Through My Lens: Reclaiming the Wild Stories of My Homeland

When I look through my camera lens at a lioness lounging in the golden savannah or a herd of elephants tracing ancient migratory paths, I don’t just see subjects to photograph. I see echoes of the lives my ancestors lived, the paths they walked, and the stories they passed down long before colonial maps drew borders or Western books claimed discovery. I am a Kenyan woman, a wildlife photographer born of the same soil that nourished the creatures I now document. These animals are not exotic to me. They are not "discoveries". They are home. Their names, the Simba (lion), the Ndovu (elephant), the Kifaru (rhinoceros) (these names are in Kiswahili, and in Kenya, we have 42 official tribes, each with its own mother tongue and unique names for wildlife), existed in our languages long before Latin classifications labeled them for Western encyclopaedias.

Lioness roaring in savanna

Between Cultures and Identities

Yet, for much of my life, I have carried the feeling of being both inside and outside this home I call Kenya. I was raised in a mixed household; my stepfather is Irish, my biological father is half Danish and half Kenyan, and my mother is fully Kenyan. I attended British schools, learned English with a near native accent, and was often praised for how well I spoke, as though that was the measure of intelligence. In many ways, I was surrounded by Western culture in my own home country. And sometimes, because of that, I felt like a visitor in my own land, as if I were on the outside looking in. That feeling made me gravitate to the wild. In the savannah, with the elephants and the lions, I didn’t need to explain who I was. Learning the traditional names of animals and how they connect to spirituality, wisdom, and ancestral knowledge, it all helped me find a deeper sense of home. I’m not just documenting wildlife. I am, in many ways, a student, learning about the land I come from and the animals that live in it, from the inside out.

Finding a Place Behind the Camera

I am often met with surprise when I say I am a wildlife photographer. The field has long been dominated and globally represented by Western voices. Their documentaries, their magazines, their names watermarking images of our animals on our land. But when did the camera become a symbol of authority, and why was it assumed we could not hold it? I’ve seen it firsthand, the safari trucks rolling in with long lenses and international visitors, while people who look like me are the ones driving them around. I’ve been mistaken for a spotter, or assumed to be part of the staff, even with my camera hanging around my neck. Sometimes it feels like calling the female pilot an air hostess, or the female doctor a nurse. There is nothing wrong with those roles, they are essential, but why is it the default assumption for women?

Leopard sitting on a rock

Even when I’m carrying my big 400mm prime lens, my absolute favourite, I’m often asked if I can even lift it. That’s always my favourite moment, because not only can I lift it, I hold it steady for long stretches without a beanbag or support. The assumptions, both from people in my own country and from elsewhere, often suggest that I should have a more comfortable job, something more conforming, less physically demanding, less adventurous. But this work, this challenge, this freedom, it’s exactly where I belong. But I didn’t always know that.

Imara using Ishara Mara equipment Canon EOS R3 and Canon RF 400MM

When Photography Became Survival

During the COVID 19 pandemic, life shifted for everyone, but especially for my mother and me. We went through a real financial struggle. Everything slowed down or stopped, and I remember sitting with her, both of us unsure what would come next. We didn’t have a safety net. What I did have was a camera, a bit of experience, and a love for the wild that had never left me. Photography was the only skill I had that could bring in something, anything. And it was the only thing that didn’t feel like a burden to do, even in the hardest moments.I always say I didn’t choose photography. It chose me. And maybe it chose me not just to survive those difficult times, but to share this journey with the next generation, especially young girls who look like me. Girls from different backgrounds, rural villages, or city corners, who might feel like they don’t belong in spaces like this. Girls who have been made to feel too small for a big, wild world. I want them to know: you belong here too.

Reclaiming Ancestral Knowledge and Storytelling

Growing up, I would watch wildlife films narrated in polished British accents (which inspired me to narrate my very first short documentary on a cheetah and her cubs in my own Kenyan accent), marvelling at the landscapes I knew intimately. But something always felt missing. The stories were about the animals, yes, but not the relationship we, as local people, have with them. Not the knowledge passed down through generations, how to read an elephant's mood by its ears, how to tell when the rains are coming by the movement of the birds. There is a deep ancestral knowledge here. It’s not written, but it’s known. My grandfather could tell you where elephants cross at dusk without needing GPS coordinates. My grandmother could name every bird in the sky by song alone. These are not anecdotes; they are living science, oral ecology. But somehow, this knowledge has often been left out of mainstream wildlife narratives. This is why I photograph. Not just to capture beauty, but to reclaim narrative. To tell stories from a perspective rooted in belonging, not observation. I want young Kenyan girls to see my photos and know they, too, can document, preserve, and protect our wildlife. That their eyes, their names, and their voices matter in global conversations about conservation.

Close-up of an elephant with large tusks

The Power of Seeing Wild With Memory and Lens

There is power in seeing with both memory and lens. I walk paths where my ancestors once tracked herds, not for research, but for survival, ceremony, and coexistence. I listen to the land as they did. And now I add a camera to the mix, not to impose a new narrative, but to preserve an ancient one. This is not about exclusion or division. It is about balance. It is about acknowledging that for centuries, Africa has been documented by those who came from elsewhere, often with the lens of curiosity or conquest. Now, it’s time for more of us, those who live here, who are from here, to be behind the lens, shaping the story. The wild does not belong to one voice. And the next generation of wildlife storytellers will be multilingual, multi perspective, and yes, proudly African.

Migrating elephant herd under heavy rain

A Land That Knows Me

So, as I step into the bush with my camera in hand, I carry with me not just modern gear, but ancient stories. I shoot not just with my eyes, but with memory. With purpose. With love. This land knows me. And now, the world will know that I know it too.

Portrait of Imara