The makuti is unforgiving, but neither are the bad habits of those who live on a land that can no longer afford to be “wild” and secluded.
The dry palm fronds, woven together for centuries, shield against the African sun and the monsoon rains, keep the house cool, and appeal to the tourist’s imagination of those arriving on the Kenyan coast in search of picture-perfect Africa. But all it takes is a spark, a windy night, a short circuit, or perhaps simply fate, and that symbol of paradise turns into a fuse.
Yesterday’s fire in the Fortamu area of Watamu, as well as the smaller but still devastating one in Malindi a few hours later—with millions going up in smoke in a matter of hours—once again raises a question that everyone has been avoiding for years: do makuti roofs still make sense in coastal towns that have now become small urban centers?

The problem with makuti is that it’s beautiful. Beautiful to photograph, to sell in tourist brochures, to tell friends back in Europe about: “my African home with a palm-leaf roof.” Beautiful until it burns. And on the Kenyan coast, by now, it burns far too often. The fire that devastated the luxury resort and adjacent homes in the coast’s most popular tourist destination is not merely an economic tragedy: it is yet another warning ignored by a coastline that continues to want to look like a tropical village while, in the meantime, it has become a densely populated tourist suburb.
And so, once again, Watamu wakes up blackened by smoke, with the sound of wood from structures and furnishings crackling in a disturbing and relentless manner, and the surreal silence of those watching a piece of paradise reduced to ashes. This time it was Fortamu’s turn, one of the seaside resort’s most iconic residences, with those small, prestigious African castles nestled among the palm trees.
If, as it seems, the fire started in one of the “kibandas”—which elsewhere and in other languages would be called “chiringuitos”—all built of wood and makuti, often without sufficient fire safety equipment (and we could also discuss, for some, licensing, inspections, etc., but this is part of the “characteristics” of the country we’re dealing with…), there are several parallel issues to address, including the complicity and often the superficiality of many Italians in those “borderline” activities. Italians who, in part, have also financed those pockets of insecurity and highly unsustainable entertainment. Perhaps thinking that this is “the real Africa.”
Maybe it is, but the “real Africa” is also the one that burns, that takes away what you thought you had, that, if you get distracted, give up, or become a slave to it, does not forgive.
But in the end, however, every major fire inevitably brings us back to the same question that has been bouncing between Malindi and Watamu for nearly twenty years without anyone really having the courage to face it head-on: how much longer can we continue to build roofs of dried palm fronds in increasingly dense, increasingly electrified, increasingly urbanized settlements?
Because makuti is poetry, but it is also dynamite.
It originated as roofing for Swahili and Giriama rural huts. Hand-woven palm leaves—fresh, economical, perfect for letting homes breathe under the tropical sun and letting monsoon rains slide away. An ancient architectural wisdom, born of necessity and climate. Then came tourism. And with it, postcard-perfect exoticism. So the roof of the poor became the luxury of resorts. The traditional hut was transformed into a million-dollar villa. And makuti became the aesthetic hallmark of the Kenyan coast.
It’s a shame that fire doesn’t distinguish between a hut and a luxury residence; in fact, one often gets the impression that it favors the former, as an ironic line from Renzo Arbore’s cult film “FFSS” put it when discussing Irpinia: “Have you ever heard of an earthquake in Saint Tropez?”

On the Swahili coast, however, fate seems to prove right those who believe Africa is one. Since 2008, when the Portale degli Italiani was launched, we have reported at least twelve major fires between Malindi and Watamu. Roughly one a year. Kibokoni, Palm Tree Club, Casuarina, Mapango. The most recent and devastating was the one at the Barracuda Resort, which claimed the life of Michela Boldrini, a 40-year-old Italian tourist.
And now Watamu, fortunately without any casualties. But the same pattern repeats itself every time: a spark, the ocean breeze, the makuti catching fire like a giant torch and carrying the flames from one roof to another in a matter of minutes.
In 2009, after the devastating fire in Kibokoni, the then-mayor of Malindi, Mohamed Menza, even proposed banning makuti in new construction. The proposal stalled almost immediately. Too many economic interests, too much tradition, too many people who make a living producing the woven palm-leaf tiles, whose value has even tripled over the years.
In the meantime, some have cautiously begun to change course. “Arab-style” roofs, concrete terraces, Canadian shingles. Hemingways Watamu, after a fire destroyed the restaurant and bar, opted for so-called “fake makuti,” produced in Indonesia: the same tropical aesthetic, but much slower to burn. A compromise between aesthetics and survival.
But the problem remains. Because Malindi and Watamu are no longer villages scattered along the coast as they were forty years ago. They are congested tourist towns, with residences crammed together, makeshift power lines, industrial kitchens, generators, air conditioning systems, and a constant flow of people. Continuing to use tons of dry leaves atop structures that are increasingly close together now resembles holding a lit match in the middle of a gas station.
And every time, without fail, the great theater of blame reignites. On one side are those who point to the chronic absence of a serious and timely fire department. On the other, those who continue to defend the makuti in the name of tradition and the cultural identity of the Swahili coast. In the middle, as always, lie the ashes.
The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle. Because the makuti is part of the coast’s history. Removing those roofs entirely would mean changing the very face of Malindi and Watamu. But ignoring their danger today also means pretending that nothing has changed around them.
And yet everything has changed.
The Kenyan coast continues to sell the romantic illusion of the tropical village while growing into an unplanned urban suburb, and tourists who dream of living there and wallow in their selfish mal d’Afrique often become complicit in bad habits.
 
And the makuti, which was originally intended for isolated huts in the bush or on the beach, now finds itself crammed into increasingly dense tourist neighborhoods or in unregulated beach bars on residential beaches, unwittingly becoming the best ally of fire and the negligent.
We’ll see if, after Fortamu, anyone will actually have the courage to bring the issue back to the Kilifi County Council. Or if, as always, a few weeks will pass, the high season will arrive, the tourists will return, and everyone will pretend the problem no longer exists.
Until the next fire.