Erasing wisdom? Why we risk losing heritage as custodians of culture become targets of violence

In many African societies, the title wazee, Swahili for older, respected and dignified men and women, carries a meaning far deeper than age.

It embodies authority, wisdom, continuity and identity. For generations, elders have stood at the heart of community life, guiding rites of passage, safeguarding land, resolving disputes, and preserving the moral fabric of society.

But today, that foundation is steadily eroding.

As Kenya and Africa push forward into an era shaped by technology, urbanisation and globalisation, it risks leaving behind the people who hold its past.

Across the country, elders are diminishing in number, displaced from their homes, neglected, or, in some cases, violently targeted.

The result is a growing cultural void, one that experts warn could permanently sever communities from their roots.

Stand off

Traditionally, elders played an indispensable role from birth to death, ensuring that each stage of life was anchored in cultural meaning.

Among the Agikuyu, elderly women guided childbirth practices, advising on traditional herbs, postnatal care and early childhood rituals.

Naming ceremonies were often presided over by elders, who ensured children were connected to their lineage and ancestry.

Male elders, on the other hand, oversaw initiation rites, marking the transition from childhood to adulthood with teachings on responsibility, discipline and community values.

Among the Luo, elders were central to death rites, overseeing elaborate funeral ceremonies and determining burial sites based on lineage and family hierarchy.

They led tero buru, a ceremonial send-off that honours the deceased while reaffirming communal bonds.

In the Luhya community, elders similarly determine the location of graves, guided by the cause of death and family traditions, ensuring spiritual harmony within the homestead.

Marriage, one of the most critical institutions in African society, has historically been incomplete without elders.

Threats

Among the Kalenjin and Maasai, elders negotiate dowries, bless unions and mediate disagreements between families. Their authority is rarely questioned.

“They are the living libraries of our communities. Without them, rituals lose meaning, and traditions become hollow performances,” says cultural anthropologist Peter Njoroge.

Beyond ceremonies, elders have long served as custodians of land and arbiters of justice. In rural Kenya, where formal documentation of land ownership is often lacking, elders hold the memory of boundaries, inheritance lines and historical claims.

In village barazas, elders resolve disputes ranging from marital conflicts to land boundary disagreements through consensus and customary law. Their decisions, rooted in communal values, often prevent conflicts from escalating into violence.

“They were our judges, our historians and our moral compass. When elders spoke, communities listened,” says 68-year-old Mzee Daniel Otieno from Siaya.

Elders also played a critical role in house building, guiding the orientation of homes, rituals of occupation and the symbolic arrangement of family structures within a homestead.

Every detail, from the positioning of the main house to the placement of granaries, carried cultural significance, passed down through generations.

In coastal communities, particularly among fishing groups, elders serve as environmental stewards.

Through regular “wazee days,” they share knowledge on sustainable fishing practices, helping younger generations protect marine ecosystems.

“They are the spokespeople for the ocean. We are lucky to listen to their advice and wisdom,” says community elder Johana Wamuzandi.

Yet, despite their central role, elders today face unprecedented threats.

In parts of coastal Kenya, particularly Kilifi County, older people, especially widows, are increasingly becoming victims of violence fueled by superstition and greed.

Accused of witchcraft, many are attacked, displaced, or killed, often by relatives seeking to inherit land.

“This is no longer just about cultural beliefs. It is about power, property and a total disregard for human dignity,” says Sister Rosalia Katile of the Sisters of Hope For The elderly.

Her organisation runs Nyumba ya Wazee, a shelter established in 1969 that now houses more than 50 elderly individuals, most of them victims of such attacks.

“We have an elderly man here whose relatives tried to kill him to inherit his land. We also have women attacked by their own children after being accused of causing sickness or death,” Ms Katile says.

Title deeds

Human rights groups estimate that more than 160 elders have been killed in Kilifi in recent years over witchcraft accusations, figures believed to be significantly underreported.

Many more have fled their homes, seeking refuge in shelters run by religious organisations.

“I never thought my old age would look like this. We are refugees in our own land,” says 79-year-old Karisa Ndenge.

At the heart of many of these attacks lies land ownership or inheritance disputes.

In regions like Kilifi, where land values are rising due to tourism and real estate development, elders who are often the holders of title deeds or custodians of land history have become targets. Accusations of witchcraft are increasingly used as tools to dispossess them.

“Many victims are targeted not because of wrongdoing, but because someone wants their property. It is greed disguised as tradition,” says Hussein Khalid of Haki Afrika.

The breakdown of traditional systems of dispute resolution has worsened the situation. Where elders once mediated conflicts, disputes now escalate unchecked, often turning violent.

Church leaders warn of a growing culture of suspicion.

“Every death or misfortune is blamed on an elder, usually a grandmother or widow,” says William Charo, a catechist in Kilifi.

In several villages across Kilifi, including Ganze, Kaloleni, and Malindi, few residents over the age of 50 remain.

Many have been driven out or killed, leaving behind communities without guidance, memory, or moral authority.

Pattern

In one village, only two out of ten households still has elderly residents.

“This is how traditions disappear. Not through modernisation alone, but through the physical removal of those who carry them,” says Dr Njoroge.

A similar pattern persists in parts of Kisii County, where mob justice linked to witchcraft accusations has claimed lives. In one macabre incident in Metembe village, five members of a family, including elderly parents, were killed and their homes burned.

Such cases highlight how quickly suspicion can turn deadly, especially when fueled by unresolved grievances and land disputes.

As elders disappear, a generation is growing up disconnected from tradition. Without elders to guide them, marriage negotiations risk becoming purely transactional, stripped of cultural depth.

Burial rites may lose their spiritual significance. Land disputes, once resolved through dialogue, could escalate into prolonged legal battles or violence.

“We are heading toward a cultural vacuum. A society without elders is a society without roots,” warns sociologist Miriam Wanjiku.

Younger generations, particularly those raised in urban areas, often lack exposure to traditional practices. With elders absent or marginalised, there is no one to pass down oral histories, languages, or values.

Tambala Jefwa, a 74-year-old farmer, survived two brutal attacks in Kilifi after being accused of witchcraft. He lost an eye and suffered severe injuries. Despite the accusations, he believes the real motive was a land dispute.

“I was left for dead. I don’t know why they attacked me, but it can only be the land,” Jefwa says.

Social crisis

Similarly, 63-year-old Katana Chara now lives in a rescue centre after a machete attack left him without both hands. Accused of causing a child’s death through witchcraft, he insists his six-acre seafront land made him a target.

“I don’t have anything to do with witchcraft. It is about the land,” Chara says.

According to activists, such cases are widespread and often involve family members. Weak legal enforcement and cultural silence mean perpetrators are rarely held accountable.

Despite the grim reality, efforts are underway to protect elders and preserve cultural heritage.

Shelters like Kaya Godoma Rescue Centre provide refuge while also running outreach programmes to reconnect youth with elders. Community dialogues are being revived, and activists are pushing for stronger legal protections and enforcement of inheritance laws.

“We are teaching young people that misfortunes are not caused by old age or magic. We are helping them see that their problems won’t be solved by killing their grandparents,” says Sister Rosalia.

Some young people, after interacting with elders in shelters, have begun to reconsider long-held beliefs.

“We have seen some come back to apologise. We are planting seeds of compassion,” she adds.

The decline of the wazee is more than a social crisis; it is a cultural emergency.

Sister Rosalia warns that if the current trend continues, Kenya risks losing its “living archives”, the elders who carry history, identity and wisdom that books or digital records cannot replace.

As Africa advances, the challenge will be finding a balance between modernisation and cultural preservation.

Without deliberate efforts to protect and integrate elders into contemporary society, the continent may find itself rich in progress but poor in identity.

“We are caring for people whose grandchildren, not guards, should surround. If we don’t protect our elders, we lose the foundation of who we are,” says Sister Rosalia.