Miombo: Our Silent Family Member

In retrospect, I wouldn’t say it was my best idea. But it was the least I could do under the circumstances. The best idea would have been to protest: “Do not cut down miombo, she is a member of this family.”

There is a specific tree in the middle of my mother-in-law’s compound. The story has it that the tree was planted in the 1990s by my grandfather-in-law. The roots are large—some of them snake above the ground. The bark is thick, with the circumference of a watchtower, rough enough for ants to create a trail as they carry their food supplies back and forth in preparation for the cold season. The branches stretch wide, ten strong ones shoot out with might and vigour from the trunk, with smaller ones extending from their ends. They seem to whisper to the birds, “You can bring your whole clan. We are here to support you.” The branches are forever ripe with plump leaves.

The Miombo tree, as it was popularly known, was fertile—its scientific name being Brachystegia spiciformis. Not only was it rich with leaves and shade, but it also bore witness to many hushed conversations and jokes. The dense canopy of its healthy branches inspired Musa, the compound caretaker of ten years, to construct two benches using leftover wood from the granary construction. He would relax there in the evenings while the cows grazed, chewing on grass and reflecting on his next move. Life was tough; the economic situation demanded continuous calculation.

Such calculation was impossible during the day, as Musa was busy driving the cows to graze or tending to my mother-in-law’s maize, beans, and cabbage farmland. Hunger would set in around lunchtime, clouding his thoughts. The pangs were demanding, all-consuming. But by evening, after everyone was fed—including the cows—the air was cool and the mind free. And now he no longer sat on the grass but on a handmade bench—his bench.

The bench soon became popular with villagers visiting my mother-in-law, who was a nurse. Whether they came for advice or medicine, they would wait on Musa’s bench. Elders from the village, including my father-in-law, would gather under the tree to catch up. Miombo had become a silent member of the family.

But the tree was massive. Its branches stretched to my side of the compound, about 200 meters from my mother-in-law’s house, where my husband and I had built our home. Its only mistake was shedding too many leaves, especially in dry seasons. The drier the weather, the more leaves it released. 

When I visited over Christmas, I spent half the afternoon sweeping. One of my brothers-in-law passed by and said sympathetically,

“You may need to sweep again tomorrow. Miombo is notorious.”

I laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. But miombo did not disappoint. By morning, it had dropped another fresh layer of dried leaves. We were tired.

That hot Christmas afternoon still lingers in my memory. My father-in-law, his two brothers, and Musa gathered under the miombo. Ironically, they were there to discuss cutting it down to keep the compound clean. In this patriarchal community in western Kenya, tree-cutting decisions rested with the men. Musa was never invited to the elders’ meetings, so he knew the decision had likely already been made. His presence only meant the meeting was about execution—he would be the one to carry it out. 

Uncle Juma, the eldest, started.

“This is our father’s tree, but we must cut it down. It’s too much clutter for the compound, and the leaves are dirtying our roofs.”

My father-in-law sighed. The women also want a clean compound, and it will save them time sweeping the compound daily. The shade is good, but we have to bring it down.

“Musa,” he continued, “where can we hire a power saw?”

On the day miombo was felled, two things happened:

First, I shed a tear. The process took all day—power saws and machetes screamed and hacked. I’ve hated the sound of a power saw ever since I was a child. Back in primary school, I couldn’t concentrate whenever trees were cut nearby—it felt like death. 

For a tree to grow requires the patience of a grandfather—quietly nurturing it, steady through the seasons, trusting that time will reveal its beauty and prowess. I felt a deep sadness. I get attached to things easily, and the empty space left behind would ache every day. Whenever the afternoon sun hit us hard, I would remember miombo’s shade and miss it.

Second, my husband and I bought two seedlings. One was a fruit tree—an avocado—to plant near our house. The other was to replace miombo. Our only requirement? A tree that sheds fewer leaves to avoid suffering the same fate. And that’s how I attempted to make this world a better place.