I grew up in a rural setting, together with my siblings, under the care of our elderly grandmother. Life was modest, sometimes difficult.
One of my earliest memories of “development” arriving at our doorstep came in the form of a loud DT motorbike ridden by Mr Ndung’u, the government’s agriculture extension officer, supporting smallholder farmers with knowledge, skills, and sometimes seedlings to plant.
I remember one time he brought us tree seedlings, but my elderly grandmother, burdened with caring for three young children, struggling to fetch enough water, and navigating the relentless grip of poverty, couldn't manage to plant them.
Days later, we heard the familiar roar of Mr Ndung’u’s motorbike approaching. In a panic, my grandmother gathered us all and hid, to avoid the shame of explaining why the seedlings had not been planted.
I was too young to understand the significance of that moment, but now, as I reflect on it, I see it clearly. That small act of hiding was not about laziness or resistance, but about helplessness, exhaustion, and fear of circumstances beyond one’s control.
It was a quiet protest against systems that often fail to understand the realities of the people they are meant to serve.
This memory has resurfaced often in my work in sustainability and climate action, reminding me that ambitious goals like achieving food security, increasing tree cover, or meeting climate targets, can fall flat if we don't first acknowledge and address the social and economic realities of the people at the centre of these issues.
In the Global North, the word “village” often evokes a sense of choice: peaceful living, or even retirement luxury. In the Global South, “village” too often means surviving on the edge. The typical smallholder farmer works with rudimentary tools, receives little to no technical support, and faces climate shocks without a safety net. Farming is not a lifestyle choice, it’s a necessity.
We must stop treating rural communities as blank canvases for intervention. Before bringing tree seedlings, we must ask: is there water to keep them alive? Is there time and labour to plant them? Does the family even have food to eat that week? Technical solutions cannot thrive where social needs are unmet.
This is not to discredit government efforts or the well-intentioned work of extension officers like Mr Ndung’u. It's a call to redesign these efforts with deeper empathy. We need climate action programs that begin with listening. Food security plans must be built not just on hectares of land but on stories of lived experience.
As we aim for a future of restored landscapes and zero hunger, let’s not forget the grandmother who hides, overwhelmed by seedlings and survival. Let’s make sure the next Mr Ndung’u brings not just solutions but solidarity. Only then can true change take root.
The writer is a climate action enthusiast and a communications specialist at Windward Communications Consultancy
