On the sun-baked shores of Lake Victoria in Kisumu County, Rhoda Ongoche Akech didn’t just cast a net—she cast aside a century of silence. For generations, women in her lakeside village were told, in whispers and warnings, that touching a fishing net would bring misfortune, barrenness, or worse. The lake, a lifeline for millions, was deemed a man’s domain. But as climate change shrinks fish stocks and intensifies storms, the old taboos are fraying—not from rebellion alone, but from necessity. Akech’s quiet defiance is now part of a quiet revolution: women across Kenya’s lakeshore communities are picking up nets, not to challenge tradition for its own sake, but to keep their families from sinking.
This isn’t merely a story of gender norms breaking. It’s a survival strategy written in wet clothes and calloused hands. Lake Victoria, the world’s second-largest freshwater lake, supports over 40 million people across Kenya, Tanzania, and Uganda. Yet its ecosystem is buckling under the weight of rising temperatures, invasive species like the Nile perch, and pollution from untreated sewage and agricultural runoff. According to the Lake Victoria Fisheries Organization, fish biomass has declined by nearly 70% since the 1990s, with Nile perch catches dropping from a peak of 400,000 metric tons annually to under 150,000 today. For communities where fish provides up to 60% of dietary protein, the stakes are existential.
In Kisumu, where Akech lives, the shift is palpable. Women who once sold vegetables or traded in dried fish now spend hours before dawn mending nets, paddling into choppy waters, and hauling in tilapia and mudfish—species more resilient to warming waters but far less lucrative than the prized Nile perch. Their work is grueling, often done without life jackets or proper boats, and still met with skepticism. But the economics are undeniable: households where women fish report 30% higher food security and 20% greater income stability, according to a 2024 study by the Kenya Marine and Fisheries Research Institute (KMFRI).
“We’re not trying to prove we can do what men do. We’re trying to keep our children from going to bed hungry,”
Akech told KMFRI researchers last year, her voice steady despite the wind whipping off the lake. “The lake doesn’t care who you are. It only gives to those who show up.”
Her words echo a broader truth: climate adaptation isn’t always about grand infrastructure or international treaties. Sometimes, it’s about who gets to touch the net.
The historical roots of the taboo run deep. Anthropologists trace the restriction to pre-colonial Luo beliefs, where menstruating women were thought to “pollute” the lake’s spiritual balance, risking the wrath of ancestral spirits. Colonial administrators later codified these norms, favoring male-led fishing cooperatives that aligned with export-oriented economies. Even after independence, the bias persisted—women were denied access to fishing licenses, boat loans, and training programs. A 2020 audit by the Kenyan Ministry of Agriculture, Livestock, and Fisheries found that less than 5% of registered fishing vessels in Nyanza Province were owned by women, despite their constituting over 40% of the labor force in fish processing and trade.
But change is stirring, slowly and unevenly. In 2022, the Kenyan government launched the “Blue Economy Gender Inclusion Strategy,” aiming to increase women’s participation in fisheries by 25% by 2027. Pilot programs in Kisumu and Siaya counties now offer women-only training in sustainable net-making, fish preservation, and basic boat mechanics. The World Bank-funded Lake Victoria Environmental Management Project (LVEMP II) has similarly allocated $1.2 million specifically for women’s cooperatives to access solar-powered cold storage and hybrid canoes—tools that reduce post-harvest loss and expand market reach.
“When women control the catch, they control the nutrition and the income. That’s not just equity—it’s smart economics,”
said Dr. Amina Juma, a senior fisheries economist at the African Union’s Inter-African Bureau for Animal Resources (AU-IBAR), during a recent panel in Nairobi. “Ignoring half the workforce in a collapsing ecosystem isn’t just unjust—it’s suicidal.”
The shift is also reshaping local markets. In Kisumu’s Kibuye Market, women-led fish stalls now account for nearly 35% of fresh tilapia sales, up from 12% a decade ago. They’ve adopted innovative preservation techniques—solar drying, smoking with coconut husks—to bypass the lack of refrigeration. Some have even begun exporting dried fish to urban centers in Nakuru and Eldoret, bypassing middlemen who once took up to 60% of the profit.
Yet challenges remain. Gender-based violence still spikes in fishing communities during periods of low catch, as frustration mounts over dwindling resources. Access to credit remains a barrier; traditional lenders view women as high-risk borrowers despite their superior repayment rates in microfinance groups. And whereas climate models predict Lake Victoria’s surface temperature could rise by 2.5°C by 2050, pushing tilapia beyond their thermal tolerance, few adaptation plans center women’s knowledge as a frontline asset.
What’s unfolding on Lake Victoria’s shores is more than a cultural shift—it’s a blueprint for resilient adaptation. The women defying the net aren’t just catching fish; they’re reweaving the social fabric of lakeside survival. Their success hinges not on rejecting tradition, but on expanding it—to include the voices that have long known the lake’s moods, its seasons, and its quiet generosity.
As climate pressures mount, the world watches for technological fixes and policy pledges. But sometimes, the most powerful adaptation is already here: in the calloused hands of a woman pulling a net from the water, whispering to the lake not as a challenger, but as a caretaker. The real question isn’t whether women should fish. It’s whether we’ll finally let them.
What would it look like if we designed climate resilience not around what we’ve always done, but around who’s already doing the work?
