In August 2017, a group of residents in Mathare came together after a period of intense police violence that left many of their coworkers dead. Instead of remaining silent, they made a powerful decision: to plant trees in memory of victims of police brutality.
For them, trees were more than plants. They became symbols of rebirth, remembrance, and resistance to systemic oppression. What started as a simple act of mourning slowly grew into a coordinated movement for ecological and social justice.
But planting trees in Mathare is not easy.
Because the soil in this informal settlement can no longer naturally support trees, planting here is a long and difficult process rather than a one-day event. The land is unstable, rocky, and heavily polluted, shaped by decades of neglect.
Mathare is densely packed with shanty structures made of rusty brown mabati roofs. Narrow passageways wind between the homes and slope dangerously down steep, unstable terrain. In this place of extremes, joyful children play alongside adults weighed down by broken spirits. Hope and despair exist side by side, with no middle ground.
There are almost no physical elements that support life.
One Tree for Every 1,200 People in Mathare
When Martin Oduor, a member of the Mathare Green Movement (MGM), attempted to conduct a tree census in the area, what he discovered was shocking.
“In Mathare alone, around 500,000 people struggle to live with dignity in an area of less than three square kilometres. When I conducted a tree census, we found out that there was only one tree for every 1,200 people,” said Oduor.
Environmental Discrimination in Nairobi
The lack of trees, he explains, is not accidental. It reflects a deeper problem of environmental segregation in Nairobi.
To understand this inequality, Oduor says one only needs to look west from Mathare, toward the leafy suburb of Muthaiga.
“That dense wall of green separating Mathare and Muthaiga is what I refer to as environmental apartheid,” he explained.
Across Nairobi, wealthy neighbourhoods sit directly next to informal settlements. Muthaiga borders Mathare. Karen borders Kibera. Loresho borders Kangemi. Lavington borders Kawangware. These affluent areas rely heavily on labour from nearby poor communities, yet remain physically and environmentally separated from them.
This divide is clearly visible from above. Nairobi’s green spaces form a belt around wealthy neighbourhoods, while poorer areas remain bare.
Author and writer Oyunga Pala explains that Nairobi’s neighbourhoods become poorer the further east one travels from the city centre.
“There are hardly any public spaces in the eastern parts of the city, and the few that exist are dusty, with little or no greenery,” stated Ounga.
The city’s best-maintained public green spaces- City Park, Karura Forest, and the Nairobi Arboretum, are all located in or near affluent areas and have limited access for low-income residents.
Green Spaces in Nairobi are a Reminder of Colonialism
According to Oyunga, trees in Nairobi’s wealthy neighbourhoods are not just about beauty or comfort. They are a reminder of colonial privilege.
Between 1906 and 1926, Nairobi was deliberately planned to serve white settlers. About 80 per cent of residential land was reserved for Europeans, while Africans were pushed to the outskirts of the city to provide labour.
“The city was divided into two parts, Well-serviced areas for Europeans and Asians, and neglected, overcrowded housing for Africans,” Oyunga explained.
One half of Nairobi received proper roads, water, sanitation, and greenery. The other half was ignored.
Although Kenya gained independence in 1963, these planning structures did not change. Formerly white neighbourhoods such as Karen, Lavington, and Muthaiga were taken over by wealthy Africans and Asians, who maintained the same unequal system instead of dismantling it.
As a result, poor residents continued to be excluded from basic services. Informal settlements expanded rapidly as people migrated from rural areas to Nairobi in search of work and better opportunities, although many ended up trapped in slums.
“Because formal housing was not provided, informal settlements developed outside the law,” Oyunga said. “These left residents vulnerable to abuse, exploitation, and frequent violations of their rights.”
Today, these historical injustices still shape Nairobi. Unfair land ownership and poor urban planning mean that about 70 per cent of the city’s four million residents live on just five per cent of Nairobi’s land.
In places like Mathare, planting a tree is no longer just an environmental act. It is a statement, a demand for dignity, justice, and the right to live.
