Friends of River Ezava-Forezava

There are stories that arrive with noise, grand launches, public applause, dramatic announcements and then there are stories that rise almost unnoticed, slowly gathering weight until one day you realize something substantial has been built. Gregory Kamadi ’s journey belongs firmly to the second category. It is not the kind of story that begins in boardrooms or city skyscrapers. It begins in Vihiga County, a small village in Mungoma location called Madzuu, far from the perceived centers of opportunity, in the quiet spaces where ambition often has to survive without an audience. Growing up in Vihiga meant growing up with a front-row seat to limitation. Technology was not something casually woven into everyday life, and access to the latest gadgets or digital tools felt more like a distant privilege than an ordinary expectation. Yet what could have easily bred resignation instead produced observation. Gregory developed an unusual habit early on: he noticed what was missing. He noticed how...

Scrolling through Facebook, I landed on a video featuring a lesson-laden young man renditioning to popular singer, Harrie Richie's new song, Bella without abandon. He was shaking hips, shoulders and all other body parts you we don't have to mention.  I laughed. Hard. I assumed I had stumbled upon a talented older citizen who had finally decided to join social media. It took me a full three minutes to realize that the "old woman" was actually a young, bearded man named  James Chiko —or as the internet knows him,  Kukhu Vaida Apembo . That shock? That is the secret sauce of James' genius. When you meet James in person, he is disarmingly charming. A young, handsome creative from Vihiga County with a bright smile and an easy laugh. But watch him for a few minutes, and something magical happens. The posture shifts. The gait slows into a deliberate wobble. The voice cracks into a higher, nagging pitch. In an instant, James disappears, and  Kukhu Vaida —the critical, noi...

There is a certain kind of strength you only learn when you have to trek home in the rain with empty pockets and a full heart, and Sharon Lianguluti knows that strength intimately. She is a daughter of Ematsuli Village, tucked deep into the stoic, lush greenery of North East Bunyore Ward in Emuhaya Subcounty, Vihiga County. But her journey back to this soil was not a straight line. It was a winding, muddy, hopeful road that began long before her university days, in the quiet seed of childhood mentorship. She still remembers how her father added her to a group that supported girls with self-awareness sessions and sanitary towels. That small act planted something deep inside her. By the time she reached Form Four, the organization needed more mentors, and Sharon qualified. Even then, barely a teenager, she was learning that community development is not a career you choose late in life—it is a call you answer early, often before you fully understand its weight. After secondary school, she...

So LET'S FACE IT! There is a quiet unease that has been spreading across Kenya’s farms and community lands, and it has everything to do with a piece of legislation that most people have not yet read but are already learning to fear. The Forest Conservation and Management (Amendment) Bill 2025, sponsored by Hon. Kimani Ichung’wah, arrives with a noble mission: to strengthen forest governance, promote commercial forestry, and align Kenya with global carbon markets. On paper, these are worthy goals. But on the ground, where farmers wake up before dawn to tend shambas they may or may not legally own, and where communities have watched well-intentioned policies curdle into bureaucratic nightmares, this Bill raises a very simple question: why must something as common-sense as growing a tree become so complicated? Tree growing is not a technical mystery. It is not a privilege reserved for those who can afford lawyers or navigate government portals. It is one of the most universally unders...

Some people wait for change to arrive. Others, like Mercy Kasaya, roll up their sleeves and go find it in the trenches of their own community. Meet Mercy—a fiery Political Science graduate from Maseno University who isn’t just studying leadership from textbooks. She’s living it. Breathing it. Fighting for it. And she’s doing it all at the grassroots level, one conversation, one sanitary pad, and one rescued dream at a time. The "What" – Rewriting the Rules of Advocacy Mercy doesn’t wait for a title to lead. Her office is the community. Her tools? Empathy, education, and relentless action. Here’s what she’s doing right now to shake things up: For the Boys:   Mercy is on a mission to pull young men back from the edge. She runs hard-hitting mentorship sessions focused on one thing: breaking the grip of drug and substance abuse. She teaches discipline, resilience, and purpose-driven living—giving boys a roadmap away from addiction and toward a future they can be proud of. For th...

There’s a hashtag that’s been bouncing around our timelines for the past month. Tuko Kadi. It sounds bold. It sounds ready. It sounds like we, the youth of Kenya, have finally woken up. But after a long conversation with the very people on the ground—the IEBC youth agents sacrificing their time, their shoes, and their dignity to get us registered—I’m no longer sure what “Tuko Kadi” really means. Because the truth? It might just be a vibe. And a vibe doesn’t vote. Online, we’re generals. We retweet the civic education graphics. We quote “siasa ni namba.” We scream about bad leadership, unemployment, and the high cost of living. The algorithm loves us. But offline? I sat with five IEBC youth agents working 12-hour days under a makeshift tent. No transport reimbursement. No lunch allowance. No sign of the “enhanced program” funds they were promised weeks ago. Yet they still walk door-to-door, sweating in the sun, pleading with young people to just take five minutes and register. And what ...