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Across Kenya, and particularly in Luo Nyanza, traditional mud houses are disappearing from the rural landscape.
Often dismissed as symbols of poverty, backwardness or underdevelopment, these structures are increasingly being replaced by modern concrete and iron-sheet constructions that are perceived as markers of modernity.
This framing, however, misunderstands the nature of indigenous building systems.
Luo mud houses are not the product of architectural deficiency or an indicator of poverty, but rather the outcome of generational and accumulated engineering knowledge deeply embedded in environmental understanding, social organisation, and cultural practice. Each time I travel back to my village (Sakwa Bondo), I am struck by the enduring presence of my father’s simba, constructed more than three decades ago!
Despite its age, the structure remains firm, with no visible cracks or structural weakness. Leave alone my father’s, my kwara’s (grandfather) still stands strong.
Its quiet resilience stands in sharp contrast to the growing pressure across the village to replace such houses with so-called “modern” concrete buildings, often without questioning what is being lost in the process.
My curiosity deepened further through exposure to visual narratives that document women’s relationship to land and housing, as I watched Widow Champion (2025), a film directed by Zippy Kimundu.
I was particularly intrigued by scenes showing women actively engaged in the construction of mud houses, measuring, moulding, and assembling materials with evident architectural skills and confidence.
This challenged the dominant neoliberal assumptions about gender and technical knowledge in indigenous building systems. It prompted a critical question: Why, if there is something intelligent embedded in this building technology, is it framed as a marker of poverty? This question was reinforced by content shared by Lynn Ngugi on her YouTube channel, where she shares stories and narratives aimed at impacting and inspiring communities. They featured a woman who chose to build a mud house in Karen, one of Nairobi’s affluent neighbourhoods. Her decision disrupted deeply ingrained associations between earthen housing and economic deprivation.
If mud constructions were a symbol of poverty, how could they exist in a space synonymous with wealth, privilege, and modernity?
Such examples call for a rethinking of mud housing not as a residual practice of the poor, but as a conscious, technically sound and culturally rooted architectural choice.
It’s in my opinion that Luo mud houses constitute vernacular engineering systems that respond to climate change, use locally available materials, support social life, and align with sustainability, cultural integrity and land justice. Recognising them as legitimate traditional technological knowledge is essential both for preserving heritage and for advancing climate-responsive and rights-based housing debates.
Vernacular architecture refers to buildings made with locally available materials and techniques, developed through long-term adaptation to specific environmental and cultural contexts.
Such structures embody sophisticated engineering principles, including structural stability, thermal regulation, and material efficiency. Earthen methods such as wattle and rammed earth, used for centuries across Africa, Asia, and Europe, produce durable, climate-responsive buildings whose high thermal mass and compact or circular forms enhance temperature regulation and structural integrity.
Among the Luo community, traditional houses were built using mud or clay soils, wooden poles, reeds or grasses, and thatch sourced from the surrounding environment.
Soil selection was deliberate, favouring clay-rich earth that bound well, resisted cracking, and withstood seasonal rains. Thick walls provided stability and insulation.
Aesthetics was integral, as my friend Achieng Migaya from Sakwa Kowak narrated. Walls were often decorated in maroon, grey ash, or beige (“gu aidha”), while floors were patterned using aloe vera, cow dung, and silt.
Architectural forms, typically circular or modestly rectangular, reflected environmental and social considerations. Extended eaves protected walls from erosion, thatched roofs enhanced ventilation, and small openings regulated airflow, keeping interiors cool during hot seasons.
Construction was largely communal, as I witnessed growing up! Young men in the process of (goyo dala) rely on family and neighbourhood labour, with skills transmitted orally and through practice across generations.
This collective process reinforced social cohesion. Properly maintained mud houses could last for decades, supported by seasonal repair cycles responsive to climate change.
As concern over construction’s environmental cost grows, earthen buildings have gained renewed attention for their sustainability. They have low embodied energy, rely on minimally processed local materials, and use thermal mass to stabilise indoor temperatures without mechanical cooling.
Beyond their physical form, Luo houses were embedded within cultural and spatial systems. Homesteads (dala) were and in some cases still are organised according to kinship, gender roles, and social hierarchy, making architecture a material expression of social order and identity.
Housing was inseparable from land, shaped by indigenous tenure systems and deep relationships to territory. The erosion of these practices represents not only architectural loss but a weakening of cultural continuity and land relations.
The decline of Luo mud houses reflects not technical inadequacy but enduring stigma, policy neglect, and the devaluation of indigenous knowledge shaped by colonial and neoliberal notions of modernity.
As climate change, economic strain and land scarcity intensify, dismissing earthen architecture is increasingly becoming untenable.
Recognising Luo mud housing as legitimate vernacular engineering through inclusive building codes, supportive housing policies, and public re-education offers a pathway toward sustainable, affordable, and culturally grounded housing.
Preserving and adapting these techniques is not a return to the past, but a necessary step toward climate-responsive and rights-based development.
The writer is an advocate of the High Court of Kenya
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Often dismissed as symbols of poverty, backwardness or underdevelopment, these structures are increasingly being replaced by modern concrete and iron-sheet constructions that are perceived as markers of modernity.
This framing, however, misunderstands the nature of indigenous building systems.
Luo mud houses are not the product of architectural deficiency or an indicator of poverty, but rather the outcome of generational and accumulated engineering knowledge deeply embedded in environmental understanding, social organisation, and cultural practice. Each time I travel back to my village (Sakwa Bondo), I am struck by the enduring presence of my father’s
simba
, constructed more than three decades ago!
Despite its age, the structure remains firm, with no visible cracks or structural weakness. Leave alone my father’s, my kwara’s (grandfather) still stands strong.
Its quiet resilience stands in sharp contrast to the growing pressure across the village to replace such houses with so-called “modern” concrete buildings, often without questioning what is being lost in the process.
My curiosity deepened further through exposure to visual narratives that document women’s relationship to land and housing, as I watched Widow Champion (2025), a film directed by Zippy Kimundu.
I was particularly intrigued by scenes showing women actively engaged in the construction of mud houses, measuring, moulding, and assembling materials with evident architectural skills and confidence.
This challenged the dominant neoliberal assumptions about gender and technical knowledge in indigenous building systems. It prompted a critical question: Why, if there is something intelligent embedded in this building technology, is it framed as a marker of poverty? This question was reinforced by content shared by Lynn Ngugi on her YouTube channel, where she shares stories and narratives aimed at impacting and inspiring communities. They featured a woman who chose to build a mud house in Karen, one of Nairobi’s affluent neighbourhoods. Her decision disrupted deeply ingrained associations between earthen housing and economic deprivation.
If mud constructions were a symbol of poverty, how could they exist in a space synonymous with wealth, privilege, and modernity?
Such examples call for a rethinking of mud housing not as a residual practice of the poor, but as a conscious, technically sound and culturally rooted architectural choice.
It’s in my opinion that Luo mud houses constitute vernacular engineering systems that respond to climate change, use locally available materials, support social life, and align with sustainability, cultural integrity and land justice. Recognising them as legitimate traditional technological knowledge is essential both for preserving heritage and for advancing climate-responsive and rights-based housing debates.
Vernacular architecture refers to buildings made with locally available materials and techniques, developed through long-term adaptation to specific environmental and cultural contexts.
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Such structures embody sophisticated engineering principles, including structural stability, thermal regulation, and material efficiency. Earthen methods such as wattle and rammed earth, used for centuries across Africa, Asia, and Europe, produce durable, climate-responsive buildings whose high thermal mass and compact or circular forms enhance temperature regulation and structural integrity.
Among the Luo community, traditional houses were built using mud or clay soils, wooden poles, reeds or grasses, and thatch sourced from the surrounding environment.
Soil selection was deliberate, favouring clay-rich earth that bound well, resisted cracking, and withstood seasonal rains. Thick walls provided stability and insulation.
Aesthetics was integral, as my friend Achieng Migaya from Sakwa Kowak narrated. Walls were often decorated in maroon, grey ash, or beige (“gu aidha”), while floors were patterned using aloe vera, cow dung, and silt.
Architectural forms, typically circular or modestly rectangular, reflected environmental and social considerations. Extended eaves protected walls from erosion, thatched roofs enhanced ventilation, and small openings regulated airflow, keeping interiors cool during hot seasons.
Construction was largely communal, as I witnessed growing up! Young men in the process of (goyo dala) rely on family and neighbourhood labour, with skills transmitted orally and through practice across generations.
This collective process reinforced social cohesion. Properly maintained mud houses could last for decades, supported by seasonal repair cycles responsive to climate change.
As concern over construction’s environmental cost grows, earthen buildings have gained renewed attention for their sustainability. They have low embodied energy, rely on minimally processed local materials, and use thermal mass to stabilise indoor temperatures without mechanical cooling.
Beyond their physical form, Luo houses were embedded within cultural and spatial systems. Homesteads (dala) were and in some cases still are organised according to kinship, gender roles, and social hierarchy, making architecture a material expression of social order and identity.
Housing was inseparable from land, shaped by indigenous tenure systems and deep relationships to territory. The erosion of these practices represents not only architectural loss but a weakening of cultural continuity and land relations.
The decline of Luo mud houses reflects not technical inadequacy but enduring stigma, policy neglect, and the devaluation of indigenous knowledge shaped by colonial and neoliberal notions of modernity.
As climate change, economic strain and land scarcity intensify, dismissing earthen architecture is increasingly becoming untenable.
Recognising Luo mud housing as legitimate vernacular engineering through inclusive building codes, supportive housing policies, and public re-education offers a pathway toward sustainable, affordable, and culturally grounded housing.
Preserving and adapting these techniques is not a return to the past, but a necessary step toward climate-responsive and rights-based development.
The writer is an advocate of the High Court of Kenya
Follow The Standard
channel
on WhatsApp
By Sally Miruri