Kenya is drying up again, and in certain regions the situation is already dire.
The silence that so many tourists and residents love, in the magical sunrises of the counties of Turkana, Mandera, Garissa, Wajir, and Marsabit, is not the romantic silence of safaris, the kind that is good for documentaries. It is the silence of things coming to an end. Of grass that does not grow. Of water that does not come out of public taps, the ones you walk 10 kilometers to get. Of cowbells that no longer ring because the cows cannot walk and collapse exhausted.
After one of the driest rainy seasons in decades, at the end of 2025, the drought decided to change its map. It was no longer content with the north, those lands that have always lived with dust as an uncomfortable relative. No. This time, it expanded its playing field. In addition to the aforementioned counties, it also took over the coast: Kilifi, Kwale, Tana River, and the usually green interior: Kitui, Kajiado, Makueni.
Areas that, until yesterday, felt relatively safe.
A sort of promotion to the Serie A of suffering.

According to the World Health Organization, between October and December 2025, only 30-60% of normal rainfall fell. In some parts of the east of the country, it was the driest season since 1981. Forty years of memory wiped out by distracted clouds.
In short, the rain pretended nothing had happened.
And when the rain pretends nothing has happened, everything else happens in Kenya.
The National Drought Disaster Management Authority was well aware of this, having photographed a red alert situation in February 2025. Or rather, ‘phase three, phase four, emergency phase’, as the official reports say. Behind those cold numbers, however, there were already 2.2 million people in acute food insecurity. People who were eating less, worse, when there was food.
And about 266,000 already in a real emergency.
Numbers that don't make noise. But they make people hungry.

The assessments, made with the support of the Kenya Red Cross, told the same story: lack of rain, failed harvests, pests, overpriced fertilizers, skyrocketing fuel prices. Farming became an act of faith. Raising livestock was a lost cause from the start.
Meanwhile, prices rose. Tensions increased. Resources became a source of conflict. Even with wildlife, which knows no food plans or press releases.
In January, many areas entered the “alert phase.” Mandera went straight into the “alarm stage.” Translated: a state of emergency was declared, with the state admitting that it could not cope on its own.
But it admitted this quietly.
Because in Kenya, there are many emergencies. And they compete with each other.
Among those most affected are pastoralists, such as the Maasai and other nomadic communities. For them, livestock is not an asset. It is not an investment. It is everything. It is their bank, their insurance, their pantry, their identity. When a cow dies, it is not just an animal that dies. A piece of the future dies.

Many have already lost most of their herds. Dead goats. Skeletal cows. Big eyes in small bodies, as if even the animals had learned the word “famine.”
And behind every animal lost, a family slips further down.
Meanwhile, the drought knows no boundaries. It also affects Somalia, Tanzania, and Uganda. Same winds, same stingy clouds, same fears. An entire region looks to the sky as one looks to a rich relative who no longer answers the phone.
Authorities and humanitarian agencies warn that vulnerability will continue at least until the next rainy season. That is, if it arrives. If it doesn't decide, once again, to take a vacation.
Meanwhile, there is talk of millions of people at risk. Of thousands and thousands of livestock lost. Of wells running dry. Of women walking for hours for a bucket of water. Of children who learn early on that thirst is not a metaphor.
And all this is happening while the world rushes, invests, innovates, discusses green transition and artificial intelligence, hoping that it is intelligent enough to understand that here, on the other hand, we are still discussing survival.
Simple. Naked. Ruthless.

Kenya, which knows how to be generous, fertile, spectacular, today seems to be apologizing to its inhabitants. As if to say: I would like to give you more, but I can't. It doesn't rain. I can't breathe. I can't produce.
And the people stay there. Resisting. Hoping. Inventing daily strategies to keep from collapsing.
Living in balance on a puddle.
Because, after all, that's how hope works here: it's a small, distant, almost invisible cloud. But as long as it remains in the sky, someone will continue to look at it.
And say: maybe tomorrow.