Nala Bakari

Every morning, I start my day with a cup of tea, staring out over the dusty streets of Dodoma, Tanzania. The city is quieter than most, a far cry from the Maasai villages my mother once described. Though she passed away years ago, her stories live within me, threading through every decision I make.

She was a Maasai woman, fierce and proud, but she fled that life long before I was born. Family disputes, she said, forced her to seek refuge here, in the capital. I never saw her regret it, but I always sensed a longing in her voice when she spoke of the plains, the cattle, the stars.

It took me years to visit her family, my family. I still remember the first time I stepped into a Maasai village, the smell of earth and fire filling the air. I felt an immediate connection to the land, the people, the rhythm of their lives. They welcomed me, despite my Dodoma upbringing, and in time, I became their voice.

Now, at 52, I find myself walking a dangerous path. I stand in opposition to our government’s grand plans to expand Tanzania’s nature reserves. They call it progress; I call it destruction. You see, these reserves aren’t just vast, beautiful lands for tourists and foreign investors. They are the homes of the Maasai, their grazing lands, their heritage.

The government wants to push the Maasai out, to clear the land for protected areas where no one—except wealthy tourists—can set foot. It’s happening everywhere. Fences going up, villages being emptied, land being sold to those who will never understand the heartbeat of this place.

I’ve spoken out about it, loud and clear. Too loud, some say. It’s made me a target. But I can’t stay silent. The Maasai are my people, even if I didn’t grow up in their villages. Their fight is mine.

Sometimes I wonder if my mother ever imagined this for me—a life lived between two worlds, fighting for one. It’s a hard fight, lonely at times. But I keep going, because the land remembers. And I, too, remember.