Before East Africa could be economically exploited or politically managed, it had to be reached. And not just reached—it had to be connected. But this landmass, hemmed in by its geography and strangled by its infrastructure (or lack thereof), was stuck in a logistical stone age. What followed, then, was not just a feat of engineering—it was the laying down of veins through which a colonial economic bloodstream would flow.
Caravans and the Curse of Geography
In the late 19th century, East Africa was effectively landlocked. Outside of the sliver of Zanzibar and a few coastal strips, the interior remained stubbornly out of reach. Water transport was limited to lakes and unusable rivers. Draft animals were defeated by the tsetse fly. The only viable transport system was human—caravans that carried goods on the backs of men across vast, punishing terrain. It was degrading, inefficient, and painfully expensive.
Trade was limited to luxuries: ivory, beads, and anything light enough to carry but expensive enough to be worth the trip. This wasn’t commerce. It was survival dressed as enterprise.
Steel Ambitions: Enter the Railways
The solution was obvious to everyone: railways. But railways required capital. And optimism. And a willingness to bet big on a region whose mineral wealth hadn’t been discovered, and whose economic potential was, at best, speculative.
The Germans made the first move in 1893, starting on the Tanga-Korogwe line. It was a disaster. Terrain, inexperience, poor materials, and a complete lack of skilled labor turned it into a money pit. By 1896, the line had barely scratched 43 kilometers, ran one train per week, and covered less than 1/30th of its running costs. It was eventually nationalized and extended to Korogwe by 1902—at a staggering cost.
The British took a bolder approach with what became the Uganda Railway. This was no less ambitious or expensive, but progress was faster—albeit still backbreaking.
Building the Empire’s Arteries
The full history of the Uganda Railway has been told elsewhere, with its lions, deaths, and broken backs. What matters more is its function. It slashed transport costs. Before the rail, a load from Mombasa to Kampala could more than double in price just through transit. After the rail, the cost dropped by 90 percent. Shipping from England to inland Uganda suddenly made sense.
It was not just cheaper. It was faster, more reliable, and regular. And regularity is the unglamorous hero of commerce. It reduced risk. It allowed for inventory planning. It opened the floodgates to serious trade.
Nairobi itself was born as a result—emerging in 1899 as a railway base. It quickly became a magnet for labor, trade, and administrative control. The same happened, though to lesser degrees, in Mombasa, Kisumu, Dar es Salaam, and Tabora. Thousands were employed. The Tanganyika Central Line, at its peak, used 20,000 men. The Uganda Railway brought in 32,000 indentured workers from India. Only 1 in 5 stayed behind after their contracts ended, but the labor shortage they exposed was a sign of things to come.
By the mid-20th century, East African Railways and Harbours employed around 50,000 people—making it the region’s largest industrial employer.
Railways and the Illusion of Progress
The impact was real. But so was its limitation. Railways were expensive, rigid, and not nearly as extensive as needed. The Uganda Railway didn’t actually enter Uganda proper until the 1920s, and Western Uganda had to wait until the 1950s. Southern Tanganyika remained largely disconnected. To fix that would have required a level of investment no colonial power—outside of wild-eyed visionaries—was willing to commit.
Ironically, the real revolution in transport came not from rails, but from rubber and pedals.
The Rise of the Bicycle and the Lorry
In the early 20th century, bicycles became one of the most transformative imports into East Africa. Cheap, durable, and personal, they changed productivity patterns, connected people, and enabled small-scale trade. It is not hyperbole to say that the bicycle did for the individual what the railway did for commerce.
Then came the motor-lorry, particularly in the 1920s. It was a game-changer.
Financed by enterprising African and Asian businessmen, trucks filled the gaps railways couldn’t reach. They created a flexible transport web, more responsive to the needs of small markets. In eastern Uganda, where roads were better and cotton demanded quick movement, lorries proved vital. The rest of the region lagged—roads remained in poor condition for decades—but even there, the motor-lorry was the closest thing to logistical liberation.
Tanganyika made major investments in roads toward the end of colonial rule, but for most of the period, road transport remained difficult outside the main corridors.
The Bigger Question: What Was All This For?
The transport revolution—rail, wheel, or otherwise—was not just about movement. It was about connection. The colonial government needed an economy that produced things other people would buy. Not someday—immediately. Because only then could East Africans pay taxes in currency. And only then could the colonial state sustain itself.
Early exports—ivory, hides, and skins—were not enough. A new commercial base had to be built from scratch. But that required access, and access meant infrastructure. The railways made that possible, even if imperfectly.
Cash crops, especially cotton and coffee, emerged as the salvation. Agricultural policy shifted to production for export, not subsistence. But this was less a happy evolution than a fiscal necessity. Without cash crops, there would be no taxes. Without taxes, no administration. And without administration, no colony.
Railways, Roads, and the Making of a Cash Economy
The colonial governments of Kenya, Uganda, and Tanganyika could not run on goodwill. In the early years, they survived on grants from Britain and Germany. But these were meant to be temporary. There was mounting pressure from Europe to make colonies pay for themselves.
To do that, the land had to produce.
There was no significant industry. No discovered minerals. The only option was agriculture. And agriculture needed transport.
The result was a peculiar kind of infrastructural determinism: build rails to move goods, use the movement to create markets, and use the markets to generate tax. The system, like the rails, was inflexible but effective—until it wasn’t.
A Final Word on the Iron Snake
The railway was never just a means of transport. It was an instrument of control, an economic scaffold, and a monument to imperial ambition. It shaped cities, redirected migration, and redefined the region’s economic geography.
But it was also a blunt instrument. Its inflexibility, expense, and limited reach meant that it could only do so much. The real transformation came from the informal, the small-scale, and the unexpected: bicycles, lorries, and the stubborn ingenuity of those forced to make do.
In the end, the railway laid the foundation. But the people paved the road.