Kobala, the village in Homa Bay where the dead rest in pieces

In the last decade, erratic weather patterns, fluctuating water levels, and rising temperatures have disrupted Lake Victoria's delicate ecosystem, the world's largest tropical lake.

The most immediate impact is on the water temperature. Lake Victoria's surface temperature has been rising steadily, altering the habitat of many species.

Fish, particularly those that thrive in cooler, deeper waters, are being forced to migrate to new areas within the lake, often farther from traditional fishing grounds.

This movement has thrown the once-predictable patterns into disarray.

As a result, the fish have become increasingly elusive, pushing the fishermen to the brink of desperation.

The very rhythms of nature that these communities once relied on are now betraying them, forcing a grim adaptation to survive, with devastating environmental consequences.

As the fish vanish, so too does the livelihood of those who have depended on them for generations.

Many fishermen, unable to sustain themselves, have turned to an alternative—sand harvesting. Along the shores of Lake Victoria, vast stretches of sandy beaches are being scooped up and sold to feed the construction boom in nearby towns and cities. While providing a temporary income, this shift is exacting a heavy toll on the environment and local communities.

Kobala in Homa Bay County bears the gaping wounds of sand harvesting. Large pits dot the village, homes left hanging and graves exposed.

It is not uncommon to find parts of coffins, human bones or pieces of clothes jutting out of the ground as you walk. Here, the dead rest in pieces.

"The situation in Kobala is so bad," Willis Omullo says. "This all started 15 years ago when sand harvesting became rampant. Today, at least ¾ of the village has been dug up. Even graves have not been spared."

Omullo grew up on Kobala and has seen firsthand how the landscape has changed as the insatiable hunger for sand erodes the ecosystem.

In some areas, the sand harvesting has dug lower than the lake's water level, and now vast areas of land are abandoned as the lake takes permanent residence.

"15 years ago there were eight homesteads in this area," he says, gesturing towards a large marsh area. It is overgrown with papyrus reeds, and there is a small mound of soil with a white cross.

"Yes, that is a grave," he says, pointing to the white cross. "That grave was next to a home but following years of sand harvesting and degradation, the grave the home was destroyed and the grave left hanging," he poses for a moment, looking at the solo grave.

"The families that lived here have long since left and may never return home."

It is disturbing to see the scale of the destruction and eeriness that engulfs the village. As Willis shows me around, he leads me to a partially flooded open field. Near the fence is a block of concrete, which he tells me used to be part of a headstone.

"If you look at the headstone, you can see the name of the man who was buried here. He was a pastor, buried in January of 1986. This grave here has been totally exhumed. It is not hanging," he says.

"What do you mean, totally exhumed?" I ask him. "Did his family come to get his remains or did the sand harvesters exhume him?"

"No." He says firmly. "The thing is, it is families themselves that are doing the harvesting. Not strangers. These are all family lands. So whenever you see a hanging home or vandalised grave, the family itself does it. It has become so bad that we have lost respect for the dead," he says.

A few feet from the headstone we are looking at is another block of concrete. It looks like it was part of the headstone in front of us.

"Were these two pieces connected?" I ask Willis.

"Until 15 years ago, yes. Now we don't even know if this guy's remains are still here. If they are, he is not in one piece. He is most likely in pieces. Many families around here can no longer locate the graves of their loved ones because of the sand harvesting."

As we leave the pastor's grave, an old lady walks towards us. She is on her way to the market but she wants to know why we have cameras. She only speaks Luo and so Willis explains to her what we are doing, and asks her if she would like to tell us her story. She nods.

"My name is Karen Juma Odera from Kobala sub-location," she says. "I was a sand harvester, and this is where I got the money to educate my children and even for food.

Unfortunately, I had a small parcel of land, so I exhausted it and stopped sand harvesting. When I was in the sand harvesting business, it took me four days to fill a lorry, after which I would be paid Sh1,000. My main job then was to ferry the sand to a lorry. This is what I survived on. It was not enough, but at least I got something at the end of the day," she says.

"But trouble started when the rains came. My home was flooded. There is nothing meaningful we can do now. It would have been better if we had planted food instead of digging for sand. Now, with the land destroyed, nothing grows," she says.

There was regret in her voice, a feeling that many of the locals in Kobala share. Regret for the damage they have caused their environment. Still, they feel that with fish scarce, their choices are limited.

"My name is Lucy Atieno Obuya a native from Nyakach Koguta and I got married at Kobala in 1971. I have stayed here all those years, but it's been challenging," another woman who approached us says.

"When we used to farm, we would get good returns from the farms and since people started the sand harvesting business in my home, I have suffered. There are holes all over my home. The place is flooded and our houses are flooded and others are falling. There is nowhere to stay. We are forced to move to evacuation centres. People are harvesting sand even in our homes. In the digging, nothing is spared. Sand harvesters go deep into the earth's core leaving behind a series of gaping holes and destabilising roads.

We need to stop sand harvesting in people's homes," she says. "The miners sometimes exhume dead bodies from their graves, like in that home over there. This is an offence to the dead."

I looked in the direction she pointed and saw a mound of soil, several feet above my head. But there are pieces of clothes hanging from the sides.

"That's a graveyard," Willis tells me. "Come."

We approach the mound and there are what look like pieces of wood around it.

"Those are human bones," Willis says. "The graves have been scraped clean of sand and now you can find human bones everywhere."

"Are you as a community doing anything to rectify this situation?" I ask Willis.

"You accept you have a problem that needs fixing, right?"

"Yes, we do have a problem."

"Are you doing something about it?"

"You see, our biggest challenge here is the lack of a legal framework to regulate the sand harvesting and since this degradation is driven by lack of fish, the lack of regulation makes it easy for anyone to start digging even in their homes," Willis says.

"But that aside, I am an environmentalist and a few other community members came together to start climate education. So we are telling the community about how climate change is changing the behavior of the fish and why it is important to not destroy our environment. So we have started tree-planting initiatives to rehabilitate the land. We are targeting fruit trees, particularly." He says.

Government efforts to curb sand harvesting have been met with limited success. The allure of quick profits is too strong for many, and enforcement is often lax. Experts warn that without urgent intervention, the region could reach a tipping point from which it may never recover.

The county acknowledges that there is indeed a problem and that while it may not be possible to fully restore the land to its former state, rehabilitation efforts have started.

"First thing we are doing is to develop a sustainable sand harvesting policy which is being spearheaded by our blue economy department," says Stacy Atieno, the Director of Environment & Forestry in the county. "Reforestation and the restoration of wetlands around the lake is helping mitigate the effects of sand harvesting. Trees and vegetation act as natural barriers, reducing erosion and improving water quality," she said.

"Rebuilding the lake's ecosystem will not be easy. It requires a concerted effort to combat climate change at both the local and national levels. The stakes could not be higher for the fishermen who have watched their livelihoods slip away, and for the communities now facing the dual threats of flooding and poverty. But we will not give up." Willis says.

As the radiant sun gracefully begins its descent, it casts long, stretching shadows over the tranquil, yet depleted lake. In this moment, the poignant realisation seeps into the consciousness.

The efforts to preserve Kobala evolve into a heroic struggle for survival, not solely for the fish, but for the multitude of individuals whose livelihoods hinge upon its existence. It stands as an impassioned plea for action, an urgent call for sustainable solutions, and an earnest appeal for a future wherein the abundant resources of the lake can once again nourish and sustain the lives of the communities residing along its shores.

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