This interview is part of a series profiling the stories of the 2024 WE Africa leadership programme fellows, African women in the environmental conservation sector who are showing up with a strong back, soft front, and wild heart.
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In 2024, Balkissa Daoura attended a conference alongside other Climate Justice Activists from over 20 African countries. They had gathered in Senegal for something powerful: The African Peoples Counter COP (APCC). This movement had been set up in response to the failure of global climate conferences that talk a big game, spend millions and achieve little. APCC was meant to be different, but instead, it was turning out to be more of the same.
The participants were meeting in a luxury hotel while the people they were claiming to fight for were living without homes. The energy was stiff. Delegates barely acknowledged each other. Most were glued to their phones. Balkissa tried to make meaningful connections in vain. By day two, she’d seen enough. She took the mic.
“We can’t be behaving this way,” she said. “I am not sorry to say this, but you keep talking about solidarity against imperialism, but you’re doing the same things as the imperialists. In fact, you are doing better than them. You are excellent students.”
Later, a few people approached Balkissa and thanked her. They were feeling the same way but didn’t know how to express it.
Others thought she had gone too far.
But Balkissa stood firm: “I know how my community is living, and I don’t have time to waste,” she said.
And that is a glimpse into the woman known as Balkissa Daoura.
At face value, her bubbly personality can be mistaken for something else. In my conversation with her, I can’t help but remember the line from a Glen Washington song where, in the chorus, he says: Don’t take my sweetness for weakness.
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Balkissa grew up in western Niger, and her identity was shaped by two distinct traditions. Her father came from a long line of Fulani herders, and his heritage was rooted in Islamic traditions. Her mother’s family had a strong educational background with Indigenous religious beliefs that later converted to Christianity and Islam.
During the week, Balkissa attended Catholic school, and on weekends, she went to Islamic school. At home, she spoke Hausa, her mother’s language. At school, it was French and English. There was a constant shift in her learnings between languages, cultures, foods and religions.
How did such a diverse household remain intact? I ask her.
“Through lots and lots of humour and tolerance,” she says. “My parents would constantly joke about their ethnic differences, and we would all laugh so hard. I’ve always enjoyed happy places."
Her father used to joke, "Don’t tell Balkissa because she’ll laugh at me!" And while she brings energy and humour wherever she goes, she knows when to switch gears and approach important issues with the seriousness they deserve.
Being the middle child, she was the bridge, the peacemaker, the messenger who relayed news between family members. For that matter, she often put her sister and brother's happiness before her own. “Friends have often asked me, ‘You make sure everyone around you is happy, but are you?’”
Her answer to that question is a resounding yes. “When I did things, I needed to see that pride in my parents’ eyes. It wasn’t just for me; it was for them too,” she says.
“It’s not like I am suffering when I please someone. No, it is a kind of accountability. More than that, it has taught me to empathise.”
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When Balkissa was young, she would see massive trucks rolling into the region where she lived. She asked her parents what was happening. Her dad said it was food. People were struggling to feed themselves. Her mum chimed in with a different perspective, “If people planted more trees, at least they’d have leaves to eat,” she said.
The comment was enough to send Balkissa and her siblings into hysterics. "We laughed so hard—Oh my goodness, people will eat leaves from trees!" Her dad just shook his head and said, "Your mother is too much."
Balkissa had no idea her mother was, in fact, referring to leafy greens. But that moment stuck with her.
As the trucks continued coming into the region, Balkissa saw the discomfort in her community. The sacks of corn came from faraway places, and religious leaders discouraged people from accepting them. The argument was that doing so made them dependent and submissive. The message was everywhere.
Her mother would say, "If you keep waiting for someone to give you something, you lose your drive."
Food aid wasn't just seen as unhelpful; it was culturally unacceptable in their eyes.
One day, while in primary school, Balkissa’s teachers gathered the students to watch Al Gore’s documentary, An Inconvenient Truth. As she sat in the darkened room, the camera zoomed in on a familiar landscape—her father’s region around Lake Chad. It showed the lake shrinking, drying up, and losing its ability to sustain life.
Balkissa rushed home, eager to share what she had seen with her mum. “They showed our region in the movie!” she said.
But her mum didn’t share her excitement. Instead, she said, “If they showed our region, it’s because things are getting worse.”
She went on to recount how, just a few years earlier, they had to change routes to reach her grandmother’s village because the land had become too sandy, and the Sahara was getting closer. Sometimes, navigating the terrain was so complicated that they had to leave the cows behind and continue their voyage with camels. Balkissa was too young to remember, but her mother did.
Then came the words that stayed with her: “Your generation will have to do something about it”. Meanwhile, Balkissa’s little mind was racing. “So, does that mean Grandma has to come live with us?” she asked.
Her mother sighed. “If only. But you know how much she loves her home. Can you really see her leaving?”
Balkissa knew the answer. Her grandmother would never leave. The only real solution was to find ways for her—and others like her—to stay in their homes. That was the moment Balkissa truly understood the deeper implications: this was about protecting the dignity of her people.
***
A fashion designer. That was what Balkissa wanted to become. When it was time to join the university, there was a family debate.
Her mother, though not outright dismissive, was hesitant. “From what I hear, it’s not always an easy life,” she cautioned. “You’ll be surrounded by people with very different values.”
For a moment, Balkissa considered doing it in secret, but deep down, she knew that wasn’t an option. “As soon as I saw that concern in mum’s eyes, I knew I wouldn’t have her full blessing. And I couldn’t go into something like that without it.”
Her parents reminded her that she was good at science, loved biology, and cared about animals and trees.
Balkissa’s face lit up. “Yes! I could work with trees my whole life!”
That conversation set her on a different course. She pursued a degree in biology and later completed an engineering program in Land Management and Environment. But something still felt incomplete. The focus leaned too much toward urban areas, and she knew her heart was in rural communities.
“For my Master’s, rural development made sense,” she explains. “That’s where I come from. That is where I will always go back.”
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Entering the workforce, Balkissa often found herself in male-dominated spaces, where her education was both an asset and a threat.
“They told me to my face: ‘Balkissa, you have the degree, and we only have experience. You’ll outrank us one day, and we won’t let that happen’.”
However, for someone who grew up in a matriarchal community where women were the backbone of decision-making, these comments were like water off a duck’s back. "My mum was always the one people went to for decisions," Balkissa says. In their culture, even her father would defer to her mother regarding family matters. And so, Balkissa never saw being a woman as a limitation to taking charge.
Meanwhile, the region where she worked was becoming increasingly insecure. Regular attacks made her father worry constantly.
“He would call me, saying, ‘What kind of job is this? Come home. They attacked another village.’”
The danger escalated, and travelling required police escorts. When her contract renewal came up, she turned it down.
“Are you getting married?” her colleagues asked.
“No,” she replied. “I just need to take a pause.”
Then, an opportunity arose to study in Australia for another Master’s degree. Two months after she arrived in the country, everything was shut down due to COVID-19. Balkissa was stranded for 18 months. The long separation from home forced her to confront her personal challenges.
“I went there carrying so much exhaustion—things I hadn’t processed,” she says.
A relationship she had expected to continue didn’t survive the distance. “Which wasn’t a bad thing,” she reflects. “It gave me time to focus on myself.”
Despite being advised to stay in Australia, given its better economic prospects, she returned home when the borders reopened. And it felt good. She understood then that her time in Australia had been about healing. And learning. It was here that she learned how to speak fluent English.
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Two years ago, Balkissa founded Kandili, an organisation named after the Acacia raddiana found in the arid lands of the Ténéré desert near her grandma's place. It is usually one of the last trees standing when everything else gives in.
One of the organisation’s biggest projects is a tree nursery. Selling them is not Balkissa's priority. “If no one buys them, I know at least a hundred villages where these trees would make a difference.” But ideally, the seedlings will support large-scale restoration efforts, including the Great Green Wall initiative stretching from Senegal to Djibouti.
Beyond trees, food sovereignty is at the heart of her mission. In rural Niger, dietary diversity has declined, and the consequences are visible. Her mother, like so many others in the community, struggles with diabetes and high blood pressure. “She has a good life, but what is a good life if the food you eat makes you sick?” Balkissa asks. “You end up spending more money on the very thing that should keep you healthy. Wouldn’t it be better to invest in real, nourishing food so you can live longer and healthier?”
That’s why Kandili started pushing back against her government’s readiness to accept GMO seeds and chemical fertilisers as aid. “We are saying no,” she says. “No to dependency, no to soil degradation, no to a system that traps farmers in cycles of poverty and poor health.”
“We visited one community, and they told us, ‘We’re waiting for the government to send the seeds and fertilisers.’ But by the time they arrived, the planting season was already late. They ended up with poor harvests, and the cycle continues.”
Even worse, the seeds they receive are tied to external dependencies. “You can’t save them for the next season. And when the aid decides to switch to a different GMO variety, you’re forced to adapt again and again. Some farmers tell us, ‘We know it’s poison, but what choice do we have? We have children to feed.’”
This fight for food sovereignty isn’t just about agriculture—it’s about self-determination. That’s why Kandili doesn’t just work with farmers; it also engages policymakers. Balkissa helped draft an advocacy paper calling for the right to healthy, culturally relevant food in the national food strategy. Parliamentarians were open to discussions. The Minister of Agriculture had agreed to a meeting.
Then, the Military coup happened.
“All that work—months of drafting, negotiating, pushing for change—just stopped overnight,” she recalls.
After the fear, anger and shock wore off, Balkissa saw the coup as a blessing in disguise. The new government has been encouraging communities to cultivate their land and be self-sufficient.
"People were so used to begging," she says. "This coup was about stopping that mentality, and it started to make sense.”
The international community reacted by closing borders and punishing Niger, but the people had found their resolve. "It's our democracy, not theirs," she asserts.
Now, Balkissa and her team are adapting to the new political landscape, which may be the golden ticket for the food sovereignty they have been agitating for for years.
***
The first time I met Balkissa, she was wearing a beautiful African dress that instantly caught my eye. The outfit elevated her presence. With this memory, I ask her about her fashion dreams. Are they still valid?
"I used to have a blog,” she says. “But my father said, ‘Isn’t it because of that fashion thing that you haven’t found a husband?’”
Balkissa laughed it off, “No… well, maybe a little.”
He gave her a knowing look and said, “I think so.”
So, she shut down the blog.
Years later, she brought it up again. “Dad, I closed my fashion blog,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he replied.
“But… still no husband, right?” she teased.
With a sigh, he said, “I don’t want to have this conversation right now.”
That’s when she knew—he finally understood that it had never been about the fashion; it was about the intentional choices she had made that felt right for her. She encourages women to stop trying to please others, particularly when it comes to major life decisions.
“People will always have something to say. But remember, they have the right to their opinions, and you have the right to be happy. The most important thing is to find balance and surround yourself with those who support and uplift you,” she says.
One of the choices Balkissa has made is to always show up as her beautiful African female self with no apologies.
“I always say that every environmentalist is a human being before anything else,” she says. So, whenever someone says, 'Oh, that’s a beautiful dress, piece of jewellery, headdress or henna design,' I don't just take it as a compliment. I take it as an opportunity to open up the conversations that matter.”
***
The following statement was written and shared by Balkissa Daoura during her graduation from the WE Africa Leadership Program in December 2024:
What if I shine?
What if I allowed my inner light to illuminate my path? To carry my dreams, my values, and my convictions beyond the limits I once believed were unbreakable? As a woman, as an environmentalist, as a tree nurserer, I am a guardian of life, a protector of the earth. I once thought darkness was scary, but I’ve learned that light can be even scarier. To shine is to dare—to pick up the keys, not just to drop them. If I shine, no matter how scared I may feel, I become a living reminder that hope and courage can transform the world. It is happily too late to run away—I feel you, SISTERS, holding me tight, and I so need it!
Balkissa Daoura, WE Africa 2024 Fellow
