Photo Credit: U.S. Embassy in Freetown
The first rays of sunlight spill across the Atlantic, casting a soft shimmer on the muddy shore. Kpana Sesay, a father of five with weathered hands and eyes that have seen too many storms, bends down to push his canoe into the water back in Bonthe District, Southern Sierra Leone. It’s a ritual he’s performed since boyhood — when the mangroves were thick and the fish, abundant.
But today, like most days, Kpana knows he may return with little more than disappointment.
“I used to fill a basket in an hour,” he says, gently adjusting the frayed net in his boat. “Now I spend the whole day out there, and I’m lucky if I catch enough to feed my family.”
Kpana’s story is not unique — it echoes across dozens of fishing villages along Sierra Leone’s coast, where the slow death of the mangrove forests is choking off both nature and livelihoods.
Mangroves once lined Sierra Leone’s shores like natural guardians, stretching from the Scarcies in the north, through the Sherbro River, down to Kargboro Creek. These tangled forests were more than scenery. They were shelter, a pantry, and a pharmacy. Their roots cradled baby fish, crabs, and shrimp. Their shade cooled the waters. Their presence protected coastlines from washing away.
But today, those roots are being chopped down faster than they can grow back.
“People cut them to make charcoal, or to clear land for building,” Kpana explains. “They don’t see what we’re losing.”
The Environmental Protection Agency estimates the country has lost over 35% of its mangrove forests in just two decades. Most of that loss is happening silently — trees felled in the early morning hours, wetlands drained for profit, regulations ignored.
In Tissana, a coastal village nearby, 38-year-old Isatu Conteh stands behind her fish stall. The display is sparse — just a few smoked tilapia and some dried bonga. She used to be able to buy fish from the local boats every morning. Now, she travels inland and pays more just to find enough to sell.
“I have four children to feed. Fish used to be our cheapest food,” she says. “Now, even that is a luxury.”
She looks over her shoulder toward the shoreline where her brother once fished before giving up entirely. “He’s cutting trees now, selling wood. What else can he do?”
In many villages, families that once depended on fishing are turning to logging or sand mining — short-term solutions that worsen the problem.
At Fourah Bay College, Dr. Salieu Sankoh, a marine ecosystems expert, says he is alarmed by the speed of decline.
“Over 70% of Sierra Leone’s key fish species spend some part of their lives in mangroves,” he explains. “Once those trees are gone, the fish don’t come back. And neither will the livelihoods.”
Despite having environmental laws on the books, Dr. Sankoh says enforcement is almost nonexistent. “We have a conservation framework,” he adds, “but without funding and willpower, it’s just words.”
In Yawri Bay, some communities are fighting back — planting mangrove seedlings and holding education sessions in schools and fishing camps.
Mariatu Kamara, a young environmentalist working with a local NGO, believes change is possible — but only if people have choices.
“You can’t ask a hungry man not to cut a tree,” she says. “You have to give him another way to live.”
Her team is helping build fish farms and introducing eco-tourism in select areas. But scaling those efforts requires government support and long-term commitment.
Back in Bonthe, Kpana Sesay returns to shore as the sun begins to set. The catch is meagre — three small fish, hardly enough for dinner.
He sits on a wooden crate, silently gutting his fish, his eyes on the shrinking line of mangroves in the distance.
“We used to have more than enough,” he murmurs. “The trees gave us fish. The fish gave us life. Now both are going.”
He pauses, running his fingers through the muddy water.
“If the trees go,” he says quietly, “we go too.”
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