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The tide pulls back, revealing a narrow path through the glistening sand, the only way to reach Yungi by foot before the sea reclaims its passage. Here, on this quiet island off Kenya’s south coast, time seems to slow. There are no humming power lines, no flickering city lights—only the sun's golden glow filtering through the mkoma trees and the gentle rustle of mangrove leaves swaying with the wind. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, salt, and wild guavas ripening under the sky.
As dawn breaks, Yungi stirs to life—not with the sounds of traffic or machines, but with nature’s melody. Birds call from the ancient Kaya forest, their songs mingling with the steady hum of bees weaving through the dense thickets, collecting nectar from wild blossoms. This is where the land speaks, and those who have lived here long enough have learned to listen.
At the only water point in Yungi, we find Khadijah and her female friends fetching water for the upcoming apiary. Her gaze stretched beyond the shoreline, beyond the past. She has watched this land change, watched its people shift like the tides. Her children grew up here, their small feet treading the same narrow paths to school past the mangrove stand in Majoreni since the only school on the island stops at class three. Yet the children of Yungi are resilient. Even today, she watches them make their journey, barefoot and determined, returning in the afternoon clutching a gourd of water and a piece of sugarcane.
It is resilience that shaped her own story, too.
Her father introduced her to beekeeping as a child. She remembers how he would disappear into the mangroves and the nearby forest to check on his 4 log hives, returning home with golden honey that he carefully stored, waiting for a buyer who might take weeks, even months, to come. The island’s isolation made everything slow: money, trade, and progress. But after he was gone, Khadijah did not let the hives go silent. She carried on his work, harvesting from his old hives and adding two more of her own, growing them to six, and later receiving five Langstroth hives from COMRED.
At every harvest, she would fill her 20-liter jerricans with honey, waiting patiently for a buyer. For years, she sold her honey for as little as 250 KSh per kilogram, never knowing its true value. She farmed alongside beekeeping
to sustain her family, knowing she had no other choice as the eldest daughter. Beekeeping was a legacy, but survival was a duty.It wasn’t until she attended an apiculture training that she learned the truth—her honey,
processed correctly, could sell for up to 1,000 KSh per kilogram. The realization struck her like a wave against the shore.
Honey wasn’t just a tradition; it was a lifeline, a bridge to something greater.
And now she is building that bridge.
With newfound determination, she has already moved her 5 new hives to the trapping sites, preparing for a future she never imagined possible. As she speaks, her voice carries the wisdom of generations:
"Now, we are at the phase where we are building a bridge to get past the crocodiles."
It is a phrase borrowed from her training, but in her world, it means more. It is about crossing over challenges, leading her people, and making sure no one is left behind. As a matriarch, she walks ahead, and the others follow.
The women of Yungi will stop at nothing until their hives are full and their community thrives.
