TURKANA – In Turkana, where the sun can be unforgiving and the landscape is often painted in shades of dust and brown, there is one sight that stands out the bright, unmistakable smile of its people. Against deep, sun-kissed melanin, white teeth seem to shine even brighter, producing what many would affectionately call the Turkana “banana smile.” But behind some of those smiles is a simple tree that has quietly served generations of families long before plastic toothbrushes became common in local shops.
It is Esekon, also known as Ethekon, the local name for Salvadora persica, a hardy tree that has survived alongside Turkana communities for generations. Its tender branches are cut, stripped, and softened before being chewed at one end until the fibres separate, turning a small piece of wood into a natural toothbrush. For many Turkana families, the practice is not a novelty. It is knowledge inherited from parents and grandparents and passed from one generation to another.
“My parents have been using the tree branch for many years and I have never heard them complain of toothache,” says David Esinyen, a resident of Kakong in Turkana South.
For 67-year-old Peter Ekaale of Lodwar, Esekon has been part of his life for more than six decades. “For more than 60 years, I have never visited the hospital complaining of tooth decay,” he says.
While Ekaale’s experience cannot by itself prove that Esekon prevents tooth decay, his testimony reflects the confidence generations of Turkana people have placed in the traditional practice.
And the story of Esekon goes beyond keeping teeth clean. In a county where communities regularly contend with drought, water scarcity, and increasingly unpredictable weather, the tree represents something much bigger a culture of making use of what the land provides.
Salvadora persica is naturally suited to dry environments. It can tolerate drought and saline conditions, allowing it to survive where many other plants struggle. For Turkana people, that resilience has made the tree useful in everyday life. A suitable branch can be cut and prepared without electricity, machinery, or expensive equipment. It can be carried to the grazing fields, taken on long journeys, or kept at home. That simplicity is part of what makes Esekon a powerful example of indigenous adaptation.
Long before climate change became a global policy conversation, Turkana communities were learning how to live with a harsh and changing environment by understanding the resources around them. They knew which plants survived the dry season, which ones could be used for medicine, food, or materials, and which could provide practical solutions when resources were limited. Esekon became one of them.
The knowledge is rarely written down. Instead, it is demonstrated. A child watches an elder select a branch. The bark is removed. One end is softened. The fibres spread out and a toothbrush emerges from what moments earlier was simply a twig. Years later, the child may repeat the same process for another generation. That is how indigenous knowledge survives.
Interestingly, the connection between Esekon and the Turkana people goes even deeper. Ethekon is also used as a name for children. The same word associated with a tree can therefore become part of a person’s identity, reflecting a cultural relationship in which nature is not simply something surrounding the community, but something woven into language, memory, and everyday life.
Modern science has also taken an interest in Salvadora persica, commonly known as the miswak or toothbrush tree. Studies have reported antibacterial and antiplaque properties and potential benefits for plaque control and gum health, although researchers caution that more evidence is needed. The traditional toothbrush should therefore not be presented as a miracle cure or a replacement for fluoride toothpaste and professional dental care.
But for Turkana communities, the importance of Esekon is not confined to what happens inside a laboratory. The tree also represents an opportunity to preserve indigenous knowledge while creating small economic opportunities. Prepared Esekon sticks can sell for around KSh20, giving people who harvest and prepare them a modest source of income while keeping the traditional practice alive.
And perhaps that is why the tree continues to matter. It survives in the same environment as the people who depend on it. It tolerates heat. It withstands drought. It asks for little. And yet, it continues to give.
In that sense, Esekon mirrors the resilience of Turkana communities themselves. The story begins with a twig but ends with something much larger a lesson about adaptation, culture, and identity. Because the Turkana smile is not simply about white teeth against dark melanin. Behind some of those smiles is generations of knowledge. An elder who knew which branch to cut. A parent who taught a child how to prepare it. A tree that survived the dryland. And a community that learned how to survive with it.
The plastic toothbrush may be modern, but Esekon is older. It is a toothbrush. It is a tradition. It is a source of income. It is a name. And it is a living reminder that climate resilience did not begin with modern climate programmes. In Turkana, some of it has been growing quietly from the land all along.
