supported.

There are a few major private agro-estates and ranches, such as Lualenyi Ranch and Teita Estate, and a few county government ranches that produce milk and beef for sale outside the county.

Farms, food markets and seed culture

Apart from the climate challenges, land scarcity, deforestation and low rainfall that are creating food insecurity, the cost of farm inputs is another challenge for Taita farmers.

Traditional seed preservation and sharing methods were cheaper for the farmers as they could swap or sell seeds to each other. Where formerly farming families kept back seed for planting in the next season, this is now impossible given the seed laws that have criminalized sharing, exchanging or selling uncertified and unregistered seeds, creating dependency on seed companies. Having said that, one must acknowledge that due to the lack of water for irrigation and low rainfall, the farmers need to move to other farming technologies that would improve their crop. To resolve this issue, there is ongoing research within the county, undertaken by NGOs and research institutions, to develop drought-resistant seed varieties that can do well under Taita Taveta’s climatic conditions. However, this still does not address the concerns regarding the draconian seed laws which ignore the fact that, according to Greenpeace, up to 90 per cent of seeds planted in Kenya come from informal seed systems on which 80 per cent of smallholder farms rely.

Value addition is another key area that is lacking along the food production chain in Taita Taveta where most of the produce is sold or consumed in its most basic form. The county government is intent on developing capacity for value addition businesses in order to safeguard agricultural produce, create employment opportunities, and avail markets to the farmers. Calls for stalled projects to be completed, such as the Taveta Banana Processing Plant, are frequently heard.

Food production in Taita is also affected by human-wildlife conflict, with cases of marauding elephants from the neighbouring national parks rampaging through farms and destroying crops, baboons harvesting farmers’ crops or big cats making away with livestock being frequently reported. A 2020 study found that most farms in the Taita Hills were raided on a weekly basis by monkeys and, to a lesser extent baboons, and that this posed a serious threat to food security in the area. Local NGOs have embarked on a project to create a forested wildlife corridor along the Voi river, linking the Taita Hills with Tsavo East National Park to keep the primates away from the farms (although the study’s findings that farms close to the forests are raided more frequently may cast some doubt on the utility of this approach if farmers keep encroaching on wildlife areas).

According to Greenpeace, up to 90 per cent of seeds planted in Kenya come from informal seed systems on which 80 per cent of smallholder farms rely.

In addition, frequent clashes between pastoralists and farmers due to land scarcity are another area of concern. According to a 2013 study, Taita Taveta has since pre-colonial times experienced societal disruptions caused by cattle rustling, and persistent droughts that have weakened pre-existing regional networks of interaction, exchange, and crisis management. The establishment of the Tsavo National Park, which alienated traditional land, and land grabs by local elites related to commercial farming and mining opportunities, have further intensified these conflicts, leading to disruption, displacement and loss of life, with the attendant impacts on access to food.

All is not gloom and doom, however. Together with the newly operationalised modern markets in Mwatate and Taveta, the County Government of Taita Taveta has also opened many markets throughout the county, improving access to food, and creating avenues for the people and the county to earn revenues while also bringing improvements to other sectors such as the transport sector. These and other initiatives that the agriculture stakeholders in Taita Taveta are taking should surely turn around the food security situation in the county.

This article is part of The Elephant Food Edition Series done in collaboration with Route to Food Initiative (RTFI). Views expressed in the article are not necessarily those of the RTFI.

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Culture

Food Culture at the Kenyan Coast

Coastal cuisine is known for being cheap and providing value for money. However, ironically, in the rural areas and informal settlements within the coastal region, a balanced diet is often inaccessible.

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Food Culture at the Kenyan Coast
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For many years the 1420-kilometre-long Kenyan coastline has provided home and sustenance to Arab, Swahili, and Mijikenda societies and boasted food influences from far and wide. These culinary influences have at various stages in history included Chinese, Portuguese, African, Arab, Indian and Italian cuisines. In A history of African Cuisine James McCann defines a cuisine as “a distinct and coherent body of food preparations which is based on one or more starchy staples, a set of spice combinations, complementary tastes, particular textures, iconic rituals, and a locally intelligible repertoire of meats, vegetables and starchy texture … form[ing  a] structure of both preparation and presentation”. Swahili cuisine is a blend of Bantu, Indian, Arab, Persian and Portuguese cuisine that Nasra Bwana describes as a diverse and flavourful culmination of inter-community exchange that it is “rooted in lengthy history”.

Swahili cuisine ranges from the simplest to the most intricate of dishes catering to a wide palate. The mix of cultures, ingredients and cooking methods has produced a wide variety of signature foods. Take the case of Italian cuisine in the north coast area of Malindi that was introduced by Italians who came to work at the Broglio Space Centre that served as a spaceport for the launch of both Italian and international satellites between 1967 and 1988. Many went back home after the launches stopped but a few stuck around long enough to introduce their cultures and cuisines to the local communities. Today the town brims with Italian restaurants, pizzerias, delis and gelato shops. Pizza, pasta, lasagna and risotto are the legacy of their continued stay here. Kenyans along the north coast have picked up these foods and incorporated them into the local restaurant dining experience.

Commissioner James Robertson notes in a 1962 report on the Kenyan Coastal Strip Conference that “apart from the period of strong Portuguese influence in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the presence of Europeans as residents is comparatively recent and can be measured in decades. Arabs, Persians and Indians, on the other hand, have been present in the Coastal centres for as long as there is recorded history”. This is reflected in some of the notable dishes that form Swahili cuisine.

Pilau, a very fragrant dish of rice made with a variety of spices including cloves, coriander and black pepper, has its origins in pulao, a similar dish originating in central Asia. Pilau can be eaten on its own or with chapati, urojo (a popular Zanzibari meat stew or spicy soup) and kachumbari (a relish made with onions, chilli peppers and lemon juice). Like chapatti and urojo, Biryani is a popular dish originating from South Asia, specifically India and Pakistan, a legacy of the historic trading links with that region.

Cloves are a typical Swahili spice, often used in pastries, beverages and foods. The prevalence of this particular spice is a nod to the region’s long association with Zanzibar, where a spice trade flourished prior to the arrival of the Portuguese at the end of the fifteenth century. Following their expulsion by the Omanis in 1698, large-scale clove plantations were established, with indigenous Africans used as slave labour, and by the second half of the nineteenth century, the archipelago had become the world’s single largest clove producer. The then Sultan of Oman, Seyyid Said, had at the time moved the capital of his empire to Zanzibar and the Kenyan coast came under his dominion.

Other spices to be found in your typical coastal kitchen are cinnamon, black pepper, cardamom and chilli, seasonings used in pilau, biryani, kahawa chungu, tea or mahamri.  Meals are centred on communal dining that brings together extended family, neighbours and guests. The food is served on a sinia, a round shallow plate from which everyone eats with their right hand.

The then Sultan of Oman, Seyyid Said, had at the time moved the capital of his empire to Zanzibar and the Kenyan coast came under his dominion.

Kahawa chungu is very similar to Arabic coffee but has a strong clove and black pepper aroma. It is usually served without sugar hence its name chungu which means bitter. Mahamri and mandazi are pastries that look similar but taste different. While mahamri are made with flour, yeast, cardamom and coconut milk, mandazi are made using either flour and yeast or baking powder but no spices are added.

Coconuts are a local crop that is used in most dishes; while coconut water is used to quench thirst (madafu), coconut milk is used to prepare mbaazi, mahamri, beans, rice and fish. Sea food is also an integral part of the food culture here because it is easily available.

In the past, interaction between the coastal strip and the Kenyan hinterland was limited by terrain. Robertson writes, “Until the construction of the railway line in modem times, the dry, unfriendly stretch of scrub land starting from twenty to thirty miles inland insulated the Coastal Belt from contact with the African interior more effectively than the oceans separated it from Asia and Europe, and it was undoubtedly for that reason that the slave trade routes and the early exploration of the hinterland started from Zanzibar through what is now Tanganyika and not from Mombasa.” However, modern Swahili cuisine is today dependent on produce from the rest of the country. In his PhD thesis Positioning The Gastronomic Identity Of Kenya’s Coastal Strip, Dr Anthony Pepela notes that most of the strip’s signature foods “relied on materials from other regions which were procured from the local market. [Chefs] consented that they could not do without these ingredients in preparation of their dishes. They only had a small fraction of ingredients sourced from the local farmers which created the distinction”.

Street food—from snacks to complete meals—is popular in Lamu, Mombasa, and Diani. Street food vendors cater to different clienteles, with some specialising in pastries and sweets such as mahamri, dates, halwa, ubuyu kashata and achari while others sell fast foods like French fries, viazi karai, samosas and mishkaki. Whole meals such as chapati maharagwe biryani are also sold on the street. Beverages include sugar cane juice and tamarind juice (ukwaju).

While the preparation of meals in the home is largely a female affair, both men and women prepare and sell food in the restaurants and on the streets. However, women are the custodians of recipes in families and even in spaces that are visibly male. They are often the glue that holds the business together, either as partners or as aides, with some cooking at home the food that the men sell on the streets, or helping in advertising it online.

Huda, a food vendor in the Sunpark area of Malindi, wakes up early every morning to prepare breakfast dishes for her customers. Early in the morning, as soon as Muslim prayer of fajr is over, Huda and her husband both head to her kitchen where duties are divided: he prepares the dough and she does the frying. After their children have had their breakfast and left for school, Huda sets out tables on the street in front of her house and starts serving customers while her husband remains in the kitchen cooking the rest of the food. Customers buy takeaway breakfasts or sit quietly sipping their spiced tea. Mahamri and mbaazi are top sellers that sometimes have to be booked in advance as they quickly run out.

To make mahamri, dough is mixed with cardamom, yeast, sugar and coconut milk, then allowed to rise before frying the pastry. This has to be done at least an hour before customers start streaming in, says Huda. Breakfast is served until around 9 a.m. by which time most of the items on the menu have been sold out. The lunch menu is biryani, pilau, and accompaniments which are usually prepared early in the morning or the night before depending on the workload. The best seller on the lunch menu is biryani kuku (chicken biryani) and ukwaju juice, with kachumbari as an accompaniment.

The popularity of street food at the coast is due to the influence of communal dining while the practice of eating outdoors is greatly influenced by the environment and the coastal weather; it is easier to keep cool during meal times and also to accommodate a large number of guests. There is also a high degree of customer trust in the integrity of food vendors, which means that you can stop anywhere in Mombasa, Malindi or Lamu to purchase food. Unlike in cities like Nairobi, sea food at the coast is fresh while access to the ocean also means that unlike the case with Lake Victoria, there is a wide variety of fish. This, however, does not mean that seafood is cheaper at the coast. In 2021, fish was more expensive in Mombasa than in Nairobi because of the availability of cheaper imports in the capital city.

By observation, the population of the Kenyan coast is less segregated socially, which means that, regardless of class, everyone eats more or less the same thing. Trust in the safety and quality of the ingredients used to prepare meals also undergirds outdoor dining and the popularity and accessibility of quality Swahili food explains why fast-food restaurants find it harder to penetrate markets within the coastal region than in mainland Kenya.

Swahili cuisine offers the diversity that lacks in many modern fast-food restaurants/franchises. While fast-food franchises offer competition, it is not enough to put street vendors out of business en masse. For franchises to survive at the Kenyan coast they have to incorporate local cuisines as has been done elsewhere, such as on the Indian subcontinent. Dr Pepela’s study found that although the perception of hygiene in an establishment could drive a preference for fast foods, particularly among those reluctant to try new foods, the majority of international and local tourists visiting the coast prefer the local cuisine.

By observation, the population of the Kenyan coast is less segregated socially, which means that, regardless of class, everyone eats more or less the same thing.

Because of the integral part that local foods play in the lifestyle and culture of the community, coastal communities have been able to hold on to and transmit knowledge of Swahili cuisine in spite of modernization. It is a normal and highly encouraged practice for many local Mijikenda, Swahili, Arab or Indian households in neighbourhoods such as in Mombasa’s Old Town to live in extended families under one roof or in close proximity. This allows knowledge in the form of recipes to be passed on from one generation to next. Because women are the guardians of culture and tradition in these communities, knowledge is transmitted from generation to generation within the confines of the kitchen, with recipes often passed down from mother to daughter.

Food preparation is group work, with specific persons taking up the menus that they are best skilled at. Younger men and women, and those yet to master certain recipes, get to learn from those with the experience and expertise. Proximity to vendors and markets such as Mwembe Tayari is another reason why the street food culture has flourished, especially for consumers who want to take away food to eat at home.

Food festivals have become an annual affair; the Lamu Food Festival and the Mombasa Food Festival bring together food lovers and food vendors with the aim of cultivating the interest in the region’s food cultures and developing the local food economy. The events lean on the organic 24-hour economy—especially around the entertainment industry—that has enabled the street food culture to flourish and compete favourably with mainstream fast-food franchises or restaurants.

Digital media has expanded the interest in Swahili culture and cuisine, with pages like @lifeinmombasa (twitter and Instagram) showcasing it through photography. Vlogger @Swahiligal (twitter, YouTube and Instagram) showcases Lamu through videos and photos and organizes visits to the coastal town, enabling visitors from the mainland and from outside Kenya to get a taste of Lamu.

The increase in online chefs and food bloggers has also brought the cuisine to a wider audience. Chef Ali Mandhry has a page providing a step-by-step guide on how to make even the most intricate Swahili dishes. @shobanes says his aim is to make cooking Swahili food as simple as possible and uses slang to reach a much younger and urban audience. YouTube is the platform of choice that both professional and novice cooks use to share recipes with a much larger audience.

Coastal cuisine is known for being cheap and providing value for money. However, ironically, in the rural areas and informal settlements within the coastal region, a balanced diet is often inaccessible, especially when the rains fail. In 2020, local health officials warned of a surge in cases of malnutrition in children under five, with around 90 children diagnosed with severe malnutrition in Mombasa town alone. In 2021, health officials raised the alarm about nutritional deficiency in Kilifi where they estimated that 148,000 people were facing possible starvation, with this number rising to 200,000 in 2022. Kilifi is a paradox in that while the street food is very cheap in urban areas like Malindi, Watamu and Kilifi town, the county also has a 90 per cent malnutrition rate in babies under two years.

The increase in online chefs and food bloggers has also brought the cuisine to a wider audience.

Acute poverty and lack of access to food in some areas has led to reliance on wild fruits. Residents of the Bofu Magarini area have been known to eat cactus and many homes restrict themselves to one meal a day. Children are constantly fed unsweetened maize porridge leading to nutritional deficiencies like pellagra in infants and pre-schoolers. While street food offers pocket-friendly balanced meals, it turns out that it isn’t truly pocket friendly for everyone, especially those without a regular income.

The construction of new roads, ports, dams and irrigation schemes by both county and national governments, and the influx of Kenyans from upcountry, will likely have an impact on and enrich the variety of Swahili foods and their methods of preparation, just as interaction with the outside world has always done. It has given us a rich food history such that many towns around the country are now opening restaurants specialising in Swahili dishes to bring these food varieties to other counties. Still, it is important to continue to document the cuisine, the recipes, the history and culture that have evolved over the many years of interactions between the Kenyan coast and the rest of the world.

This article is part of The Elephant Food Edition Series done in collaboration with Route to Food Initiative (RTFI). Views expressed in the article are not necessarily those of the RTFI.

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Culture

The Emblems of Food Aid in West Pokot

In the eight decades since drought was first recorded in the 1940s, food scarcity still afflicts the region, creating a demographic of the satisfied poor who count on relief food to supplement their production.

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The Emblems of Food Aid in West Pokot
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Up until the advent of devolution in 2013, several regions of West Pokot including Kacheliba, Alale, Kongelai, Lelan, and Sigor, had one thing in common: the bags of yellow maize that would arrive promptly from the National Cereals and Produce Board (NCPB) storage facilities about two months into the planting season, or when the stores of the previous season’s harvest began to diminish.

Food aid from donors, development partners, state agencies and well-wishers had over many decades become crucial to the residents of these regions despite the significant pockets of onion, maize and beans farming.

While food scarcity affected the better part of the region all the way north to neighbouring counties, it tended to be more pronounced in these areas where underdevelopment had left the populations mired in a continuous struggle for food. So neglected were certain parts of the region that, for example, the electrification of Chepareria Town under the NARC government was greeted with relief and jubilation.

Market days in places like Ortum, Orwa, Kerelwa, Kanyarkwat, Chepunyai, and Morpus were a hive of activity, with barter trade taking place between farmers from the outlying hills where furrow irrigation fed the hillside farms that produced onions, cassava, millet, maize and beans.

Still, for decades, the imported yellow maize continued to occupy a central place in the diets of a population scarred by decades of political marginalization. Yellow maize provided relief to food-deprived households, especially during the drier months and just before the harvest season. The relief food also benefited isolated herders who would move with their cattle through towns like Sigor, Orwa, and Sebit in search of pasture.

The locally manufactured hand-operated maize mill was a rare sign of self-sustenance in a region that before devolution offered little opportunity for advancement. Milling maize into flour using grinding stones was more common—a tedious and time consuming chore often left to the womenfolk.

The first major drought during which food aid was provided to the region occurred in the early 1940s and changed the colonial administration’s policy towards the North Rift region. The drought prompted the colonial government to push pastoralists into the cash economy; locals were forced to sell their herds of cows, goats and sheep to the colonial administration in exchange for jobs and cash.

The locally manufactured hand-operated maize mill was a rare sign of self-sustenance in a region that before devolution offered little opportunity for advancement.

In the mid-1980s, catholic missions and Scandinavian donors stepped in to try and alleviate the perennial food scarcity caused by drought and insecurity, inadvertently laying the grounds for high reliance on food aid. The poorer families among the Pokot would camp at food distribution centres, at church missions and at the offices of non-governmental organisations waiting for food donations.

President Daniel Arap Moi’s frayed diplomatic relations with donors in the 1980s, the structural adjustment programmes imposed by the International Monetary Fund in 1990s and their impact on the economy, as well as the area’s agricultural systems, further negatively impacted the fortunes of many households in the lower economic ranks. In the 40 years since the food aid framework was put in place, food aid continues to occupy a significant place in the region’s socio-political and dietary conversation.

The available data exploring the rainfall patterns, food security and land use, as well as vegetation cover in West Pokot between 1980 and 2011 shows that rainfall has been erratic. Farmers report declining rainfall, rising temperatures and a shortened growing season that has lowered food production. A meteorological mapping of the region over the last few decades confirms the farmers’ observations, leading to notable changes in policy responses such as increased stocking, crop diversification, crop area expansion, but also a reliance on food aid.

Dependence on food aid is, however, not uniform across the highland zones; Kapenguria and Lelan have a lower dependency rate than regions like Chepareria or the more food crisis-prone areas like North Pokot and Kacheliba.

Being a semi-arid, food-deficient and food insecure county, West Pokot requires constant climate change impact assessments, the study of local agro-systems and their incorporation into the formulation of modern adaptation strategies.

The droughts that followed in the wake of the failed rains between 1999 and mid-2002 proved to be the worst in the county’s history. Recorded levels of crop failure were at times as high as 97 per cent, animal numbers fell and aid agencies had to step in yet again to address the food crisis.

Deforestation is the unintended consequence of insufficient food production. Small-scale farmers cut down trees and burn charcoal for sale to supplement their meagre incomes. Sacks of charcoal by the roadside are a common sight, targeting commuters on the Orwa-Wakor-Ortum-Chepareria route.

Sigor, where trees covered 19.9Kha in 2000—or roughly 10 per cent of the land mass—had lost 378ha of humid primary forest or 8 per cent of its tree cover by 2020, leading to an overall decrease in vegetation cover of 7.6 per cent over that period. This has had a direct impact on the recorded rainfall within an area that relies on rain-fed subsistence farming.

The droughts that followed in the wake of the failed rains between 1999 and mid-2002 proved to be the worst in the county’s history.

In the eight decades since the 1940s drought, food scarcity still afflicts a significant portion of the population of the region. In March 2020, exactly 80 years after the first recorded drought, the national government sent food aid into the county: 150,000 kilograms of rice, 120,000 kilograms of beans, and 60 cartons of corned beef were given out to 31,000 households affected by drought across the county at a per capita ratio of 6kgs of rice and 4kgs of beans.

The effects of climate change and population growth have forced farmers and pastoralists in parts of the county to move towards diversification of food sources. One example is the Wei Wei Farmers Association that was formed in the late 1980s to implement an irrigation scheme that would sustain year-round farming. The project involves 600 pastoralists who have put 225 hectares of land under irrigation, with a potential of  1,200-2,000 tonnes of produce per cropping season that could bring in KSh100 million annually.

Food production remains a key priority and a challenge for the county’s leaders. The devolution of agriculture in 2013 placed the responsibility of overseeing food systems in the hands of local leaders who are engaging smallholder farmers, reviving ageing agro-projects, and establishing new ones. But ten years after devolution, many households still partly depend on relief food from local aid agencies and state agencies to supplement the production from subsistence farming.

The effects of climate change and population growth have forced farmers and pastoralists in parts of the county to move towards diversification of food sources.

In 2021, humanitarian agencies in the wider North Rift region placed the number of those at risk of starvation at about 250,000. Decades of partial dependence on food aid in the county have produced a demographic that sees little need to pursue development amidst a perennial food crisis and the predictable intervention of non-state actors. Poor farmers and pastoralists have come to expect—and have incorporated—relief food into their requirements as their incomes are not enough to meet their food needs, factoring in the black tax and reliance on donors and well-wishers.

This demographic is referred to as the satisfied poor in a theory that combines learned helplessness, cognitive dissonance and the subjective quality of life to map out instances in which certain persons and regions outsource their food autonomy to aid agencies irrespective of the projected size of their annual harvest.

Developed by Geraldine Olson and Brigitte Schober in 1993, the paradigm attempts to explain the satisfaction paradox—why some people who are objectively deprived nonetheless claim to be satisfied with their quality of life. They concluded that “being unhappy with the living conditions and yet ‘knowing’ that all available coping-strategies will have no positive effect on the situation, creates a cognitive dissonance within the individual that he will try to reduce. This reduction can be achieved either by finally using an effective coping-strategy or by the re-evaluation of the perceived situation with adapted (lowered) standards”.

Thus when the long-term structures that shape access to and affordability of food do not present clear pathways towards self-sustenance, poor households may learn to lean more heavily on the relatively more predictable provision of food by aid agencies, the state and well-wishers despite the fact that such efforts are meant to be temporary stop-gap measures.

In the longer run, this reliance on aid may result in deliberate disengagement by some from the affairs of the community. In fact, in recent years, the county administration has decried the rise in idling as a social malaise in the region.

Still, it should be noted that the structure of aid programming can also induce dependence, particularly in instances where the aid is sporadic and poorly connected to the food sourcing and storage needs of the local communities.

One can laud the sustained efforts to alleviate food insecurity in West Pokot—where 57 out every 100 residents struggle to meet their basic nutritional needs—while remaining cognizant of the need to move beyond aid. The local administration has brought together a collaborative team from across several sectors with the expectation that a wider pool of stakeholders will more ably fight food insecurity in the region.

Initiatives such as the pro-active poverty graduation policy are closely linked to the mission of West Pokot County Integrated Development Plan (CIDP), the overall framework that seeks to transform livelihoods through an equitable and sustainable utilization of resources in order to bring to an end the dependence on food aid.

In the longer run, this reliance on aid may result in deliberate disengagement by some from the affairs of the community.

To deal with the social and psychological underpinnings of the helplessness that is driving dependence on aid, the CIDP has placed the focus on food and nutrition security, and on improving equity in socio-economic opportunities by 2025.

Given the current food scarcity and impending crop failure, state agencies must continue to coordinate with aid agencies and well-wishers in the provision of relief food. However, critical medium and long-term interventions need to be implemented to undo the learned helplessness that decades of food aid have engendered in the minds of the poor.

A broke treasury, near-empty county coffers and failing rains means that in the short run dependence on relief food might actually escalate. However, aid providers must begin to robustly debate how food self-sufficiency might be achieved both in terms of availability, access, affordability and nutritional diversity.

It just maybe the right time to start working towards not just ending food dependency but also phasing out the gunny bags and the many emblems that symbolise the reality of dependency among the local farmers and pastoralists.

This article is part of The Elephant Food Edition Series done in collaboration with Route to Food Initiative (RTFI). Views expressed in the article are not necessarily those of the RTFI.

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