Invisible Fence: Spatial Analysis of Human-lion Conflicts in the Plains of Athi-Kaputiei

Eliott Dreux. “Invisible Fence: Spatial Analysis of Human-lion Conflicts in the Plains of Athi-Kaputiei” Mambo! No. 114, 2026.

Abstract

 In the Athi-Kaputiei plains south of Nairobi, pastoralist and farming communities live on the immediate edge of the world’s only national park bordering a capital city. Lions leaving the park through the last remaining open corridor attack livestock, threaten residents, and provoke deadly reprisals. These conflicts, exacerbated by urban sprawl and the fragmentation of ecological corridors, reveal a crisis of territorial governance surrounding a space claimed by each actor in different ways. It is within this context that we examine the extent to which the spatial fragmentation of ecological corridors and the failure of institutional compensation mechanisms fuel a cycle of violence between pastoral communities and wildlife in the Athi-Kaputiei plains.

Introduction

In 1946, Kenya established its first national park on the southern outskirts of Nairobi. This park is home to exceptional wildlife, including leopards, rhinoceroses, giraffes, and especially lions. On the other side of the park lie the Athi-Kaputiei plains (see Map 1), which formed a vast dispersal area where large herbivores migrated freely with the seasons, followed by predators. The Maasai communities and other ethnic groups, settled on these plains for generations, shared this territory with the wildlife in a pastoral balance based on mobility.

But in eight decades, this balance has been disrupted. The population has grown from 2.1 million inhabitants in 1999 (Médard, 2010) to over 5.3 million in 2023 (Burudi et al., 2023). This growth has extended massively southward, particularly around localities such as Ongata Rongai, Kitengela, and Athi River, which until then had only been small centers. As this rapid growth unfolded, they became densely populated residential hubs. This territorial compression has inevitably intensified conflicts between communities and wildlife. The lions, confined to an increasingly smaller space and deprived of sufficient numbers of wild prey, began to leave the park through the southern corridor and attack the livestock of the herders, penned in traditional enclosures called bomas , circular enclosures made of thorny branches or iron fences, in which the herders gather their flock at night.

However, the lion is a species fully protected under Kenyan law, pursuant to the Wildlife Conservation and Management Act of 2013 (Republic of Kenya, 2013). It is strictly forbidden to kill a lion, even if it preys on livestock. Only the Kenya Wildlife Service (KWS) [1], the state institution in charge of wildlife management, is authorized to kill an animal deemed dangerous. Herders who lose their cattle therefore have no legal recourse. They must report the incident, compile a file, and wait for compensation. But when this compensation does not materialize, the law loses all legitimacy in the eyes of those affected. Faced with this situation, the KWS, which is supposed to ensure the protection of wildlife and compensate communities for losses due to predators, only partially fulfills its obligations. Retaliatory killings of lions, with spears or poison, thus remain a recurring response to the lack of support.

This article is situated within this context. Through field photojournalism and a spatial analysis of human-lion conflicts, it seeks to answer the following question: To what extent do the spatial fragmentation of ecological corridors and the failure of institutional compensation mechanisms fuel a cycle of violence between pastoral communities and wildlife in the Athi-Kaputiei plains? To answer this, the work documents the dynamics of friction unfolding in the Athi-Kaputiei plains (see Map 1), where urban expansion, corridor fragmentation, and the failure of compensation mechanisms bring pastoral communities into daily conflict with wildlife. This work is based on data collection and interviews conducted with populations in four localities (Ongata Rongai, Tuala, Olmeut, and Kitengela) (see Map 1), in collaboration with the Friends of Nairobi National Park organization, and on a literature review. The collection took place from January to March 2026.

Ⅰ. The Suffocation of a Peri-urban Savannah: Spatial Dynamics of Fragmentation

Nairobi National Park no longer functions as the open sanctuary it was when it was created in 1946. It has become an increasingly isolated “ecological island” within a metropolis that is growing in all directions, especially to the south.

 

 

The spatial pressure on the southern corridor is the result of an unprecedented urban explosion. Between 2000 and 2014, the built-up area of the Nairobi metropolitan area increased from 78 km² to 182 km², according to a diachronic analysis of Landsat satellite images conducted by Mundia (2017), with a sharp acceleration between 2010 and 2014 when the rate jumped to 15.63 km²/year [2]. This spatial expansion is explained by the population explosion the city has experienced over the past thirty years. This growth is driven by various factors: natural increase, which accounts for approximately 50% of the growth and is particularly visible in predominantly impoverished neighborhoods or towns such as Kibera, Mlolongo, and Ongata Rongai. The second reason for this rapid growth is rural exodus, which accounts for approximately 48% (Mundia, 2017). This rural-to-capital migration is historically linked to pressure on land in former colonial reserves, and subsequently to the structural adjustments of the 1990s [3] which drove a generation of young people to the urban frontier in search of employment. The later percentages are attributed to the country’s international appeal, particularly in a context where many neighboring countries are experiencing major crises and wars. This uncontrolled growth has naturally flowed southward, fueled by intense land speculation in the areas from Ongata Rongai to Kitengela, where proximity to Nairobi makes residential plots highly attractive. This land shift has been driven primarily by Maasai landowners themselves, compelled by poverty and rapidly increasing land values to sell their plots to real estate speculators and buyers from other ethnic groups (Fourault-Cauët & Steck, 2019). The transformation materialized in the legal dissolution of group ranches in favor of individual land privatization, fragmenting the landscape into thousands of small, often fenced plots, creating what Gichohi in 1996 defined as a “truncated ecosystem.” This process, which intensified between the 1990s and the early 2000s, occurred without deliberate urban planning by the authorities (Lesilau, 2019). The physical scale of this shift is confirmed by Mundia (2017), which reveals that built-up areas increased by 320% in the metropolitan region between 1988 and 2014.

 

 

Urbanization in the Athi-Kaputiei plains follows no coherent development plan (Fourault-Cauët & Steck, 2019). There is no master plan, no urban continuity, no overall logic. Investors buy plots of land from Maasai landowners, build housing developments, and move on to the next. The result is a mosaic of isolated housing blocks, disconnected from the existing built environment, nibbling away at the shrubby savanna bit by bit. For security reasons, all these developments are surrounded by cinder block walls or high, sturdy metal fences, sometimes topped with barbed wire, sometimes electrified. These continuous physical barriers, designed to prevent human intrusion, also prevent animal movement. Each fenced development, even if it occupies only half a hectare, further closes off access. And the sum of these private micro-barriers produces the same effect as a large state fence.

 

 

The shift from a “soft border” allowing animal movement to a hard-bordered park has disrupted vital ecological processes. The assessment of migratory routes is alarming: of the seven main routes identified by the 2020-2030 Management Plan, routes 6 and 7 are now completely blocked by residential developments. The consequences for wildlife are documented by the dramatic collapse of the wildebeest migration. This population, which numbered 30,000 individuals in the 1960s, now numbers only 200 (Kenya Wildlife Service, 2020). This decline also affects other species such as the warthog, waterbuck, and gazelle. Confined to a park too small to meet their seasonal feeding needs, the herbivores can no longer leave the park’s marshy soils during the rainy season to give birth on the plains.

In addition to residential development, large infrastructure projects act as permanent or partially permanent physical barriers (Fourault-Cauët & Steck, 2019). Infrastructure has already reduced the park’s area by 0.619 km² [4]. The most emblematic case is the Standard Gauge Railway (SGR) [5], which crosses the park on a 6 km viaduct designed to allow wildlife to pass underneath. On paper, the solution is elegant. In reality, the construction required the loss of land within the protected area, and the viaduct generates ongoing disturbances such as noise, vibrations, and nighttime lighting, disrupting animal movement, particularly that of the most timid herbivores. The Southern Bypass highway, for its part, has literally eroded the northern edge of the park, cutting it off from a section adjacent to Wilson Airport and reducing the territorial integrity of the protected area. In addition to this, there are the oil pipelines, high-voltage lines, and underground electrical cables that cross the park. This layering of infrastructure supports a view of the park as “available space,” a public land already integrated into a national transport corridor, and not as an ecosystem to be preserved (Fourault-Cauët & Steck, 2019).

 

 

This fragmentation continues south of the park, in the Athi-Kaputiei plains. Road projects act as catalysts for fragmentation: each new road attracts high-density linear urbanization that further closes off the corridor, creating a vicious cycle—a concept understood here as a chain reaction where each infrastructure project generates construction, which in turn justifies new infrastructure, and so on, to the irreversible detriment of ecological connectivity. The paving of the Athi River–Ongata Rongai road has thus attracted urbanization that ultimately severs the movement of wildlife coming from the east. This vicious cycle of development is disastrous for wildlife, but not for the Kenyan state. Indeed, the state often uses the park as a land reserve for its infrastructure projects, thereby avoiding complex legal disputes related to the expropriation of private land (Fourault-Cauët & Steck, 2019). This institutional “right of way” is presented as technically compatible with conservation. A viaduct is being built for the train, but experts note that this accumulation of infrastructure, even if individually “compatible,” is irreversibly transforming the park into an “ecological island” cut off from its original ecosystem (Fourault-Cauët & Steck, 2019). The consequences of these separations go beyond mere spatial considerations. They disrupt biological cycles and exacerbate conflicts. By fragmenting animal populations, the infrastructure pushes some animals out of their natural habitat and into areas of human settlement.

Ⅱ. Chronicles of Predation: When Institutional Failure Leads to Retaliation

 

Fragmentation is not just an ecological problem. In the Athi-Kaputiei plains, it manifests as daily conflicts between communities and wildlife, particularly lions. These conflicts are not random events. They are cyclical, predictable processes, exacerbated by a feeling of state abandonment.

 

 

Human-lion conflict in the Nairobi ecosystem follows a seasonal pattern dictated by rainfall. During the wet season, when vegetation becomes more attractive, large herbivores return to graze. Wildebeest, zebras, and buffalo migrate to the Athi-Kaputiei plains to feed and give birth, and lions naturally follow this biomass. Monitoring data shows that 83% of lion incursions and associated predation incidents occur during the rainy season (Lesilau, 2019). In the dry season, the dynamics reverse: wildlife concentrates in the park around permanent waterholes, community plains dry out, and predator activity decreases sharply. The contrast between the two seasons is clearly visible.

 

It is precisely during the wet season, when vegetation is tall and dense, that lions find themselves in the immediate vicinity of livestock areas. When they are unable to catch wild prey, they turn to cattle, easy and predictable prey, kept in bomas (pastoral enclosures) whose weaknesses they know. Cattle represent 66.9% of the total economic value lost by herders (Mukeka, 2019). Around Nairobi National Park, there are approximately 305 incidents per year involving lions (Lesilau et al., 2021). The market value of a cow is estimated at around $450, a considerable sum for a pastoral family.

 

 

Forced coexistence imposes severe constraints on the daily activities of communities, creating what researchers call a “landscape of fear” (Lesilau, 2019). This concept is not limited to the presence of the lion alone; it encompasses all the risks associated with wild animals (elephants, buffalo, hyenas), but the lion is the central figure due to its dangerousness, its symbolic value, and the frequency of predation incidents it causes.

The results of our survey [6] clearly illustrate this “landscape of fear” and highlight the scale of the conflict. The first finding is that 86% of respondents reported animal losses due to attacks, whether livestock or guard dogs. However, in Kitengela, the rate is lower, at approximately 70%, which is partly explained by the greater presence of preventative measures in these areas. Beyond livestock loss, the feeling of insecurity after 6 p.m. is almost universal. The vast majority consider their environment “very dangerous” after nightfall, particularly women. Interestingly, the respondents reporting the lowest level of insecurity were predominantly Maasai; this perception of risk thus appears intrinsically linked to the cultural and pastoral identity of the ethnic group. The most exposed localities are also the poorest, namely Tuala and Olmeut. The Kitengela plain, which is better equipped, shows a slightly lower, but still high, sense of insecurity. Regarding perceptions of the evolving conflict, the conclusion is clear: 82% of respondents believe the situation is worsening. This perception can be linked to increasing urbanization in the Athi-Kaputiei plains.

 

 

Lion activity peaks at night, particularly between 8 p.m. and 4:30 a.m. (Lesilau, 2019), making travel on foot or by motorized vehicle extremely dangerous. Boda-boda drivers [7] (motorcycle taxis) are particularly vulnerable targets when traveling alone on unlit tracks, at low speed, and through dense vegetation. Several interviewees reported direct attacks on motorcyclists. This risk is now ingrained in local customs: hailing a boda-boda after 6 p.m. is strongly discouraged. This aspect of human-wildlife conflict also affects non-pastoral populations. Indeed, a worker in downtown Nairobi finishing their day around 5 p.m. is inevitably exposed to increased risk when returning to outlying villages.

 

 

Children are also a particularly vulnerable group. In the villages of Tuala, Olmeut, and Kitengela, many children walk from school to home alone, along paths that crisscross the dispersal area. When their parents are working or tending their livestock, no one is there to accompany them. To mitigate this risk, matatus [8] (public transport) specifically set up for schoolchildren are used to transport them home. Nevertheless, walking home remains a common practice for many.

 

 

The conflict also has a gendered dimension. Men are statistically more exposed because they are responsible for herding livestock at night and patrolling around the bomas (traditional irrigation systems). They are also more exposed because they engage in risky behaviors that women tend to avoid. For example, it is common for men to take a nap on the edge of the park or in the Kitengela pastoral plains. This practice is much less frequent among women. The reason is that women are exposed to a double risk, from both animals and humans, which excludes them from certain areas. Lying alone in the shade of an acacia tree between activities is a commonplace gesture for men, but hardly conceivable for women, as the risk of attack is too high.

 

 

The proximity between wildlife and human settlements is not an abstract concept. Zebras graze just a few meters from a house, at the foot of a cinder block wall topped with barbed wire. What is true for herbivores is also true for the predators that follow them.

 

Behind these predation statistics lie individual tragedies, like that of the herder we met in Tuala. After losing part of his herd in a nighttime attack, he began the legal process with the KWS (Kenya Wildlife Service) to obtain compensation. The financial loss is immense: beyond the market value, it’s his very survival that has been jeopardized. “You have to fill out a form by going to the site immediately after the attack, it’s impossible […], then they [the KWS] are supposed to come and assess the damage, but it takes them more than 24 hours to arrive. Sometimes the carcass has already been completely devoured by the lions and then the hyenas, leaving only the bones. No, it’s far too slow […] but if you kill a lion, they arrive much faster,” he explains. This institutional silence is not just a financial abandonment; it fuels anger. For this man, the state’s lack of response completely delegitimizes the bans on retaliation, creating fertile ground for future reprisal killings.

 

 

Faced with this reality, the sense of injustice within communities is fueled by the ineffectiveness of official redress mechanisms. The 2013 Wildlife Conservation and Management Act provides for substantial compensation: 5 million Kenyan shillings for a human death, and the market price for livestock (Republic of Kenya, 2013). However, the national compensation system (KNCS) is technically bankrupt. Between 2007 and 2016, only 35% of approved claims were actually paid (Mukeka, 2019). The claims process is considered slow, costly, and complex, requiring police and medical reports that are often inaccessible to rural households. Livestock farmers bitterly summarize the situation: the KWS “runs like a horse” when a lion is killed, but remains invisible when a cow falls victim to wildlife.

This institutional failure has direct consequences. When compensation is not forthcoming, frustration turns into retaliation. The park lost between 14 and 17 lions between 2012 and 2018 due to retaliatory killings (Ontiri et al., 2019). The methods are well-known: spears, very common among the Maasai, and poisoning carcasses with cheap pesticides like Furadan [9], a non-selective method that can decimate an entire pride of lions and the scavengers that feed on them. According to Ontiri et al. (2019), 25.7% of those interviewed in their survey admitted to killing lions in response to attacks. These acts are perceived by the communities not as revenge, but as the only way to attract the attention of the authorities and protect their economic capital.

Beyond the statistical observation, the cross-referencing of geographic data allows us to spatialize this risk at the micro level. Fine-scale spatial analysis reveals a radical heterogeneity of risk. Within just a few hundred meters, the vulnerability of a livestock farm can range from “low” to “maximum.” This spatial discontinuity is explained by the micro-topographic configuration: the immersion of a boma (a type of enclosure ) in the wooded riparian corridor creates an immediate point of friction, whereas a neighboring enclosure, located in an open area, remains relatively unaffected [10].

 

III. Coexistence in Progress: Field Solutions in the Face of a Political Vacuum

While central authorities struggle to stabilize the southern corridor, the day-to-day management of the conflict relies on a network of local actors and technological innovations that attempt to transform the border of friction into a space of sharing. In the Athi-Kaputiei plains, the figure of the protector has changed. Faced with a Kenya Wildlife Service often perceived as a distant and slow-response institution, non-governmental organizations are filling the void left by the state. The Wildlife Foundation (TWF), for example, has become a pillar of local conflict management. The TWF, created in 2000 in response to the increasing pressure of urbanization on dispersal areas, operates on a simple principle: sharing the benefits with communities. It funds conservation leases, approximately 500 Kenyan shillings per acre [11], to convince landowners not to fence their land and to leave it open to wildlife. It also provides quick “consolation” payments for slaughtered livestock, around $150 for a cow (Kenya Wildlife Service, 2020). This is less than the market price, but it’s immediate. For ranchers, this responsiveness is worth more than the distant promise of full government compensation.

 

 

The success of these initiatives relies on local recruitment. The TWF rangers come from the Maasai communities of Kitengela. They know the herders and the territory. This proximity allows them to install the prevention devices themselves, including lion lights —systems of flashing LED lights powered by solar panels, designed to simulate a mobile human presence around the bomas and deter lions from approaching. This proximity also allows them to ensure precise monitoring of the equipment. Their good relationship with the agropastoral communities also means they are notified before the KWS and therefore arrive first on the scene when an incident occurs. Community figures like Chief Ranger Daniel Kamiti coordinate these teams on a daily basis. These field actors promote what the literature calls an “ecology of reconciliation” (Landy, 2020) [12]: conservation that integrates the vernacular knowledge of pastoral communities into scientific monitoring, rather than excluding and punishing them.

To address human-lion conflict, the savannah of the Athi-Kaputiei plains has seen the development of innovations that are now being exported across Africa. The most emblematic is the lion light , invented in 2012 by Richard Turere [13]. The principle, described above, is simple: for an investment of approximately $250 per unit, this device has led to a 96% reduction in nighttime attacks in equipped enclosures (Lesilau et al., 2018). In our survey, lion lights ranked third among the most frequently used protective measures in Kitengela, after fences and guard dogs, primarily due to their high cost. For example, in Tuala, the poorest locality in the sample, no one reported using a lion light . Access to prevention devices is directly correlated with household financial resources.

 

 

But the effectiveness of lion lights depends on one basic condition: that they work. In January 2026, a systematic survey was conducted in collaboration with TWF rangers throughout the southern dispersal area. The results are worrying. On the map below (Map 3), each point represents a boma equipped with at least one lion light . The finding is that the majority of devices installed in the plains are no longer functioning, due to a lack of regular monitoring and maintenance, resulting from insufficient human and financial resources. The promising innovation thus becomes an empty shell. A herder whose prevention tool is malfunctioning finds themselves in the same situation as someone who never had one, except that they believe they are protected. This discrepancy between the theoretical and actual coverage of prevention devices is a blind spot in conflict management that only a field survey could reveal. The problem also lies in the fact that people tend to buy this equipment from websites that supply poor-quality devices from unknown brands, thus complicating monitoring and warranty coverage. But lions adapt: finding that enclosures equipped with lion lights are impregnable at night, they increase their attacks during the day in open pastures. The solution creates a new problem. Monitoring data also shows that lions tend to abandon areas saturated with lights in favor of seeking unlit bomas further out in the plains. The average distance of attacks from the park boundary increases by about 300 meters every three years, as predators venture deeper into community lands in search of easy prey (Lesilau et al., 2021).

 

 

Another protection solution relies on reinforced bomas , which constitute the second pillar of prevention. Comparative studies show that traditional enclosures made of acacia branches suffer an attack rate of 34%, compared to only 2% for reinforced bomas using wooden posts and wire mesh over 2.5 meters high (Wakoli et al., 2023). The difference is considerable, but the construction cost remains prohibitive for most families. The poorest households, often the most exposed because they live closest to wildlife corridors, are also those with the most precarious protections. In addition to these measures, communities continue to use traditional methods: night watchmen, guard dogs, fires, drums, and radios left on all night. Camera traps, deployed by TWF rangers, are used to formally identify the predator responsible for an attack, thus preventing indiscriminate retaliation against innocent species.

 

Conclusion

This field research sheds light on the complexity of human-wildlife conflicts in the Athi-Kaputiei plains and answers the question posed in the introduction. The fragmentation of corridors by urban sprawl is pushing lions out of the park and into pastoral communities that suffer the losses without benefiting from conservation revenues. Faced with the failure of the state compensation system, whose effective payment rate does not exceed 35% of approved cases (Mukeka, 2019), actors like the TWF are attempting to fill the gap with concrete measures ( lion lights , reinforced bomas , conservation leases), which are effective but fragile in their sustainability. The behavioral adaptation of the lions, however, reminds us that technical solutions alone are insufficient. Political coordination between the KWS, the counties of Nairobi and Kajiado, and the communities themselves remains essential to moving from fortress-like conservation to viable territorial coexistence ( Rosenzweig, 2003 cited in Landy, 2020).

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Fourault-Cauët, V., & Steck, J.-F. (2019). Corridor versus corridor: Nairobi. Between development imperatives and environmental imperatives. EchoGéo, 49.

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Lesilau, F. L. (2019). Human-Lion conflict around Nairobi National Park: Lion (Panthera leo melanochaita) Population Structure, Landscape Use and Diet, in a Semi-Fenced Park [PhD thesis]. Leiden University.

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Notes

[1] On “Kenya Wildlife Service (KWS)”: The KWS is a parastatal institution created in 1990, under the leadership of Richard Leakey, it was placed under the supervision of the Ministry of Tourism and Wildlife. It has a monopoly on wildlife management throughout Kenya, but its jurisdiction stops at the boundaries of protected areas; it has no legal power over the use of adjacent private lands.

[2] For comparison, this represents the equivalent of the entire Langata district built each year on former pastoral land.

[3] Structural adjustment programs (SAPs), imposed by the IMF and the World Bank on Kenya from 1993 onwards, led to massive reductions in public employment and agricultural subsidies, accelerating the rural exodus to Nairobi.

[4] Figure taken from the Nairobi National Park Management Plan 2020-2030 (Kenya Wildlife Service, 2020), which includes the combined land areas of the SGR, the Southern Bypass, oil pipelines and power lines.

[5] The Standard Gauge Railway is a railway line linking Mombasa to Nairobi (472 km), financed 90% by the China Exim Bank and built by the China Road and Bridge Corporation. Opened in 2017, it crosses the dispersal area of Nairobi National Park on a 6 km viaduct.

[6] The survey was conducted with 50 people spread across the four localities. It was based on a semi-structured questionnaire of 10 questions, written in English and Swahili, and systematically translated with the assistance of interpreter Javan Mwanyota. It should be noted that the sample size does not allow for statistical representativeness of the population, but it does offer insight into the dynamics and perceptions expressed by the inhabitants of the surveyed localities.

[7] The term is thought to originate from the English ” border- border,” initially referring to the bicycle taxis that transported passengers between Ugandan and Kenyan border posts without going through customs. The term has become widespread in East Africa to refer to motorcycle taxis.

[8] Minibuses are public transport vehicles, generally with 14 to 33 seats, ubiquitous in the Kenyan transport network. The word is thought to come from the Swahili ” mapeni matatu ” (“three pieces”), referring to the initial fare.

[9] A carbofuran-based pesticide, classified as extremely hazardous (Class Ia) by the WHO. Banned in the European Union since 2008 and in the United States since 2009, it remains available for sale without a prescription in Kenya in granular form. Placed on a cattle carcass, it can kill any animal that consumes it within hours.

[10] This vulnerability map is based on the combination of three types of data. First, topographic data and a field study, coupled with the analysis of satellite imagery, particularly the NDVI (Natural Depth Index). Second, testimonies from local residents. Third, qualitative and quantitative socioeconomic surveys. It is important to keep in mind that this map does not claim absolute accuracy, but it serves as a decision-making tool to guide the deployment of prevention measures and target priority intervention areas. While the amount of data justifies its use, it is worth remembering its limitations. First, its accuracy is only possible through vector analysis at a micro-local scale. The results would be far less precise at the scale of the plains. This map could also be significantly improved by access to geolocation data for lions fitted with GPS collars—data that exists but remains inaccessible to communities and independent researchers due to a lack of transparency from the KWS (Kenya Wildlife Service).

[11] This equates to approximately €3.50 per acre (0.4 hectare), or €8.75 per hectare per year. While less than the potential income from a sale to a developer, this amount provides a regular and guaranteed income for landowners who commit to keeping their land open.

[12] A concept proposed by biologist Michael Rosenzweig (2003) and adopted by geographer Frédéric Landy in the context of urban national parks. It refers to a conservation approach that aims to integrate biodiversity into spaces inhabited and used by humans, rather than confining it to separate protected areas.

[13] Richard Turere is a young Maasai man from Kitengela. At the age of 11, he designed a system of flashing LED lights powered by solar panels to deter lions from approaching enclosures. His invention, presented at a TED conference in 2013, earned him a scholarship to Brookhouse International School in Nairobi. He now studies at the African Leadership University and heads the Lion Lights Foundation, which deploys the system in several countries in Africa and Asia.

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