On the mudflats outside Mombasa, the tide does not sit still for long. It pulls in, withdraws, leaves behind a surface that looks soft but behaves like something less forgiving once you step into it. On a stretch of coast usually shaped by salt, heat, and passing weather systems, a man spent close to a full day moving in a narrow rhythm between holes already dug and saplings waiting to be pressed into place. The work did not pause much for daylight or nightfall. It just carried on, with a small group around him and a line of young mangroves gradually taking hold in the sand-heavy soil. What happened there later became a record, though on the ground it looked more like repetition than spectacle.
