The Eternal Struggle Over the Land of the Maasai
Sofia Jernroth
In Kenya, where land policy is riddled with corruption, the Maasai tribe fights to reclaim the lands taken from them during colonial times. In southwestern Kajiado, Maasai land, where wild animals are protected more fiercely than Kenya's indigenous people, defending your land can cost you your life.
“This is my wife, and this is my home! You have no right to take them from me!” The camera sweeps over the crowd in the night, spotlight illuminating hostile faces, censored expletives, and the furious man now seized by four hands. The spotlight flickers, settling on her, a nine-year-old Maasai girl, unprepared for marriage. “She could have been a female member of the legislative house one day,” roars human rights activist Joshua Kapota in the news clip’s shaky footage.
Five Maasai gather around a 1990s TV set in Hotel Emanuel, at the heart of Bisil. Tonight, another child has been rescued from the bonds of marriage in Kajiado district. Colors seem saturated in Kenya, despite the African sun scorching away the deepest hues. A man throws coins on the table and steps out into the heat. The news report fades and is forgotten. What is a nine-year-old child in a sea of ten, eleven, or fourteen-year-olds who have always been sold for two cows to forty-year-old neighbors?
In Bisil, dented metal shacks, red clay huts, and polished stone three-story buildings jostle together. Here, the sparse lifestyle meets newcomers in gray suits and dusty leather shoes. In every crevice of the city, between shacks and in doorways, women hawk fabrics, children carry their siblings, and dogs curl up in corners. Bisil is like any Kenyan town but with one exception: it sits on Maasai land. Yet, the Maasai do not build cities.
“Do you see those large complexes and hotels? They are built on our land,” says Joseph Momposhi, the Maasai man I met three years ago. Then, he was perched on a mountain, teaching me to listen to the silence. Now, he straps rubber cords around the luggage on the motorcycle that will take us through Maasai land. Momposhi speaks with the certainty of a preacher, but his eyes narrow, and his voice softens when he contemplates his people’s future. “They are taking our land,” he mutters, tightening his backpack. “Hop on. The only way to see all of Maasai land is by motorcycle.”
We won’t see all of Maasai land, for the Maasai no longer live in their ancestral lands. Thus, our journey begins on the outskirts of Kajiado, three kilometers from the Tanzanian border. We are far from the old Maa nation: the country that existed before Kenya. “That nation was patrolled daily by eight hundred Maasai warriors, that was in 1852,” Momposhi declares.
The Maasai tribe's history begins in the early 19th century, descendants of the Nilotic and Hamitic peoples of East and North Africa in prehistoric times. The Maasai, along with their closest kin, the Kalenjin and Samburu, inherited many traditions from the groups that dominated the area before them. Before the 19th century, the Maasai were scattered nomads focused on pastoralism, but two Maasai leaders—Laibon and Enkidong—managed to unite the group. The great Maa nation was built on a system governed by elders and founded on warrior traditions. The territory stretched from Lake Turkana near the Kenya-Ethiopia border, through the fertile highlands and the East African Rift Valley to central Tanzania. The tribe was formidable. Even slave traders building their empire outside Maasai land were deterred by Maasai warriors. The nation flourished, and its territory expanded. But in 1895, the British arrived.
After two hours on the motorcycle, the chaos of Bisil fades, and the dry lands open before us. Bushes huddle in the heat, and acacia trees tower over the grasslands. Nearly a million people are threatened by famine in the drought sweeping the country. We see red clouds from the hundreds of cows and goats moving in search of greener pastures. And we meet their herders: the Maasai.
After half a day's travel, I sit in the shade of a tree alongside Sumare Kispan, a man passionately interested in Kenya's land issues. This morning's topic, urbanization, lingers in the air. “It was clearly written,” Kispan says, emphasizing the word "clear," “that the land the British took from the Maasai would be returned to them after a hundred years.”
“It was clearly written,” Kispan says, emphasizing the word "clear," “that the land the British took from the Maasai would be returned to them after a hundred years.”
Kispan, like many Maasai, lives on the outskirts of Kajiado. A few years ago, all his 150 goats were killed by hyenas, a loss valued at about six thousand euros overnight. Kispan is among the hundreds of Maasai who have lost much to the game parks bordering Kajiado.
He sits before me, discussing the contracts established between the British and the Maasai in the early 20th century, the so-called Anglo-Maasai agreements. In 1904, the British persuaded the Maasai to sign a contract that would relocate the indigenous people from the northern parts of the East African Rift Valley. The colonizers began farming the fertile land. Another contract was signed in 1911, aiming to completely displace the Maasai from the White Highlands. “Do you think the Maasai were tricked? Or did they choose to save their people instead of retaliating with weapons?” “The Maasai have always prioritized preserving the group, and we still do today. We have strong traditions taught at a young age to strengthen and preserve the group, more important than anything else.”
We don't know if the Maasai signed the contract to preserve their group, but one thing we do know. Two years after the second contract was established, the tribe took the matter to court and lost. This caused the Maasai nation to be divided and lose a third of its original land. In 1932, the Maasai submitted a petition, and in 1962, a plea to the Kenyan constitutional conference in London. But nothing happened. In Laikipia district, for example, 75 percent of the land is still owned by the British. “Nothing happened. Why would the Kenyan government keep a promise the colonizers gave us,” Kispan sighs resignedly.
But something did happen. In 2004, a hundred years after the first contract was signed, the Maasai in Laikipia protested. One died and four were injured in the protests. Furthermore, the protests were followed by raids and lootings of Maasai villages by Kenyan security forces. About three hundred Maasai gathered for a protest march that spanned 40 kilometers, from Magadi to central Nairobi. The signs in the protest read, "A hundred years is enough!" and "We demand our land back from the British!" “This is a contentious issue in Kenya. No one wants to talk about the land conflict, and if you ask questions, it leads to complications,” Kispan continues. Moreover, nature reserves and game parks are prioritized over the indigenous people.
When I ask my questions, I am not met with negative attitudes, but certainly with passionate feelings. The once magnificent dominion of the Maa nation does not silence among the indigenous people. The leadership in Kajiado is more cautious. Governor Joseph Ole Lenku and Deputy Governor Martin Moshisho Martine also want the land taken by the colonizers to be returned to the Maasai and are calling for President Uhuru Kenyatta's support. They have long been dealing with these issues, and some land has already been returned. Listening to Kispan, the returned land is minimal and almost symbolic – but Ole Lenku aims higher: the regions of Niavasha, Molo, Nakuru, Mau, Narok, Kedong, and Ndabibi should be returned to their original owners. Maasai leaders demand that the national land commission focuses on the land issue, the main cause of ethnic conflicts in Kenya. So far, the topic has been left out of political debate, precisely because the issue is, as Kispan says, contentious. “The issue of the Maasai's original land is something I prefer not to discuss in depth. It's a question that affects not just one person or group but the entire government of our country,” says Martine.
Deputy Governor Martine is diplomatic and eloquent. He is 35 years old and has held his position for two years. Behind Martine's massive desk hangs the customary portrait of President Kenyatta in a gold frame. You can find it in all schools, restaurants, and homes in Kenya. Even in the most remote hut in Kajiado, the republic's president hangs on the mud wall. To get their land back, the leadership in Kajiado needs to be on good terms with the national government. There is a caution in Martine and Ole Lenku when it comes to the land issue. “But I can say this much: if the government were willing to honor the recommendations from the commission they themselves appointed, the Maasai would be compensated for the lands they have lost.”
Yet, the British agrarian empire continues. “Our land faces a variety of threats right now,” continues Martine. “People from outside move here and urbanize the areas. You see a new building rise every morning, and it's Maasai land being invaded, but we need our areas as grazing lands for the animals. Without land, our livelihood disappears. Without it, our culture would be completely destroyed.”
On land politics, I speak further with Theresa Heasman, a British woman who moved to Kenya from London in the 1990s, where she worked as a lawyer. Due to her involvement in land politics, she has been the target of two assassination attempts. “The Truth Commission's report, what a waste of time and money! They said that 99 percent of the testimonies in the report came from witnesses, but the report is not carefully enough prepared, and the stories are one-sided.”
She has spent years trying to prove that her organization owns the land that, according to the report, should fall to an agrarian community in the area. “Two assassination attempts it cost me. And this is just over a small piece of land. You can imagine the consequences if one tries to reclaim Maasai land.”
Just a few hours after the truth report was published, the people were divided into two camps: critics and supporters. Critics argued that the report was a threat to national security. Some argued that there was nothing new to read in the report. According to Sekou Owino, a journalist specializing in legal issues in Kenya, the two camps had one thing in common: no one had read the report.
Momposhi and I leave before dawn. Ahead of us is a nine-hour journey along narrow trails and sandy roads. This is how my traveling companion says Maasai land should be seen: far from the exploited Kenya. But today, we must follow the highway between Naivasha and Nairobi for a while. A green Land Cruiser passes us, and in the window sits a white man in a beige hat with a camera in hand. He meets my gaze and widens his eyes. At the same moment I meet his eyes, the motorcycle wobbles, and Momposhi slows down. It's our third puncture. Then follows a whole line of cars packed with tourists. “What's going on?” I ask, referring to the load of tourists traveling in the same direction. A man busy applying glue to the motorcycle's inner tube looks at me as if I've just woken up. “They're going to Masai Mara. They're tourists,” he says.
Of course. This is the road to Masai Mara, Kenya's world-famous game reserve. Momposhi and I circle the park on sunburnt grasslands. On the outskirts of the reserve, the Maasai live in harmony with the wild animals. “The Maasai have always lived in harmony with the animals. You see that the animals flock to the Maasai's farms because they know they are safe there. The game parks cut off the Maasai's grazing lands,” says Momposhi.
We stop in the middle of nowhere. There's only sand, grass, and a few scattered bushes. In front of us stand three men; a Maasai, a police officer, and a man in camouflage. A large patrol vehicle is parked diagonally across the road, and the men are arguing. “What are you doing out here?” the policeman shouts in greeting. Momposhi explains that the only way to see Maasai land is from a motorcycle. They laugh heartily. “What are you doing out here?” I ask, in turn. And far out they are. Here, cars do not drive, and people do not move. This is just a passage from yellow grass to greener grass. “We're keeping it safe!” says the man in camouflage, explaining how they patrol the lands regularly to ensure safety. Nice.
Before I fall asleep, I ask Momposhi about the police on the road. “The police regularly patrol areas and fine the Maasai as they pass. It can be 500 shillings per goat, and it's just bribes. Rumor has it,” Momposhi continues, now whispering even though hardly anyone can hear us, “that the landowners pay politicians who in turn bribe the police.”
It's not surprising that no one wants to bring up the land issue. Every government prosecutes the previous government, and powerful people pay large sums to politicians' election campaigns. A lot of money is made on the land that the Maasai should be compensated for.
The African night lightens. The women and children of Oloirimirimi have been awake since sunrise and stand milking the goats. The donkeys scream, the goats bleat, and the weaver birds guard their grass-covered nests hanging in the acacia tree's barbed wires. A child sings in the distance, "Remember me, remember me, O Almighty God." Around the collective consisting of three Maasai huts winds a high and tightly woven fence of thorns and acacia branches that keeps the predators away. Inside the yard lies another thorn crown surrounding the Maasai's white gold, the goats. The women bring in the goat milk, and soon smoke rises from the huts in the cool morning air.
We sit in the cool shade of a mud hut's roof and watch life begin anew. The sun now stands high in the sky. The goats bleat as they move in unison towards the waterhole, and the weaver birds have now fallen silent. “Imagine what the Maa nation once looked like on the lush highlands,” Momposhi muses dreamily. Then he is silent, looking out into the emptiness. He has the same worried eyes as when he looked at the buildings rising in Bisil. Momposhi looks at me, smiles gently, and wonders: “Did you know the word 'Kenya' comes from the Maasai language? It means future.”
