Members of Komb Green Solutions clean up a section of Nairobi River in Korogocho, Nairobi, on October 10, 2024.
For decades, Nairobi has dreamt of a clean river — one that would meander through green banks and feed the city’s spirit as it once did. Plans have been drawn, budgets passed, policies drafted, and commissions sworn in. Each time, the river has stirred briefly, only to sink back under the weight of neglect.
The Nairobi River Basin Rehabilitation Project, the Nairobi River Regeneration Programme, the Michuki Park clean-up — all came with fanfare, and all faded into silence.
It seems that the city’s oldest companion, once clear and life-giving, has become its most enduring shame — a black, sluggish corridor of waste cutting through the heart of a capital that claims modernity yet lives with its filth. Each generation promises redemption, and each one fails, leaving the river to carry away not just sewage, but the city’s broken promises: a reflection of our ineptitude and bad manners.
But perhaps this failure is not accidental. Perhaps it is woven into the very fabric of Nairobi’s history — a story born in mud, raised in neglect, and shaped by the logic of convenience. To understand why every attempt to clean the Nairobi River falters, one must return to the day the city itself was born.
When the railway surveyors arrived in 1899, they were not looking for a capital; they were looking for a pause. The place they chose was flat, open, and near water. Sir Joseph Whitehouse, the railway engineer, saw in the valley not potential, but practicality. “It is the last flat ground before the climb,” he wrote, marking it as a convenient base before the ascent to Kikuyu escarpment. There were two rivers here — the Nairobi and the Mbagathi — and a few swamps fringed with papyrus. It was enough for steam engines and tents, not for a city.
The soil was black cotton, heavy and stubborn, soaking up rain and refusing to let it go. When the downpours came, the camp turned into a sea of mud; when the sun returned, it cracked into dust. Yet the camp grew. The tents became timber huts, then stone buildings. Within a decade, what began as a railway outpost had transformed into an unruly town — without drains, without order, without plan.
It was a settlement born in haste and governed by indifference. The colonial administrators did not imagine permanence; they built a frontier depot, not a future capital. When the rains fell, stormwater carved rivulets through the streets, carrying waste into the nearby river. When the rains ceased, the same streets baked into powder that filled the air. Settlers developed a peculiar ailment — a scratchy cough described in the book Malachite Lion as the “Nairobi Throat”. Still, they endured, and the town sprawled along the valley, its lifeblood the river it would one day destroy.
By 1912, the consequences of this careless growth could no longer be ignored. The town reeked. With no sewerage system, human and animal waste ran freely down open ditches, joining the rainwater that poured into the Nairobi River. The Indian bazaar — now Biashara Street — was choked with refuse. As Elspeth Huxley observed, meat hung beside human filth, vegetables were rinsed in sewage, and the same river that served as a drain provided drinking water for Africans and Indians alike.
A section of the heavily polluted Nairobi River.
When the Nairobi Sanitation Commission was appointed that year, its findings shocked even the hardened officials. “One of the irrigation trenches receives all the foul water sewage of the Indian Bazaar and surrounding district,” it reported, “and this trench is used for irrigating the market gardens where large quantities of vegetables are grown for use of the town.”
The poison was circulating — from gutter to garden, from market to mouth. Another entry read grimly: “Much of the sewage as is not absorbed by the market gardens runs directly into the river which is used for drinking and domestic purposes by Natives and Asiatics.”
Dysentery and typhoid spread through the town, claiming African lives at alarming rates. Sixteen percent of all recorded deaths among Africans were linked to waterborne disease. Yet the response was slow, almost dismissive. In the segregated city, health was a matter of race. As long as the European quarters stayed clean and dry, the sickness below was someone else’s problem.
In 1913, Price Williams, a civil engineer from Westminster, arrived to assess the town’s sanitation. He was appalled. “The precedent set up by the main town in the protectorate discharging its sewage untreated into the river would be an extremely bad one,” he warned. He recommended sedimentation tanks and continuous filters to purify the waste before release. His words, like so many after him, were filed away and forgotten.
That precedent — dumping waste into the river — hardened into practice, and practice into habit. For over a century, Nairobi has treated its river as a drain. The poison began in the colonial trenches, but it flourished in independence.
In the 1960s and 70s, the city’s leaders saw in the river not beauty but convenience. Industries sprouted along its banks: tanneries, slaughterhouses, breweries, chemical plants. They brought jobs and taxes — and waste. The Kenya Meat Commission discharged untreated effluent into the Athi.
Tanneries in Athi River and Ruaraka bled their dyes into the current. The Industrial Area, proud symbol of national progress, turned the river black.
By the 1980s, Nairobi River was dead. Fish vanished, papyrus withered, and the water, once drinkable, turned toxic. Along its banks grew informal settlements — Mathare, Mukuru, Korogocho — their tin roofs glinting over open drains. Poverty pushed people to the edge, where land was cheap and law invisible. It became the chang’aa den distillery. Here, the river became both curse and companion — washing away waste, carrying disease, returning with floods.
Each attempt to clean it has stumbled on the same stones: poverty, politics, and corruption. Bulldozers can clear a dumpsite, but they cannot erase a culture of impunity. Laws can be written, but not enforced when the polluter is powerful. And even the best intentions have been undermined by haste — by clean-ups that focus on optics, not outcomes.
In 2008, the Michuki Park project seemed a turning point. The late John Michuki, then Minister for Environment, stormed the riverside with his trademark ferocity, ordering demolitions and arrests. For a brief moment, a small part of the river sparkled, and hope fluttered. But after his death, the momentum faded, swallowed by politics and neglect. The sludge crept back.
Now, the excavators have returned. Under Governor Johnson Sakaja and President William Ruto, the Nairobi Rivers Commission is leading a new offensive — one that promises not just clean water, but a reimagined cityscape. Bulldozers have rumbled through informal dumps, industries are being audited, and riparian reserves reclaimed.
Traders sell their wares on a footbridge along Pumwani Road as Nairobi River flows below them headed towards Gikomba Market in Kamukunji on May 14, 2025.
Yet history hovers like a warning. Nairobi has tried before and failed. The question is not whether the river can be cleaned — it can — but whether it can be kept clean. Will Sakaja have the resolve to confront both the slumlord and the factory owner? Will Ruto, who speaks of environmental restoration, see this as more than a photo opportunity?
The city’s past suggests caution. Its foundations were laid in expedience, not foresight. From the first ditch that emptied into the river to the modern factory pipe, Nairobi’s instinct has been to dispose, not to preserve. To save the river, the city must unlearn itself. It must trade short-term fixes for long-term stewardship, slogans for systems, power for principle.
Other nations have done it. The Thames, once an open sewer, now hosts salmon and seals. The Rhine, fouled by industry, is swimmable again. In Seoul, the Cheonggyecheon, buried for decades beneath concrete, was exhumed and reborn, its revival sparking an urban renaissance. They succeeded not because they had cleaner rivers, but because they had cleaner consciences — leaders who refused excuses, citizens who demanded change.
Nairobi’s river can rise again, but only if its people believe it is worth saving. It cannot be restored by machinery alone; it must be protected by memory and meaning. A river is more than water — it is the pulse of a place, the keeper of its history, the measure of its soul.
If this latest crusade is to succeed, it must heal not only the river, but the mindset that poisoned it. It must remember that progress is hollow when it flows through filth, that true modernity begins with clean water. The Nairobi River, patient but weary, waits. Whether it will one day sing again depends on whether the city that silenced it can finally listen. It should cease to be a reflection of our bad manners.
John Kamau is a PhD candidate in History, University of Toronto. Email: [email protected] @johnkamau1
