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Close your eyes and picture a confetti-storm of color below the Indian Ocean’s surface—orange sea fans, violet brain coral, and neon-green anemones swaying like party streamers. Now open them to reality: Somalia’s reefs really do look like that, tucked along a coastline that runs about 3,333 km—the longest stretch on mainland Africa.
Most outsiders assume decades of civil war plus illegal fishing must have obliterated the reefs. Surprise: limited heavy industry and very little bombing at sea left large swaths of coral almost pristine. Regional surveys list at least 63 coral species across 27 genera, a respectable tally for the western Indian Ocean.
One headline find is an as-yet-unnamed pillar-coral relative—informally dubbed the “Somali pillar coral” by the research team that first photographed it near Marka in 2019. Genetic bar-coding suggests it’s a sister to Dendrogyra cylindrus of the Caribbean, but until scientists publish a formal description, it remains the marine equivalent of Prince’s “Love Symbol”—famous but technically nameless.
Local fishers have known these coral “gardens” forever and still use the ancestral nicknames their grandfathers coined: Garden of the Ancestors, Dragon’s Breath, Miracle Reef. That oral map has been priceless for biologists trying to GPS-pin hotspots.
Along the wind-sculpted shores of Puntland—our semi-autonomous northeast—I still watch hand-painted dhows glide out at dawn. The deckhands laugh that our loose-weave “maraq” nets have two jobs: catching dinner and letting the smallest fish wriggle free so tomorrow’s stew will be fatter. (In Somali, maraq means “soup”—perfect irony, right?) Because the nets float just above the coral heads, they spare juvenile fish and the living reef below. Every visiting consultant expects coastal Somalia to behave like a war-torn wasteland; instead they find centuries-old gear that modern trawlers could learn from.
We don’t have one grand “reef council” crowned in paperwork. What we have are the wise oday-ga kalluunka—fish elders—who meet whenever the moon rolls into spawning phase. Under a palm lean-to they share tea, trade Maay-dialect verses about octopus courtship (honestly more romantic than Tinder), then announce a no-take period. Break that taboo and you’ll fetch water from the far well—or eat alone at weddings. I tag along with my clipboard, but social pressure keeps order far better than any fine.
Scientists who’ve swum our octopus beds say densities here rival managed Pacific fisheries. Hearing that, one elder grinned: Warabeeygu wuxuu leeyahay badda waa nolosheena—our heritage says the sea is our life. Simple math, really.