By Lamin Fatty
In the eastern reaches of The Gambia, far from the capital of Banjul, a quiet assault is underway on one of the region’s most vital natural resources: the Cordyla africana tree, locally known as wulakono duto or wild mango. Revered for its towering height, sprawling branches, and ecological importance, the indigenous species is vanishing at an alarming rate as timber smugglers lay waste to the rural forests.
In villages like Wulli and Sandu in the Upper River Region, truckloads of illegally harvested Cordyla logs are hauled in midday. Though The Gambia officially banned timber exports in 2022 and revoked all export licenses, the ban appears to be poorly enforced, particularly in the hinterlands. Residents say the felling of Cordyla trees has not only continued — it has intensified.
“It’s devastating,” said Buna Dem, a farmer and village head in Sinchu Sura. “They cut down almost all our precious trees during Ramadan. Now the forest around us is empty.”
Known for its resilience and environmental value, Cordyla africana belongs to the legume family Fabaceae and thrives in sandy soils. Scientists emphasise its role in carbon storage, windbreaks, and ecosystem stability — all crucial functions in a region plagued by drought, windstorms, and climate vulnerability. The loss of such trees, experts say, will likely worsen climate impacts already straining Gambian agriculture.
“The trees used to shield our farms and hold the rains,” said Rockia Barrow, a groundnut farmer in the region. “Now we’re bracing for worse windstorms and failed harvests.”
Ms. Barrow’s concerns echo a broader anxiety across The Gambia’s farming communities, where dependence on rain-fed agriculture has become increasingly tenuous amid erratic weather patterns. The country’s eastern regions frequently experience dry spells during the rainy season, threatening the livelihoods of thousands of subsistence farmers.
Environmentalists and villagers say the timber is transported in plain sight, often passing through police and customs checkpoints without consequence. In Sare Ngai, a town housing both a police station and a customs post, logs are routinely loaded onto trucks bound for Banjul.
“Everyone sees it,” Mr. Dem said. “So who’s allowing it?”
Authorities, however, maintain they are responding. Bakary Jarju, the regional director of forestry in the Upper River Region, said his office recently seized timber and arrested suspects involved in the smuggling operation.
“We’re taking action,” Mr. Jarju said in an interview. “Some individuals have been bailed and will face trial.”
But a month after Ramadan ended, no court proceedings have been reported, fueling speculation about official complicity or inertia. Critics say such delays are emblematic of deeper governance issues — a pattern of environmental mismanagement and a lack of accountability that has enabled forest exploitation for decades.
The smuggling of Cordyla timber, once rare, now poses an existential threat to rural ecosystems. Forestry experts warn that continued deforestation will undermine not only biodiversity but also the country’s fragile climate adaptation efforts. With fewer trees to buffer storms and hold moisture, rural Gambia is becoming increasingly susceptible to floods, erosion, and agricultural collapse.
The country’s meteorological department has linked deforestation to prolonged dry spells in July and August — the heart of the growing season. In August and September, erratic rainfall and windstorms often damage infrastructure and farmlands, exacerbating poverty in the regions least equipped to cope.
As the Cordyla trees fall, so too does a natural safeguard in the fight against climate change. For communities already on the front lines, the stakes could not be higher. Without urgent action, environmental advocates warn, the next generation of Gambians may grow up never knowing the shade of a wulakono duto.
The National Environment Agency was contacted for comment, but did not respond to multiple requests.
