There must have been considerable consternation among the ancient trees of the Mau Forest when disturbing tidings began arriving from their distant relatives in the Aberdares. Imagine those magnificent old cedars, their enormous trunks rising like weather-beaten pillars from the forest floor, their colossal roots spreading through the earth like the fingers of venerable patriarchs determined never to relinquish their ancestral inheritance. Their rugged bark bore the wrinkles of generations, their mighty branches stretched across the woodland like arms raised in perpetual supplication, and their vast crowns reached heavenwards as though engaged in an unending conversation with the clouds. Around them stood the solemn podocarps, the muscular African olives with their twisted limbs, and the restless bamboo thickets, forever whispering among themselves whenever the wind passed through their congregation. Then, from far across the Great Rift Valley, came the imagined metallic shriek of a chainsaw, followed by the deep, terrifying thunder of a mighty tree crashing to the earth. The elderly cedar stiffened. Its enormous roots seemed to tighten their grip upon the soil. A neighbouring podocarp stretched a trembling branch towards it, while the bamboo, ordinarily so garrulous that even the wind occasionally struggled to get a word in, fell abruptly silent. Another crash followed, each reverberation travelling westwards like distant artillery. The old cedar slowly turned its magnificent crown towards the east. Somewhere beneath its spreading branches, a frightened sapling whispered, “Grandfather, what is happening in the Aberdares?” The old tree listened before answering with the sorrowful gravity of one who had witnessed too much: “My child, those are the cries of our relatives. The sound you hear is the thunder of trees surrendering their years to the chainsaw.” Immediately the Mau awakened. Branches reached towards branches, leaves brushed against leaves, and whispers passed from cedar to podocarp, from olive to bamboo, until the whole forest seemed to tremble with apprehension. For the Mau had heard such sounds before, and memories of its own troubled history were stirring beneath the soil.
The Mau remembers. It remembers encroachment, excisions, settlements, political quarrels and the bitter controversies surrounding its conservation. It remembers, too, the extraordinary political tendency to invoke the elementary fact that rain falls from the sky as though this discovery had finally rendered forests ecologically redundant. One can almost see the countenances of its ancient cedars changing at the recollection. Their leaves stiffen, their branches recoil, and their trunks appear to wrinkle in botanical astonishment. Rain comes from the sky! What a magnificent revelation! The bamboo bends double with laughter, the olive trees shake their crowns, and an elderly podocarp wonders whether the next great scientific announcement will establish that fish inhabit water and birds occasionally fly. Certainly, precipitation falls from the atmosphere, but the forest is no idle spectator in the movement of water through the environment. Vegetation influences evapotranspiration, infiltration, runoff, soil structure and the exchange of moisture between land and atmosphere. Water descending from the clouds must still encounter the land, enter the soil, replenish underground stores where conditions permit, and find its way into springs, streams and rivers. To invoke the sky as though it makes the condition of the catchment irrelevant is rather like announcing that food comes from plates and therefore farmers are unnecessary. Job 38:25–28 records the Almighty interrogating humanity concerning the channels of rain and the mysteries of water. The ancient Mau cedar, having considered the matter, recommends that those so confident in their meteorological pronouncements first familiarise themselves with the examination questions already posed by the Creator.
Across the Rift Valley, the Aberdares rise beneath magnificent veils of silver mist, their slopes clothed in botanical splendour that no ceremonial planting exercise could reproduce overnight. The African pencil cedars stand like venerable patriarchs, their rugged trunks bearing the scars of generations; the podocarps lift their evergreen crowns towards the clouds; the African olives twist their muscular branches through the mountain air; and the bamboo thickets sway in densely packed congregations, their slender stems brushing one another like worshippers exchanging greetings after a particularly moving sermon. Higher up, giant lobelias stand upon the moorlands like extraordinary botanical sculptures, while beneath the canopy mosses, fungi, insects and innumerable organisms conduct the patient business of sustaining life. The forest floor is cushioned with fallen leaves and decomposing organic matter, its soils threaded with roots and inhabited by organisms that help maintain their structure. This is no mere warehouse of timber standing upright beneath the clouds. It is a living ecological system, an intricate association of organisms and physical processes developed through time. Psalm 104:10–17 celebrates the springs running through the valleys, the mountains receiving water, the trees flourishing and the birds making their nests among the branches. And then, in the imagination of the grieving forest, comes the terrible shriek of a chainsaw, its metallic teeth advancing into a mighty trunk while neighbouring trees extend their branches towards their wounded companion as though attempting one final embrace.
The great tree shudders. Its crown begins to sway with an unnatural, increasingly desperate motion. Suddenly, the birds erupt from their perches in a magnificent confusion of wings, shrieks and feathers, abandoning their ancestral resting places as gravity begins claiming the branches beneath them. A hornbill launches itself into the air with the offended dignity of a senior government official unexpectedly informed that his office has been abolished; smaller birds scatter in every direction, some narrowly avoiding collisions with branches, others landing upon neighbouring trees with the breathless indignation of refugees who have escaped a catastrophe without even collecting their belongings. A squirrel leaps desperately towards a neighbouring crown, apparently trusting Providence to supply the missing inches, while a startled tree hyrax, having spent the better part of the afternoon clinging contentedly to the trunk, discovers with mounting horror that its magnificent residence has begun moving towards the ground without either notice or consent. It tightens its embrace, its gripping feet pressed against the bark, apparently persuaded that sufficient determination might persuade several tonnes of falling timber to reconsider their destination. Alas, the laws of gravitation have never recognised stubbornness as grounds for exemption! Down comes the giant, its enormous branches tearing through the surrounding foliage, its crown sweeping the air like the collapsing roof of a cathedral, and the unfortunate hyrax clinging to its travelling residence until the creature and the trunk disappear into a tremendous explosion of leaves, dust and broken branches. Whether the little fellow escapes the wreckage is mercifully concealed by the swirling debris. For one dreadful moment the entire forest falls silent. Then a solitary bird, perched upon a neighbouring cedar, turns its head towards the devastation with an expression of profound disbelief, as though asking whether the authorities intend to classify this extraordinary catastrophe as routine vegetation management. The fallen giant lies motionless upon the earth, its leaves still green, its branches still beautiful, but its long conversation with the heavens abruptly terminated. Somewhere among the surviving trees, a trembling sapling whispers, “Grandfather, if this is what they call sustainable management, what exactly would destruction look like?” Isaiah 14:8 pictures the cedars rejoicing because the woodcutter has ceased. How unsettling that the Aberdares should now be the subject of controversy over the very activity from which those biblical trees celebrated their deliverance!
But the most haunting witnesses may not be the trees at all. They may be the rivers, those magnificent daughters of the mountains that descend through the valleys with their silver garments flowing, laughing over boulders, embracing tributaries and carrying life towards farms, villages and reservoirs. Reports of drying streams are not confined to anonymous murmurs circulating through social media. Nyandarua Governor Kiarie Badilisha has publicly raised concerns about smaller streams serving community water intakes around the Aberdares. Communities mentioned in reporting include Nyakeo, Wanjohi, Wanjinia, Kadhara and Geta. These are reported observations demanding hydrological investigation, not scientific proof that particular harvesting operations caused the water shortages. But imagine an elderly cedar bending its branches towards a familiar stream, only to discover a channel strewn with exposed stones, abandoned pools and patches of sand. The river that once sang beneath its roots has fallen silent. The kingfisher arrives, inspects the empty channel and appears to wonder whether the water has been transferred to another ministry without consultation. The bamboo suggests that perhaps the river has travelled to Nairobi to seek an appointment with the Cabinet Secretary for Water, but even its customary hilarity falters before the silence. For an empty riverbed is not merely an unfortunate alteration in the scenery. Where dependable flows fail, households may face longer journeys for water, farmers may lose irrigation supplies, livestock may suffer, and aquatic habitats may contract. Job 14:11 speaks of waters disappearing and rivers becoming parched; Jeremiah 14:2–6 portrays the anguish of drought; and Isaiah 41:17–18 evokes the plight of the poor and needy seeking water and finding none. These passages arise from different biblical contexts, yet their images remind us that water insecurity is not an abstraction. It is experienced in thirsty mouths, failing crops, exhausted animals and the daily struggles of communities whose survival depends upon reliable supplies.
Yet beneath the sorrowful silence of the rivers lies a scientific question that neither the chainsaw nor the political microphone can answer by itself. The relationship between logging and streamflow is neither imaginary nor so simple that every dry riverbed can automatically be laid at the feet of a felled tree. Indeed, removing vegetation may reduce evapotranspiration and initially increase total water yield in some catchments. But a forest is more than the sum of its thirsty leaves. Its roots, soils, undergrowth and surrounding landscape participate in a delicate hydrological relationship whose disturbance may carry consequences far beyond the stump left behind. Heavy harvesting machinery may compact the soil and reduce infiltration; logging roads and exposed surfaces may accelerate erosion; sediment may enter watercourses; and changes in vegetation and soil structure may alter the timing and quality of runoff. The protection of riparian corridors, the extent of canopy disturbance and the methods employed in harvesting are therefore matters of considerable importance. Nor may rainfall variability, groundwater conditions, water abstraction and wider land-use changes be conveniently dismissed. None of these mechanisms establishes that particular operations caused a particular Aberdare stream to dry. But neither can the possibility be waved away with the magnificent assurance that rain comes from the sky! The evidence must speak: historical streamflow records, rainfall data, abstraction permits, harvesting boundaries, land-cover changes, soil conditions and the integrity of riparian buffers. The ancient cedar bends towards the silent riverbed, its great branches trembling in the mountain wind. “My children,” it whispers, “the sky may deliver the water, but the earth must still receive it.” And for once the bamboo, ordinarily incapable of allowing a solemn occasion to pass without commentary, finds nothing amusing to add.
And presiding over this extraordinary environmental drama is a President who is not merely acquainted with trees through ceremonial encounters involving seedlings, watering cans and strategically positioned television cameras, but academically trained in Botany, Zoology and Plant Ecology, with a doctorate in the latter discipline. A plant ecologist! Not a casual admirer of greenery, not an enthusiastic gardener whose expertise begins and ends with distinguishing a mango tree from a telephone pole, but a scholar whose discipline examines relationships between plants and their environments. One would therefore expect President William Samoei Ruto to appreciate that a forest is not simply an assembly of vertical wooden cylinders awaiting conversion into timber. Its roots help reinforce the soil, its litter contributes to soil structure, its canopy influences the movement of moisture and energy, and its vegetation interacts with the physical processes governing catchment behaviour. A trained plant ecologist should also understand the distinction between a newly planted seedling and a mature ecological system. Yet the national ambition is to grow fifteen billion trees by 2032. Fifteen billion! A number so magnificent that one imagines the clouds pausing to admire its arithmetic. Picture a newly planted sapling, still trembling from the excitement of its presidential photograph, asking an ancient cedar when it will begin sheltering wildlife, supporting complex soil communities and performing the functions of a mature forest. The cedar replies that such responsibilities require growth, favourable conditions and considerable time. The sapling protests that it has already been counted among the fifteen billion. The old tree sighs that being counted and becoming established are unfortunately not synonymous. Luke 14:28 asks who undertakes a great project without first calculating its requirements, while Proverbs 21:5 commends diligent planning. How many seedlings survive? What species are planted, and where? How are they maintained? What ecological outcomes are measured? And how are the forests already standing being protected? The bamboo scratches its slender stem against a neighbouring olive tree and announces, with the solemnity of a university examiner, that perhaps the President’s doctorate has been temporarily seconded to the Department of Ceremonial Tree Planting!
But the laughter cannot conceal the gravity of the contradiction. How does an administration whose highest office is occupied by someone trained in the very science of plant ecology find itself defending disputed harvesting operations within a nationally significant water catchment while communities report drying streams? If the science is understood, why should its application be so difficult for the public to discern? Is the problem inadequate advice, weak enforcement, regulatory indifference, commercial expediency or failures of political oversight? Are foreseeable environmental consequences receiving the attention they deserve? These are questions for evidence and public accountability, not grounds for pronouncing an unproved intention. Nor does the existence of harvesting and drying streams, by itself, establish that the former caused the latter. But specialised knowledge cannot be displayed as an ornamental credential upon the national mantelpiece while the practical implications of that knowledge are left outside in the rain, assuming, of course, that the rain has not also been invited to seek alternative accommodation. Luke 12:48 reminds us that much is required of those to whom much has been given, and 1 Corinthians 4:2 requires stewards to be faithful. If the problem is administrative failure, the machinery of government demands correction. If established safeguards have knowingly been disregarded, the matter becomes graver still. And if the operations are environmentally sound, let the evidence demonstrate it. The proper response to ecological scrutiny is science, not indignation; accountability, not publicity; and stewardship, not the magnificent spectacle of counting seedlings while ancient forests wonder whether their own continued existence has been entered into the national arithmetic.
Fairness requires recognition that forest authorities and sawmillers describe the disputed Geta operations as authorised harvesting of mature and over-mature plantation trees, rather than indiscriminate destruction of indigenous forest. Properly regulated commercial forestry is legitimate, and harvesting a plantation established for timber production is not inherently equivalent to destroying an ancient indigenous ecosystem. Yet the distinction between plantation and indigenous forest does not abolish the need for environmental safeguards, particularly within a water catchment. A harvesting licence cannot, by its mere existence, establish that compartment boundaries have been respected, riparian areas protected, soils safeguarded, regeneration secured or cumulative hydrological consequences adequately assessed. On 23 October 2026, following a visit to Geta Forest, the Environment and Land Court extended orders suspending tree felling and timber transportation pending further proceedings, with the matter scheduled for 11 November. One imagines the trees straightening their trunks as the judge approaches, the bamboo hurriedly adjusting its leaves, and an elderly podocarp whispering that at last someone has arrived carrying legal authority rather than a chainsaw. Proverbs 18:17 reminds us that an initial account may appear convincing until subjected to examination. Let the authorities disclose their approvals and management plans. Let conservationists present their findings. Let affected communities describe the changes they have experienced. Let independent scientists investigate the streams. And let the legal questions be determined through due process. For a water tower is not merely a timber inventory, and the consequences of its management extend far beyond the commercial value of logs transported from its slopes.
Then, as the winds carry these troubling conversations westwards, the Mau remembers another mighty tree that fell barely a year ago. Raila Amolo Odinga, whose political life included a prominent and often controversial association with the defence of the Mau water tower, was laid to rest in Bondo on 19 October 2025. One imagines the ancient cedars lowering their crowns in remembrance, the podocarps extending their branches towards one another, and the bamboo abandoning its customary jokes as the forest recalls the formidable human tree whose political struggles became intertwined with its own conservation history. But the Mau remembers something else, something that causes the ancient cedars to exchange glances of almost unbearable recognition. When Raila, then Prime Minister, confronted the politically explosive task of reclaiming the Mau Forest, one of the most formidable figures standing opposite him was William Samoei Ruto. The quarrel concerned the rights, compensation and treatment of settlers, and Ruto maintained that he supported conservation while opposing the manner in which evictions were being undertaken. Those human concerns deserved serious consideration, but the political confrontation was unmistakable. Raila pressed the case for restoring the water tower, while Ruto challenged the implementation of the reclamation programme. Their disagreement helped fracture a political alliance. And now, years later, Raila lies buried in Bondo while Ruto occupies the Presidency, and another great Kenyan water tower has become the subject of a bitter controversy over tree harvesting. The ancient cedar turns slowly towards the bamboo. “My child, have I understood this correctly? The gentleman who challenged Raila during the Mau controversy is now the President under whose administration the Aberdares are being subjected to disputed logging?” The bamboo straightens, adjusts an imaginary pair of scholarly spectacles and replies, “Precisely, Grandfather. And the gentleman’s scientific qualifications make the contradiction all the more extraordinary!” The cedar closes its eyes. The podocarp lowers its branches. An elderly African olive, having survived generations of storms, appears to discover an entirely new category of botanical bewilderment. “Then,” the cedar finally whispers, “the question is no longer whether he understands what a forest is. The question is whether the Republic can see that understanding translated into its protection.”
And here history presents an irony so extraordinary that even the ancient cedars might have fallen silent. On 25 February 2022, William Samoei Ruto spoke in Nyandarua of placing Raila Odinga upon a wheelbarrow and sending him to Bondo following electoral defeat. On 19 March, at Dundori in Nakuru, he returned to the same image, speaking of pushing his political rival all the way to Bondo to retire. The words were repeated. The destination was named. The wheelbarrow became an instrument of political mockery, a familiar contrivance of the hustler narrative transformed into an imaginary vehicle for the retirement of a formidable opponent. Then came October 2025, when Raila made his final journey home, not in political retirement but in death. On 19 October, he was laid to rest at Kang’o ka Jaramogi in Bondo, with Ruto himself among those attending. At the graveside, Raila’s casket was wheeled upon a funeral carrier before being lifted for lowering into the grave. The ancient cedar lowered its magnificent crown. The podocarp stood motionless. Even the ordinarily irreverent bamboo found itself bereft of commentary. The wheelbarrow had been invoked in political combat; the wheeled carrier had appeared in the solemn ceremony of death. Different instruments, different purposes, different circumstances, yet the destination was the same: Bondo. The forest alleged no prophecy, suggested no foreknowledge and imputed no sinister intention. It merely remembered the words, observed the images and contemplated the extraordinary irony of mortality. Ecclesiastes 3:1–2 speaks of a time for every purpose under heaven, including a time to be born and a time to die. Ecclesiastes 3:20 reminds us that all return to dust. The dates remain. The words remain. The images remain. And sometimes history arranges its coincidences with a solemnity before which even satire must fall silent.
And perhaps, as the winds sweep across the disputed slopes of the Aberdares, the surviving cedars whisper a thought too sorrowful to be spoken aloud. “Had Raila Amolo Odinga still been walking among the living, would our fallen brothers be standing today?” The old cedar of the Mau gazes eastwards, remembering the political storms that once gathered around its own survival. “We cannot know, my children,” it answers. “But we remember a man who was prepared to endure formidable political opposition over the protection of this forest. Perhaps he would have raised his voice for yours too.” The bamboo bows its slender stems. The podocarps lower their crowns. And somewhere beneath the Aberdare mist, in the imagined lament of the forest, a freshly cut stump stands beside a fallen trunk, its exposed rings bearing silent witness to decades of growth brought to an abrupt end. The forest does not pretend to know the history that might have been. It merely mourns the possibility that a voice once raised so forcefully for one water tower might have been raised again for another. Job 14:7–9 speaks movingly of hope for a tree that has been cut down, because at the scent of water it may sprout again. But a human life, once ended, cannot be recalled to resume the arguments it left unfinished. And the Mau, whose own survival once occupied so much of Raila’s political struggle, stands in solemn remembrance of a fallen human giant while the fate of another great Kenyan water tower is being contested.
Yet the Aberdares controversy raises another question, one extending beyond the trees themselves into the economic security of the communities whose lives depend upon the mountain catchment. These forests sustain water supplies, agriculture, livestock, businesses and settlements across a substantial part of Kenya, including communities in the Mount Kenya region. Damage to catchment functions, wherever established, can therefore become damage to livelihoods, household incomes and regional economic resilience. Given Kenya’s political history, concerns about unequal treatment of regions deserve to be examined rather than ridiculed. But whether particular forestry decisions are driven by commercial interests, regulatory failures, political calculations or discriminatory intentions must be established through evidence. The proper investigation must ask who authorised the harvesting, which areas were affected, what safeguards were required, whether those safeguards were observed, who benefited commercially, and what consequences followed for downstream communities. The ancient cedar surveys the valleys and whispers, “A forest does not ask the tribe of the farmer before releasing its waters, nor the political allegiance of a child before sheltering the springs upon which that child depends.” And perhaps therein lies the most demanding question of all: whether the institutions entrusted with Kenya’s water towers are protecting them as a common national inheritance, without favour, prejudice or political calculation.
For there is an important distinction between responsibility and culpability. The President cannot personally supervise every harvesting compartment, inspect every logging road or measure the discharge of every mountain stream. Nor does a disputed harvesting operation automatically establish environmental destruction. But he heads the administration responsible for the institutions that regulate and protect these national resources. When serious concerns arise, the obligation is to ensure that the evidence is examined, the law enforced and any established damage remedied. The Mau remembers the political arguments of 2009. The Aberdares await the ecological and legal answers of 2026. And between those two forests stands a question that no quantity of ceremonial seedlings can resolve: what consistent principles should govern the protection of Kenya’s water towers, regardless of who occupies State House? The answer must not depend upon the political affiliation of the affected communities, the commercial influence of timber operators, or the convenience of the administration of the day. It must depend upon law, science and the enduring national interest. A water tower is not the property of a political season. It is an inheritance received from generations past and held in trust for generations yet unborn.
Yet Scripture carries the argument beyond ecological concern into the solemn territory of stewardship and accountability. Genesis 2:15 records that humanity was placed in the garden to cultivate and keep it, not merely to extract whatever could be sold before the next election. Psalm 24:1 declares that the earth belongs to the Lord, while 1 Corinthians 4:2 requires stewards to be faithful. Ezekiel 34:18 rebukes those who enjoy good pasture and clear water only to trample what remains and muddy what others must drink. The ancient cedar imagines a man drinking from a mountain stream while dismissing the importance of the surrounding vegetation, and the bamboo wonders whether the stream maintains a private borehole in heaven! Even the solemn podocarp appears unable to suppress a smile. But Revelation 11:18 introduces a far more searching image, speaking of divine judgement and those who destroy the earth. Its apocalyptic context is not a judicial finding against contemporary individuals, yet its moral seriousness cannot be ignored. The Almighty who created the earth has not surrendered His concern for it merely because humanity has discovered timber licences, harvesting machinery and ambitious environmental slogans. The forests may have no representatives in Parliament, the rivers may be unable to file affidavits, and the soil may possess no voice with which to protest its degradation, but the responsibilities of those entrusted with their protection remain real. The Kenyan Constitution recognises the right to a clean and healthy environment under Article 42 and establishes environmental obligations under Article 69. The question is therefore both moral and constitutional: are the institutions entrusted with the national inheritance protecting it with the seriousness its importance demands?
Perhaps the most magnificent biblical image of all appears in Isaiah 55:12, where the mountains and hills break forth into singing and the trees of the field clap their hands. Psalm 98:8 goes further, summoning the rivers themselves to clap their hands while the hills rejoice together. What an extraordinary heavenly orchestra! The cedars applauding with their branches, the bamboo swaying in worship, the podocarps lifting their crowns, the rivers striking their sparkling waters against the stones, and the mountains answering with the thunder of waterfalls. Yet Romans 8:22 speaks of creation groaning, and Hosea 4:3 describes the land mourning under the consequences of human wrongdoing. Between these biblical images lies the solemn challenge of environmental stewardship: shall creation be allowed to flourish, or shall the songs of its forests and rivers be diminished through neglect, degradation and irresponsible decisions? The answer cannot be supplied by ceremonial photographs, ambitious numerical targets or official reassurances alone. It must be demonstrated through transparent management, ecological evidence, functioning safeguards, surviving trees and healthy catchments. For the rivers cannot drink government promises, the soil cannot be stabilised by presidential speeches, and the ancient cedars cannot be replaced overnight by the enthusiastic arithmetic of a tree-planting campaign.
And so the ancient cedar of the Mau turns towards the Aberdares one final time. Its enormous branches reach across the mountain wind, touching the leaves of neighbouring trees as the whisper travels from crown to crown, from the western water tower to the eastern highlands. The bamboo bows. The podocarp trembles. The olive trees stand solemnly beneath the gathering mist. Somewhere in the Aberdares, a young seedling looks towards an elderly cedar and asks whether it too will one day grow tall enough to shelter birds, nourish the soil and participate in the great circulation of water. The old tree smiles and replies that it may, provided the rains sustain it, the soil nourishes it and humanity allows it sufficient time to grow. Then comes the final question, whispered with the innocence of a child: “Grandfather, will they protect us?” The cedar looks towards the distant horizon, where the last light of evening rests upon the mountains, and remains silent. For the answer belongs not to the trees, but to the Republic.
Plant the fifteen billion trees. Plant them diligently, nourish them faithfully and celebrate those that survive. But let the forests already standing receive the protection that their ecological importance demands. For the Almighty who commanded the earth to bring forth vegetation did not require a presidential ceremony to establish the value of a tree, and the rivers that descend from the mountains do not flow by virtue of government press statements. The earth is the Lord’s (Psalm 24:1), and those entrusted with its care must be found faithful (1 Corinthians 4:2). May the trees of the field indeed clap their hands, as Isaiah proclaimed, and may the rivers clap theirs, as the Psalmist declared. But may the trees retain their branches and the rivers their waters when the appointed celebration comes. For what a dreadful spectacle it would be if a nation celebrated fifteen billion promised trees while its ancient forests stood diminished and the rivers that once sang beneath their branches had forgotten how to flow!