The Indian Ocean has long been a lifeline for Kenya’s coastal communities. For generations, fishermen here have relied on the country’s waters for food, income, and even identity. But today, their livelihoods are under siege. Industrial fishing by foreign powers, such as China, has disrupted local ecosystems and devastated fish stocks. While these Chinese companies profit immensely, Kenya’s small-scale fishermen are being pushed to the brink of survival.

To understand the extent of this exploitation, I decided to go undercover with a fisherman I befriended in Malindi, a coastal town in southeastern Kenya. Together, we planned to infiltrate a Chinese seafood processing plant notorious for handling high-value species like crabs and lobsters—luxuries extracted from Kenyan waters and sold at exorbitant prices overseas.

Before diving into my investigation, it’s crucial to understand how China’s expanding presence in Kenya’s fishing industry has reshaped the balance of power, leaving local fishermen grappling with the fallout.

China’s involvement in East African fisheries is part of a larger economic strategy that often blurs the lines between opportunity and exploitation. Chinese trawlers and processing plants dominate Kenya’s fishing landscape, extracting vast quantities of seafood—much of it brought back to China to be sold at exorbitant prices. For Kenya’s fishermen, the impact is devastating.

However, if China is taking Kenya’s fish, what are they giving back? On the surface, Beijing has funded massive infrastructure projects like the $5 billion Kenya Standard Gauge Railway (SGR), which slashed travel times between the capital Nairobi and Mombasa and promised economic growth. Yet these benefits come with significant drawbacks. Kenya now owes over $8 billion to China, and many other projects—such as extending the railway to Uganda—remain unfinished due to rising debt.

President William Ruto’s request for an additional $1 billion loan and debt restructuring in 2022 highlights how Kenya struggles under the weight of its financial obligations. Critics also point to the environmental impact of these projects, such as the railway cutting through wildlife parks, and allegations of corruption tied to Chinese contractors. Road networks under the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI), often branded as transformative, have left Kenya increasingly dependent on foreign lenders while failing to provide sustainable, long-term value for its citizens.

The Kenyan government has tried to respond with policies like proposed bans on Chinese fish imports and stricter monitoring of foreign vessels. But these measures often fall short of addressing the deep structural inequalities that leave local fishermen at the mercy of global powers.

Posing as the owner of a London-based restaurant interested in purchasing a significant quantity of seafood, I convinced one of the factory workers to grant us access to their facilities. My Kenyan companion, a local fisherman who speaks fluent Swahili, played a crucial role in persuading the gatekeeper to let us in, weaving together a story that made our visit seem legitimate. He introduced himself—though, as I believe, it was more of a nickname—Gas.

The moment we stepped inside, I was struck by the eerie sterility of the operation. Vast tubs overflowed with crabs and lobsters—creatures harvested in mass quantities from the same waters local fishermen struggle to eke out their living from.

But it wasn’t just the sheer volume of seafood that left an impression. Hanging on the wall was a large poster bearing a parable that seemed oddly out of place: “This is a story about four people named Everybody, Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody. There was an important job to be done, and Everybody was sure that Somebody would do it. Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it. Somebody got angry about that because it was Everybody’s job. Everybody thought Anybody could do it, but Nobody realised that Everybody wouldn’t do it. It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody when Nobody did what Anybody could have.”

The poster carried an unsettling irony. Perhaps the Chinese workers saw themselves as the “Somebody” finally getting the job done. But to me, it symbolised something much darker—a continuation of the same story Africa has known for centuries. A story of colonial exploitation, where foreign powers arrive with a ‘status quo’ mentality, assuming they can do what the local population never could. It’s a narrative that erases the strength and resilience of the people who live in this beautiful, vibrant continent.

As I wandered deeper into the warehouse, I caught sight of something that left a deeper mark. Near the bottom of the open space, among thousands of stacked boxes, several women workers lay sprawled on the cold concrete floor, trying to get some rest due to the blazing heat of the 40-degree day.

The moment I reached for my phone to capture the scene, one of the Chinese guards appeared out of nowhere. Speaking swiftly in Swahili, he rushed towards me, attempting to grab my phone and demanding that I leave the premises immediately.

We stood outside for a while, reflecting on what we had just seen. Thanks to the help of the fisherman who ensured we weren’t caught immediately, we managed to arrange a meeting with one of the women working inside. She asked to remain anonymous for fear of retribution but told us about her dire working conditions in the fish factory. She revealed that she was paid just $2.70 a day for a 10-hour shift—a rate that barely covered the most basic of necessities.

During my time in Malindi, I spent days alongside Abdullah, a 26-year-old fisherman who has known the ocean since he was a boy. Abdullah wakes before dawn, hauling nets into his boat alongside a crew of nine men. But while his father could once bring home a bounty after a single day’s work, Abdullah now travels for days, even crossing into Somali waters, to find fish.

On one such trip, the crew spent three gruelling days at sea. Their reward? A fraction of what they once caught near the shore. “It’s not like before,” Abdullah told me. “Ten years ago, we could catch enough fish in a day to earn 2,000 shillings [£12.11]. Now we make less than 200 shillings [£1.10].”

The depletion of fish stocks is forcing fishermen like Abdullah to make impossible choices. Many are abandoning the trade altogether, leaving communities fractured and families struggling.

Another family I interviewed painted an even bleaker picture. Suleiman, a father in his 50s, told me he had fished these waters his entire life. But now, with fish becoming scarce, he can no longer provide for his family. His 18-year-old son, Mohamed, who once dreamed of taking over the family trade, is considering leaving Malindi entirely to look for work in the city.

“It’s hard,” the father said, his voice heavy with resignation. “We wake up early, we pray, we go to the sea, and we come back empty. How do you tell your family there’s no fish to sell tonight?”

What struck me most was the family’s resilience. Despite their struggles, they clung to their faith and their traditions, hoping that one day, the ocean would recover.

The boy, though frustrated, still joins his father on the water every morning. “The sea is in my blood,” he said. “Even if it’s empty, it’s where I belong.”

The story of Kenya’s fishermen is one of profound injustice. It’s a story that should make anyone angry. While foreign powers extract wealth from Africa’s resources, local communities are left to bear the cost.

The haunting sight of that poster in the Chinese factory still lingers in my mind. It speaks to the systemic inequalities that allow such exploitation to persist—a system in which Everybody points fingers, Somebody profits, Anybody could make a difference, but Nobody helps.

For fishermen like Abdullah and the family I met, the ocean is more than just a source of income. It’s their heritage, their identity, and their future. But with every lobster plucked from Kenyan waters and sold overseas, that future grows dimmer.

Africa is not a continent to be ‘fixed’ by outsiders. Its people have always known the value of their land and seas. What they need now is not an intervention but solidarity—a global acknowledgement that their fight for justice is ours too.