A Journey from Rural Kenya to Global Stewardship

I write this book with soil under my fingernails and satellites in my vision.

My story begins in the rolling hills of Kiambu County, where I learned my first lessons about land not from textbooks, but from watching my grandfather carefully tend his shamba. The red earth that stained my school uniform each morning taught me that land was more than coordinates on a map — it was life, legacy, and the foundation upon which families built their futures.

Those early years in rural Kenya shaped my understanding in ways no university lecture ever could. I watched disputes arise over boundary markers that had shifted with the rains. I saw families prosper when they invested wisely in their land, and I witnessed others lose everything to unscrupulous dealers who exploited their lack of formal documentation. Most profoundly, I observed how land was woven into the fabric of identity — how a person’s sense of belonging, dignity, and hope was often tied to their relationship with the earth beneath their feet.

When I left Kiambu for the University of Nairobi to pursue a Bachelor of Science in Surveying, I carried with me questions that would shape my entire career: How can we measure and map the earth in ways that serve justice? How can technology strengthen rather than replace traditional relationships with land? How can we build systems that honor both efficiency and equity?

The precision instruments and mathematical principles I learned at UoN gave me tools to measure the physical world with unprecedented accuracy. But they also raised deeper questions. Every coordinate I plotted, every boundary I established, every parcel I surveyed carried moral weight. Behind each technical measurement lay human stories — dreams of prosperity, fears of displacement, hopes for inheritance, struggles for justice.

My journey took me from the familiar landscapes of Kenya to the technical universities of Stuttgart, where I pursued a Master’s in Applied Sciences. In Germany, I encountered land administration systems built on centuries of legal precedent and technological sophistication. Yet I also saw how different contexts demanded different approaches. The precision that worked in Bavaria might not serve a pastoralist community in Northern Kenya. The systems that ensured security for a German farmer might exclude a widow in Kakamega who held customary rights but no formal title.

The contrast became even more pronounced during my doctoral studies at Tokyo University, where I delved into remote sensing and weather forecasting. Working with microwave satellite data, I gained an almost divine perspective on the earth — seeing vast swaths of territory from space, understanding how weather patterns shaped agricultural productivity across continents.

Yet it was precisely this aerial view that brought me back to the ground. From satellites hundreds of kilometres above the earth, I could observe weather patterns affecting millions of people, but I could not see the individual farmer deciding whether to plant or harvest, the family negotiating access to water, the community wrestling with land disputes. Technology could provide incredible tools for understanding and managing the earth, but it could not replace the human relationships, cultural wisdom, and spiritual foundations that give land its meaning.

This realization led me to a profound question that has driven my work ever since: How can we integrate the precision of modern technology with the wisdom of traditional stewardship and the justice demands of biblical faith?

From the hills of Kiambu to the satellites above, in service of justice and stewardship.

Excerpt from Land, Legacy & Faith: A Biblical View of Property, Wealth, and Stewardship by David N. Kuria. © 2025 David N. Kuria. All rights reserved. Questions: geo@fayvad.com