By now, many Kenyans, especially Nairobians, have returned from their annual pilgrimage to Mombasa. The coastal city renowned for its rich history and vibrant Swahili culture is more than just a destination. It is a sanctuary and a refuge from the rush of Nairobi life. Yet, as the city continues to grow and modernise, the spirit of “Mombasa Raha” is slowly eroding. As new high-rise buildings come up along the coastline, luxury apartments and commercial centres are replacing traditional Swahili homes. For those of us who have deep roots in Mombasa, this transformation goes beyond the city’s physical appearance; it is undermining our cultural and personal connections to this place. Once defined by distinctive Swahili architecture, narrow alleyways and quiet neighbourhoods where life moved slowly yet purposefully, the city’s centuries-old landscape is now rapidly changing.
The clash between progress and cultural heritage often results in painful outcomes, particularly the loss of family land and historical homes. The question remains: At what cost are we changing our city? Are we sacrificing the very things that make Mombasa unique in the pursuit of “modern” progress?
Mombasa stands as a prime example of the conflict between modernisation and heritage. As the transformation takes place, I can’t fail to notice the constant hum of construction around me, “the sound of modernity”, so to speak. Everywhere I walk in Mombasa, I hear the clattering of concrete mixers, the pounding of hammers on steel and the heavy thud of trucks unloading sand and cement. But beneath this symphony of progress, there is another sound – the sound of dispossession.
The transformation of Mombasa is not just a clash between modernity and heritage; it is a deeper clash of values. It pits those who fail to respect and treasure the rich cultural heritage of the Swahili community against those driven by the pursuit of profit at the expense of people.
The dispossession of Swahili land in Mombasa is driven by a combination of greed, corruption and ignorance. Motivated by profit, powerful developers and investors exploit vulnerable local communities. It began in the late 20th century when external investors began acquiring large tracts of land, particularly in areas like Majengo. This marked the beginning of a series of modern land dispossessions that have only intensified over the years. The advent of devolved government did little to stop this process; rather, it perpetuated the pattern of betrayal, with local leaders who should have protected the communities’ land rights turning a blind eye. This influx of wealth created a significant power imbalance as local Swahili families who had lived on the land for generations were unable to compete financially. This trend continued with the introduction of devolved government where corruption within county government institutions has persisted and successive administrations have neglected to implement and enforce effective urban planning. For instance, the county’s spatial plans which are meant to guide development, have often been nothing more than pledges on paper, leaving the interests of the local community sidelined. Additionally, the lack of legal awareness and education among the residents makes them easy targets for exploitation, further deepening the cycle of land dispossession and cultural erasure.
Globally, land dispossession is dramatically reshaping the landscape, with powerful external actors – corporations, real estate developers and sometimes governments – acquiring land for lucrative projects. Here in Mombasa, contemporary land dispossession has taken on a new, more sophisticated form largely driven by corporate interests, real estate development and speculation. Real estate investments have become central strategies for wealth accumulation, transforming land into nothing more than a commodity that is bought, sold and redeveloped for financial gain often with little regard for its historical, monetary, cultural, environmental or social value.
Investors, often backed by powerful financial resources, target valuable land for real estate projects, commercial developments or luxury housing. They capitalise on the vulnerabilities of local landowners particularly in historically marginalised or less-informed communities using aggressive tactics such as offering lowball prices, exploiting the lack of legal knowledge or taking advantage of familial pressures. Although it may seem that communities are willingly selling their land, the reality is far more complex. Today, many Swahili families in Mombasa fall victim to the predatory tactics of businessmen who often prey on their vulnerability by using deceptive tactics whether by exploiting familial ties or playing on economic pressures. These strategies create an illusion of voluntary sale but in reality, the landowners are coerced into decisions they do not fully understand, resulting in deep feelings of betrayal and dispossession.
The allure of quick money from private investors is proving too strong as these transactions occur under duress or without a full understanding of the land’s true worth. These developers offer money that seems tempting in the short term but fails to reflect the land’s true value. The deals are typically made in secrecy, further exploiting families who may not fully comprehend the legal implications of the agreements they sign. In some cases, relatives or acquaintances co-opted by these investors help broker the transactions, leading to deep feelings of betrayal and loss.
Unfortunately, these injustices have been compounded by legal frameworks that have historically deprived many of our poor fathers and grandfathers of their land rights. For generations, local communities – often unaware of their legal entitlements or the complexities of land transactions – have become vulnerable to exploitation further entrenching the cycle of dispossession and deepening the historical inequalities in land ownership.
The loss of ancestral land has plunged many Swahili families in Mombasa into deep poverty, as they are forced to abandon their homes and livelihoods. After selling their ancestral land, many local communities are compelled to relocate to already overcrowded and underdeveloped areas that often lack sufficient infrastructure, social services and economic opportunities, providing little space or resources to accommodate the influx of displaced families. The impact not only disrupts their ties to their heritage but also magnifies the challenges of adjusting, making it even more difficult for them to rebuild their lives in these already strained environments. Fr. Gabriel Dolan poignantly asks in his book Undaunted: Stories of Freedom in a Shackled Society: “What is more sacred or important than having a place that you can call home? Can any nation claim to be developed when its citizens sleep in streets, bus parks and railway stations? How can a family plan for its future when it is continuously threatened with evictions?” This question summarises the pain of those who are displaced, struggling not only with the loss of a physical space but with the destruction of their very way of life.
One of the key aspects often overlooked in these land transactions is that, for many families in Mombasa, land is not just an economic asset but an anchor of identity, heritage and livelihood. Losing ancestral land severs ties to history, culture and community. Unlike the elites who view land as a means of wealth accumulation, Swahili communities see it as a way of life.
The pain of dispossession
In Mombasa where I originate from, I have seen firsthand how the pressure of rapid development reshapes not only the physical space but also the lives of those who call this city home. Local residents, many of whom are part of deep-rooted Swahili communities who have lived on these lands for generations now find themselves forced to make painful decisions. This situation is, however, not a new phenomenon but rather an extension of historical patterns of land dispossession stretching back to the colonial era. During this period, land was systematically taken from local communities with little regard for their cultural ties to the land and redistributed to foreign settlers or elites. These colonial practices of land dispossession laid the foundation for contemporary land injustices where the legacies of colonialism continue to influence the political dynamics of land ownership and distribution.
At the heart of this issue is the imbalance in negotiating power. In many land transactions, particularly within vulnerable or less informed communities, the power is tilted heavily in favour of wealthier investors or developers. In my family’s case, my father, in an effort to secure our family’s future, entered into an agreement to sell a portion of his family land to someone within my mother’s family. The understanding was that in return, we would receive an entire unit of the new modern building being developed. However, the reality of the deal was far from what was promised. What was undertaken verbally did not mirror the formal sale agreement. The land was sold for much less than its true market price and instead of the security we had been promised, we ended up with far less – an unfinished structure and only half of the unit that was originally agreed upon.
The deal, which was meant to offer us better housing ultimately left us with nothing but unmet promises and a sense of betrayal – promises that were not backed by full transparency or an understanding of the legal implications. Meanwhile, the commercial spaces on the ground floor seem to be flourishing, with the rental income from these properties now benefiting some of those who were involved in acquiring part of the land – individuals who were not part of our original landholding family. It’s a bitter irony. The very land that once provided us with a sense of security and belonging now serves to enrich others, leaving us struggling to pick up the pieces. Watching my parents struggle with the broken promise was the hardest part. It felt like our family’s hardship was being used to fuel the prosperity of others and that sting of injustice is something we will carry with us for years to come**.**
Sadly, my family’s experience is not unique. It highlights a reality and entrenched inequality that governs many land deals in urban centres like Mombasa. The details and terms of the agreement signed by my father with the other parties involved were set by people who held more knowledge and influence in the transaction. Many families, particularly in urban centres like Mombasa find themselves dispossessed not by their own choice but by a combination of design and default. Dispossession by design occurs when powerful developers, investors or even family members intentionally exploit a lack of knowledge. Dispossession by default, on the other hand, happens when individuals unknowingly fall victim to these forces, unable to protect their interests due to ignorance or vulnerability. This dual reality leaves families in a perpetual state of loss.
Impact of land loss
Unlike the overt land dispossession of the colonial era, modern-day dispossession is more subtle because it is often shrouded in the language of development and progress. The new luxury apartments, commercial spaces and high-end developments attract investors seeking profit and they pass the cost of the developments onto tenants in the form of exorbitant rents. The true beneficiaries of these land deals are the wealthy investors, not the displaced families or local renters. With limited affordable housing options, local renters are forced to shoulder the financial burden of urban development. For instance, rent increases to unsustainable levels, thus putting a strain on their livelihoods and making it difficult for them to maintain a stable home. In this way, modern-day land dispossession does not just affect landowners, it also has a cascading impact on tenants who are caught in a system that prioritises profits over people. The consequences of modern land grabbing are thus both immediate and long-term, perpetuating cycles of social displacement**,** economic hardship and cultural loss.
Additionally, the rapid expansion of urban developments has outpaced the ability of local infrastructure to accommodate the growth. In Majengo area where I was born and raised, for instance, the rapid mushrooming of high-rise buildings has led to significant challenges for the community as these developments often outpace the local infrastructure. Many of these structures are rising in areas that were previously home to low-density housing leading to overcrowding. As a result, the area is now becoming overcrowded as more people are squeezed into spaces that were not originally designed to accommodate such high numbers.
The unchecked power of corporate interests has profound, long-lasting consequences. For Mombasa, the stakes are not just about land but about preserving the spirit of a city that has stood for centuries as a symbol of Swahili culture. As a legal professional, I can attest to the striking power imbalance in today’s land transactions. The devastating consequences stem from the legal vulnerabilities that many communities face, leaving them powerless and exposed to exploitation. As a result, when these communities are displaced, they lose their land, their homes and their cultural heritage.
The need for accountability in urban regeneration
As gentrification takes hold, many of these families are being dispossessed to make way for the redevelopment of land into commercial or luxury projects. There is, therefore, a need for greater governance and accountability in urban regeneration. Developers and investors must not be permitted to act without oversight in their pursuit of profit at the cost of local communities. Policymakers must also ensure that progress does not come at the expense of vulnerable communities. Clear legal frameworks, greater oversight and inclusive urban planning are essential to protect families from exploitation and exclusion.
However, the responsibility for safeguarding Mombasa’s cultural heritage and the rights of its people does not rest solely with political leaders and government institutions. The so-called indigenous elders of the Swahili community also have a pivotal role to play in this process. These elders – custodians of our culture, values and history – must step forward and take an active role in defending our heritage against the pressures of modern development. Their leadership, rooted in a deep understanding of our shared history, is essential in bridging the gap between tradition and progress. They are the moral compass for many Swahili families who find themselves at a crossroads in a rapidly changing world.
Traditional elders have historically been the guardians of not only cultural practices but also the community’s land and social structure. Their voice and influence can provide much-needed guidance, both to local communities and to policymakers, ensuring that development is not only about physical infrastructure, it is also about preserving the soul of Mombasa. As communities face increasing pressure from developers, these elders should be at the forefront, advocating for the protection of Swahili land and promoting awareness about the importance of heritage preservation. They have a duty to help their people understand the implications of land deals and to ensure that their voices are heard in the halls of government.
The solution also lies in empowering communities and educating them on their rights. With inclusive planning and equitable policies, we can ensure that Mombasa’s future reflects its rich past while offering opportunities for all. Without stronger regulations, more inclusive urban planning and greater support for vulnerable communities, the cycle of land dispossession will continue and will further displace and disenfranchise those who are least equipped to fight back.