When the Rains Fail: How Camels Became Northern Kenya's Last Hope

In the arid, unforgiving expanse of northern Kenya, where the sky meets the earth in a haze of heat and dust, Mohammed Ibrahim once counted his wealth in the lowing cattle that grazed the parched lands. For generations, his Borana community, like so many others, has lived and breathed the rhythm of the herd. But the rhythms are changing, profoundly so. The rains, you see, have grown fickle, their promises broken again and again. What was once an occasional hardship—a drought every decade or so—has now become a relentless siege, striking every two or three years. And so, Mohammed, like countless others, watched his cattle, his very livelihood, dwindle and die, succumbing to thirst and hunger.

He lost nearly everything, honestly, before a desperate decision changed his fortunes. He traded what little remained for a camel. Just one. And it was this single, stoic creature that offered a lifeline, a glimmer of hope in the encroaching despair. Camels, it turns out, are built for this new, harsher reality. While a cow might need water every couple of days, a camel can go a staggering 15 to 20 days without a drink. They don't mind the thorny bushes that cattle turn their noses up at; in fact, they thrive on them. And here’s the kicker: even in the fiercest drought, a camel will continue to give milk for up to a year, a stark contrast to a cow’s meager three to five months.

You could say it’s a quiet revolution, a necessary adaptation unfolding across the northern counties. Hussein Idris, from the neighboring Gabra community, tells a similar tale. He, too, saw his cattle perish. He, too, made the switch. And he, too, found salvation in the camel’s resilience. For families teetering on the edge of starvation, that steady supply of milk is more than just nutrition; it’s survival, pure and simple. What’s more, when times are truly desperate, a camel still holds its value, fetching a decent price—perhaps 80,000 shillings—while a drought-weakened cow might bring in a mere 15,000. It’s a harsh economic reality, but a crucial one.

But let’s not romanticize it too much, because this isn’t merely a practical exchange. This shift from cattle to camels is nothing short of a seismic cultural upheaval. For centuries, these pastoralist communities have identified with their cattle. Their traditions, their social structures, their very sense of self—all deeply interwoven with the herding of cows. To abandon them, even out of necessity, is to let go of a piece of their heritage, a part of who they are. It’s a heartbreaking choice, born of desperation rather than desire.

The numbers, sadly, tell an even grimmer story. Between 2021 and 2022 alone, some four million livestock perished in the region. That's a staggering loss, leaving millions of people acutely food insecure. Organizations like the Kenya Red Cross have been sounding the alarm, trying to provide what aid they can, but the scale of the crisis is immense. This isn't just a bad season; it’s a brutal new normal, undeniably linked to the broader, global phenomenon of climate change. The future, honestly, looks drier, hotter, and more challenging.

And yet, amidst the hardship, there’s a quiet strength, a testament to human—and animal—resilience. The camel, once perhaps an outlier in many herds, is now stepping into its own, becoming the emblem of adaptation. It’s a stark reminder that sometimes, to survive, you must not only endure but fundamentally transform. The Borana and Gabra peoples, with their new, long-necked companions, are writing a new chapter in their ancient story, one dictated by a changing climate, but also defined by their enduring will to find a way forward, come what may.