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Kenya’s waste problem doesn’t begin in the dumpsites—it starts at the household level, where garbage is tossed into bins without segregation or classification. There’s little public education on waste sorting, and few incentives to encourage it. The result? A chaotic mixture of food waste, plastic bottles, dirty diapers, broken electronics, expired medicine, batteries, and industrial chemicals all jammed into one container.
County governments, overwhelmed and under-resourced, often outsource waste collection to private contractors or informal youth groups. These actors operate without standards. Waste is loaded into open trucks—sometimes manually, without protective gear—and transported to the nearest dumping ground. The collection network is riddled with gaps. Some neighborhoods go days, even weeks, without pick-up. Others pay unofficial fees for quicker service.
Once collected, garbage in Kenya isn’t processed, treated, or recycled—it’s simply dumped. Dumpsites like Dandora in Nairobi, Kachok in Kisumu, Mwakirunge in Mombasa, and Gioto in Nakuru function as massive, open-air garbage pits. They are overburdened, mismanaged, and dangerous.
These sites lack basic landfill infrastructure. There are no liners to prevent leachate from seeping into the ground. No storm drainage to keep floodwaters from spreading contaminated waste. No methane gas capture systems, even though decomposing organic waste constantly emits dangerous levels of greenhouse gases.
Instead, heaps of garbage form unstable mountains, surrounded by clouds of buzzing flies, rotting matter, and choking smoke. These areas are rarely fenced off, allowing animals to graze and children to wander in and out. The stench is unbearable. But for many, these hellish landscapes are not just familiar—they are a source of livelihood.
One of the most destructive practices at Kenyan dumpsites is open burning. Because there’s no structured way to reduce or clear garbage, both individuals and authorities resort to fire. Mountains of waste are regularly set alight—intentionally or spontaneously.
The result is an ever-present blanket of smoke over nearby neighborhoods. Plastic, rubber, rotting food, electronics, and even toxic chemicals are all burned together, releasing a cocktail of poisonous gases. These include dioxins, carbon monoxide, benzene, and volatile organic compounds that pose serious health risks.
Residents living near dumpsites report higher cases of chronic bronchitis, asthma, persistent coughs, skin irritations, and even cancer. Children and the elderly are the most vulnerable, yet medical support in these areas is often limited or completely absent. For many, breathing polluted air has simply become part of life.
Within these mountains of trash thrives an invisible, yet deeply entrenched economy. Informal waste pickers—often young boys, single mothers, elderly women, and school dropouts—spend their days scavenging for materials they can sell. These include plastics, metals, glass bottles, used electronics, and even partially spoiled food.
There are no safety measures. Waste pickers work barefoot or in worn sandals, using their hands to dig through rotting garbage. Needles, sharp tins, and broken glass are common hazards. Most don’t wear gloves. Some suffer deep infections. Others contract hepatitis or respiratory infections but keep working out of necessity.
Despite their dangerous conditions, these workers are part of a billion-shilling informal recycling economy that keeps entire urban centers functional. Yet they remain invisible in policy, neglected in health programming, and exploited by middlemen who pay them next to nothing for their collections.
Beyond the visible filth, a darker threat lurks underground. As waste decays, it releases leachate—a dark, chemical-rich liquid that filters through the garbage and eventually seeps into the soil and nearby water sources.
In most Kenyan dumpsites, this leachate flows unchecked into rivers, boreholes, or groundwater reservoirs. In Dandora, for example, community wells have tested positive for high levels of heavy metals, including lead and mercury. Farmers near Kachok report strange crop patterns—wilted leaves, discolored fruits, and diminished yields. In Mombasa, local clinics near dumpsites report spikes in skin rashes, miscarriages, and gastrointestinal disorders linked to poisoned water.
Leachate also affects livestock. Animals that drink from contaminated rivers or graze near garbage zones often become ill or infertile, leading to financial losses for local herders. But because monitoring is sporadic, many of these effects go unrecorded or dismissed.
Another silent killer within Kenya’s dumpsites is hazardous waste—illegally dumped by hospitals, laboratories, factories, and workshops. Expired drugs, used surgical gloves, broken thermometers, blood-soaked cotton, chemical solvents, and even radioactive materials find their way into regular municipal garbage piles.
Hospitals, lacking incinerators or proper disposal contracts, sometimes pay cartels to remove their medical waste, which ends up dumped in public sites. Waste pickers—unaware of the risks—handle these materials without gloves or masks. Children play next to exposed needles. Pharmaceutical packaging is often re-used in black market operations, posing further public health threats.
E-waste is another growing concern. TVs, phones, laptops, and batteries dumped in landfills leak cadmium, arsenic, and lithium into the soil. Most electronic parts are disassembled and sold to local scrap dealers, often handled by children.
Kenya’s waste problem is not due to lack of ideas—it’s a failure of political will. Over the past two decades, multiple counties have launched waste-to-energy initiatives, composting centers, and recycling campaigns. Most collapse within months due to mismanagement, corruption, or misaligned priorities.
Funds allocated for landfill upgrades often disappear. Environmental impact assessments are bypassed. Sorting centers are built but left idle because there’s no upstream waste segregation. Legal enforcement is weak. Private waste companies are left to operate with little oversight, some of them resorting to illegal dumping in rivers and forests.
Kenya’s National Environment Management Authority (NEMA) rarely enforces existing waste regulations. Communities living near dumpsites file complaints, but few are addressed. The country continues to urbanize rapidly, generating more waste without building capacity to handle it.
Perhaps the most haunting aspect of Kenya’s dumpsite crisis is that people actually live there. Entire families build homes from discarded wood and iron sheets around or even inside dump zones. These areas have no running water, no toilets, no schools, and no clinics.
Children grow up inhaling toxic fumes, often malnourished and unvaccinated. Girls face heightened risks of sexual exploitation and early pregnancy. Some waste pickers pay bribes to access more “profitable” parts of the site, while others are intimidated or assaulted by cartels who control informal waste territories.
What should be a temporary hardship for these communities often becomes a permanent trap. Generations are raised in filth and danger, and unless the system changes, they will die in it too.
The future of Kenya’s cities depends on how they handle their waste today. The solutions exist—what’s missing is honest governance, investment, and citizen engagement.
A better system must include:
-Waste segregation at source, enforced by law and supported with public education
-Properly engineered landfills with leachate control, gas collection, and access control
-Health protections and fair pay for informal waste workers
-Medical and hazardous waste tracking and disposal through licensed systems
-Real enforcement of environmental standards with accountability at county and national levels
1 comment
edc001
1w ago
I support this piece by Aisha. This problem is quite prevalent in Eastleigh, Nairobi