Kenya's conservancies are transforming wildlife protection by showing that people and nature can thrive together.

At latitude zero, in Laikipia County, central Kenya, two magnificent creatures graze quietly under the morning sun. Their names are Najin and Fatu, the world's last two remaining Northern White rhinos. They move slowly, their immense frames casting long shadows on the dry grass as armed rangers watch silently nearby, never more than a few metres away.

It was here, within the 90,000-acre Ol Pejeta Conservancy, that their ancestor, Sudan, the last male of the subspecies, walked his final steps before dying in March 2018. His grave now lies under a tree, a quiet reminder of how close the world lost an entire lineage. Around this sacred ground, the conservancy hums with life.

Zebras flick their tails as they trot across the plains. Elephants gather near water marshes, splashing dust over their backs. From a distance, a group of schoolchildren in standard uniforms watch through binoculars, their teacher pointing at a herd of impalas grazing nearby. For many, this is their first encounter with Kenya's wild heritage, and the lesson is clear: wildlife and people can coexist.

"Conservancies are showing that conservation and community development are not opposites," says Vincent Oluoch, programmes manager at the Kenya Wildlife Conservancies Association (KWCA). "They are two sides of the same coin. When people see value in protecting wildlife, they protect it voluntarily."

A model born out of crisis

Kenya's wildlife once seemed boundless. But over the past four decades, the East African country lost nearly 68 percent of its wildlife population -- victims of poaching, land-use changes, and the growing human-wildlife conflict. National parks, once seen as the backbone of conservation, struggled to balance ecological protection with public participation.

Out of that crisis emerged the conservancy model, landscapes managed by communities or private entities that combine conservation, tourism, and livelihoods. Today, there are more than 200 registered conservancies across Kenya, covering nine million hectares, roughly 15 percent of the country's total landmass. These conservancies, linked under the KWCA umbrella, now anchor Kenya's ambitious 30×30 target: protecting 30 percent of land and sea by 2030.

"The Wildlife Conservation and Management Act of 2013 was a turning point," Oluoch explains. "For the first time, the law legally recognised conservancies as formal conservation areas. We now have structured systems where communities and private actors co-manage land. The results speak for themselves, reduced poaching, restored habitats, and better livelihoods." He adds: "About 45 percent of Kenya's black rhino population now lives within conservancies, mostly in Laikipia. In some areas, poaching incidents have dropped to zero for over five years. That's a powerful shift."

Ol Pejeta

Few places illustrate that transformation better than Ol Pejeta Conservancy, a once-colonial cattle ranch turned into one of Africa's most successful conservation enterprises. Today, it shelters East Africa's largest population of black rhinos, 173 individuals alongside 51 Southern White rhinos and, of course, Najin and Fatu, the Northern White rhinos whose survival depends on groundbreaking science. Behind their care is a team of devoted keepers. Jeremy Kimathi, one of Ol Pejeta's rhino caregivers, shares an intimate perspective. "These animals are family," Kimathi says, looking over the wide enclosure where the two rhinos graze. "We tried the first embryo transfer in 2023 using a Southern White rhino as a surrogate mother, but sadly, she died at 70 days. The next attempt will be later this year. We still believe we can bring the Northern White rhino back."

Using advanced in-vitro fertilisation (IVF) technology, scientists have already created and preserved multiple embryos using eggs from Fatu and sperm from deceased males. The hope is to find a surrogate mother to carry the embryos to full term. This is a last-ditch attempt to reverse extinction. Yet, as Enid Nkatha, head of tourism at Ol Pejeta, points out, conservation here is not only about protecting species. It's about people. "We realised early that we cannot protect animals if our neighbours see no benefit in them," she says. "So we built a model where conservation creates jobs, scholarships, and opportunities for the communities around us."

Each year, Ol Pejeta awards over 300 scholarships to children from surrounding villages. Residents are prioritised in hiring, from rangers to hospitality workers and administrative staff. "Before we employ anyone," Nkatha adds, "we first contact the community. If someone qualified is available, they get the job. Only when no one fits the role do we advertise outside. That builds trust and ownership."

Turning conflict into coexistence

Across Africa, human-wildlife conflict remains one of the biggest threats to conservation. Elephants raid farms, lions attack livestock, and frustrated communities often retaliate. Ol Pejeta has worked to turn this tension into collaboration. "When our neighbours lose animals to theft or predators, they can call us directly," Nkatha explains. "Our canine unit and rangers help trace and recover livestock. We also hold barazas [public meetings] where we listen to their concerns. It's not about policing; it's about partnership."

Community leaders serve as liaisons, ensuring open communication between the conservancy and nearby villages. Schoolchildren are also regular guests on educational visits. "We bring them for game drives, to see what we do and why it matters," she says. "Some of our staff started as interns from these communities. Now they're part of the conservancy team. That's what success looks like."

The economics of conservation

At Ol Pejeta, sustainability is not charity, it is economics. Tourism generates about 65 percent of conservancy revenue across Kenya, according to KWCA data. Ol Pejeta alone welcomes more than 110,000 visitors annually, with a self-imposed cap of 120,000 to avoid ecosystem strain. "We know our limits," Nkatha says. "Once we reach 120,000 visitors, we'll pause and evaluate. Conservation must never come at the expense of the ecosystem. For now, we're within safe limits, and every visitor directly supports conservation."

The conservancy markets itself as part of the "Magical Kenya" experience, offering guests immersive wildlife adventures from tracking collared lions with radio antennas and night drives to Run the Wild, a morning jog alongside rangers through the plains. Behind the scenes, Ol Pejeta also runs a livestock-wildlife integration programme. More than 6,000 Boran cattle graze within the conservancy in controlled rotations, trimming grass and enriching the soil through manure, helping sustain wild herbivore habitats. "It's a win-win," Nkatha smiles. "The cows feed, the land stays healthy, and wildlife always finds fresh grass. Plus, the cattle program generates extra income that supports our conservation work."

The business of coexistence

Across Kenya, conservancies collectively host around 240 tourism facilities with a bed capacity of 3,450, directly benefiting over 8,000 people and generating approximately $26m (Shs89.5b) annually. Yet, only about 100 out of Kenya's 245 conservancies operate formal tourism ventures leaving enormous room for investment. "Tourism is not just about lodges," Oluoch explains. "It's about value chains, beekeeping, guiding, crafts, and local produce. When investors partner with conservancies, communities become stakeholders, not bystanders."

Counties like Samburu, Narok, Taita Taveta, and Baringo are now allocating budgetary funds to support conservancies. "Samburu already passed legislation to fund its conservancies," Oluoch notes. "During Covid-19, the national government even paid ranger salaries for a year. That shows how vital these landscapes have become."

Challenges and prospects

Despite success stories, challenges persist. Many emerging conservancies rely heavily on donor funding, limiting their long-term sustainability. "Younger conservancies need help to build governance structures and management systems," Oluoch admits. "Bigger ones face higher operational costs, more rangers, vehicles, and infrastructure. KWCA acts as a funnel, channelling funds where they're most needed."

He argues that the future lies in diversified income streams not just tourism, but also carbon credits, livestock programs, and ecosystem service payments.

"Sustainability will come when conservancies earn from multiple sources. That's when conservation becomes self-sustaining," he says. At its heart, Ol Pejeta's success rests on a simple but radical idea: conservation must pay its way, not only for wildlife, but for people too. When tourists buy beadwork from local women's groups, when herders earn salaries as rangers, and when children from nearby schools win scholarships funded by park fees -- conservation stops being an external agenda and becomes a shared community aspiration.

"Our people now see wildlife as an asset," Nkatha says with pride.