Language, laughter and lived experience

By Janet Olanrewaju

When I arrived in the dusty, sun-drenched Mwenezi district of southern Zimbabwe my task was clear: To pilot a tool I developed to assess the conservation of medicinal plants at the grassroots level.

It seemed straightforward on paper—I was eager to see how communities engage with biodiversity, not just as a concept in global conservation systems, but through lived experience. What unfolded during our few days of piloting felt far more personal, layered and instructive than I could have imagined.

The tool, called the Rapid Community-Based Assessment (RCBA) guide, was born out of research that aimed to bridge a critical gap between global conservation priorities and the deeply local, often invisible knowledge systems that hold the keys to plant survival.

I spent months developing the RCBA guide and designing tools that could eventually be used by communities themselves.

But paper doesn’t capture people. It didn’t capture the way a participant glanced at a plant name and suddenly burst into a story about how their grandmother used it to treat stomach aches, or how their neighbour insists it enhances fertility.

Paper couldn’t capture how language, literacy, laughter and lived experience shaped every moment of the community-led workshop. No number of literature reviews or virtual consultations could prepare me for the nuances that emerged in the face-to-face conversations I had with local biodiversity officers, gender specialists, forest officers and community leads.

Co-creation, not extraction

The RCBA guide I piloted in Mwenezi was developed as part of my research project as part of the Locally Led Indigenous Nature-based Solutions for Climate Change Adaptation in Zimbabwe project (LINCZ),  led by Mennonite Central Committee in partnership with Global Affairs Canada. 

Zimbabwe, like many African countries, possesses a wealth of traditional ecological knowledge—yet much of it remains undocumented, undervalued or misappropriated. The hope is for the RCBA guide I developed to support communities in identifying, documenting, and conserving medicinal plant knowledge in their local environments.

Rather than extracting information, this guide aims to hand over the pen and ask: How would communities assess the conservation status of their plants? What methods work best for them—whether focus groups, interviews or participatory walks? What tools are clear, respectful and usable, even in low-literacy settings?

Protecting knowledge in a world of bio-prospecting

During the three-day workshop hosted with the support of the community-based organization Score Against Poverty and a Forestry Commission officer, we didn’t just test a tool—we held conversations.

We questioned assumptions and laughed about the stickiness of Munama bushes that cling to your trousers as you walk. We debated what makes a method inclusive and what it means to protect knowledge in a world of bio-prospecting.

There were no field walks or drone surveys on this trip. What there were, instead, were jokes—and a lot of them—about which plant cures what, how certain leaves keep homes happy, and how knowledge lives in stories and not only books.

Later during my trip, I found myself at Bindura University to gather herbarium records. As I reviewed the records on the same plants we had discussed in Mwenezi, I realized the irony: the Latin names, carefully pinned to sheets, were meant to carry authority—yet they could never speak as powerfully as the grandmother who once used Mumvee to soothe a child’s rash.

These conversations revealed critical gaps in how research ethics translate to practice. At one point, Rosemary Chibi, Nature-Based Solutions Officer with Score Against Poverty, referenced Zimbabwe’s Statutory Instrument 61 of 2009, which sets out protocols for the collection, documentation and use of traditional medicine knowledge—including requirements for community consent, benefit-sharing agreements and protection against bio-piracy.

What might otherwise feel like a distant legal text became a practical reference point and a reminder that participatory research requires care—care in how data is stored, care in how names are recorded and care in ensuring that benefits flow back into communities and not just up the chain of academic publishing.

Stories first, categories second

The workshop in Mwenezi revealed on-the-ground adjustments that desktop research couldn’t have anticipated.

Participants struggled with certain technical terms, even when translated from English, and the visual aids needed cultural context. Most importantly, the sequencing of activities didn’t align with how knowledge flows in community settings—where stories come first, categories second.

Edwin Makavire, who had been quietly observing throughout the workshop, captured this perfectly: “We should not just ask for the names of plants. We should ask for the story of the plant,” he said. Edwin is a Score Against Poverty MEAL officer. His insight became a turning point in how I understood the fundamental structure of traditional knowledge sharing.

Based on this feedback, I’ve begun revising the RCBA guide to include multilingual options with locally appropriate terminology, clearer ethical reminders that reference Zimbabwe’s specific legal frameworks and new participatory tools that honour the narrative structure of traditional knowledge sharing. We’re also developing visual aids that reflect local plant varieties and cultural practices, moving away from generic illustrations toward community-specific resources.

The story is everything: Why this work matters

Medicinal plant knowledge isn’t just about meeting everyday needs. It’s about identity, heritage, agency, and in the context of climate change, it’s also about adaptation and survival.

Communities in Mwenezi aren’t waiting for outsiders to ‘save’ their ecosystems—they are already observing, adapting, and innovating. The RCBA guide is just one small tool in a vast toolbox and this trip showed me that the best tools are the ones reshaped through changing contexts.

The real innovation happens not in the initial design, but in the willingness to stand back and support as communities guide that reshaping process.

As my role with LINCZ winds down, I’m reminded of Edwin’s comment about asking for the story of the plant and not just its name.

That sentiment has stayed with me because it captures something so essential to community-led conservation: It recognizes that conserving biodiversity also means conserving the relationships, narratives and cultures that give that biodiversity meaning and ensure its continued care.

Because in conservation, and in research, the story is everything.