In Africa
When you think of Kenya, you probably imagine peaceful elephants and sleeping prides of lions, burning sunsets over grassland and safari, long white-golden beaches, and Olympic runners…but what about the Kenyan education system?
In August of 2022, I traveled to Nairobi and Lamu, Kenya, to work with the institution Zizi Afrique and their Kenyan division Ujana360. There, alongside my work partner James Mburu, I was tasked with investigating the education system of the Sanye community, the most marginalized community found in Lamu, Kenya.
This writing builds off Dr. John Mugo, Mary Chepkemoi, and David Siele’s 2013 work in “The Immersion Exercise,” in which the authors were immersed in Mashogoni Village, about three kilometers from Mkunumbi, and Shekale Village, near Mapenya.
Lamu County is located on the seafront a few hundred miles northeast of Mombasa City. One of the handful of minority community found in Lamu County is the Sanye, a people who operate by a traditional hunter-gatherer lifestyle gathering fruit, tubers, and nuts from the forested areas of the village and planting simsim (sesame seeds), millet, cassava, and maize for consumption. Available estimates indicate that the Sanye constitute less than 0.02% of the total Kenyan population. As the Sanye say, they are helped by a special bird known as the havati. This bird directs the people to find the location of bees for honey.
Day 1 - Saturday, August 20th:
I arrived for sunrise at the airport after my redeye from London Heathrow to Nairobi. My sense of time and place were already so displaced from the 16 hours of travel that by that point, I didn’t see much point in mentally marking time anyway.
It’s winter in Kenya right now, and the Kenyans who work at the airport wandered the early morning streets in coats and jackets. In Upstate New York where I’m from, “winter” means something vastly different; this Kenyan “winter” fell fairly flat. At home, cold air pulls precipitation off the Finger Lakes and the Great Lakes, regularly dumping dozens of pounds of snow on unsuspecting passersby and filling the streets, leading cars to slip along the highways and roofs to collapse. Here, winter means one might not get as severe of a sunburn.
Groggy-eyed, lugging my 25-lb hiking backpack, I plodded off the boarding bridge and wound my way into the main terminal at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, where I was greeted by a sign in the lobby that read, “Welcome to Kenya, the cradle of humanity.” Immediately, I found myself pondering old, romantic subjects: Dr. Richard Leakey’s work in human paleontology, pulling hominin fossils from the alkaline waters of Lake Turkana, hidden amongst the petrified mollusks and crocodile teeth. My heartbeat quickened with familiar anticipation, despite the jet-lagged exhaustion.
The plan was to meet with Dr. John Mugo, the Executive Director of Zizi Afrique Foundation as well as supporting theUjana 360 division/program, after making it past passport control. Ujana360 operates mostly under the principles of “WYD,” or Whole Youth Development. Over coffee, eggs, fresh mango, and seeded watermelon at Paul’s Airport Café, Dr. Mugo explained about the program initiative work in Nairobi.
My travel partner for the next few days, Program Officer James Mburu, met us shortly after. James helps to lead the Foundational Literacy and numeracy department for Zizi Afrique, as well as supporting “Tenda Wema project,” meaning “do good.” The project isn’t funded by any donor, simply donations by staff members within Zizi Afrique and its sister organization the People’s Action for Learning (PAL) Network.
After breakfast, James and I headed across the road to catch a short flight to Lamu, an island off the coast of mainland Kenya and a UNESCO World Heritage site. The village was established in the 14th century by Portuguese explorers, Turkish traders, and Omani Arabs – it’s a quaint Swahili settlement, laced with narrow little streets, stone houses, and open-air markets, all seemingly untouched by the irrevocable march of time.
We settled in, and James caught some rest. I couldn’t help but take an extended run along the white sand beaches, watching my footfalls bury narrow footsteps in the crust of earth, and imagining the first people to walk across these sands millions of years ago.
After my run, James and I relaxed for a bit before taking a walk along the shore and up a path, where I watched a group of students playing football in the sand. I talked with James about my experiences researching the anthropology of play and childhood development, and notions of what it means for a person to “learn” through creative and unscripted action.
After the walk, James and I returned to the hotel and ordered dinner - grilled octopus and mashed potatoes. There, we relaxed to the soft breeze rolling off the water, watching the peaceful rock of the boats in the harbor. I brought out my wax pastels and paper, and the two of us sketched in amiable silence for a while. Hours passed, unnoticed.
I thought a lot about the pace of life in Kenya while sitting there. The churn of time seemed so relaxed, so effortless; the men and women moved seemingly without rush, smiling freely on the streets.
Day 2 - Sunday, August 21st:
I awoke early for another run along the shore, my footfalls heavy in the sand. It was impossible to take it all in. The shore of Lamu is long with yellow-sailed fish ships and the smell of salt, the sea, and urine from donkeys. There’s a constant rustle and bustle, an ever-present movement, even at 7am - children wander the streets, laughing and talking, immersed in worlds only they see and understand.
A man named Mohammad ran with me for ten or fifteen minutes, telling me about his dreams to be a laborer in the United States someday. He faded away, leaving me alone with my thoughts, and the same returning question: would Mohammad really be more cheerful in the U.S., a land of promise, than in this seaside snow-globe of African reality, just because he’d have an American visa?
After my run, James and I departed mid-morning with our photographer, Faraj, to cross the waters and visit the Shekale community. On a motor-powered boat, we passed over the bumpy waters, white spray spreading off the prow, and I watched hundreds of mangrove trees pass us by - these forests protect shores from erosion and tsunami waves, nourishing the marine life that lives in the waters.
The first school we visited was the Mokowe Arid-Zone Mixed Day Primary School, a boarding school guarded by a tall armed policeman wielding a long black rifle and a floppy military hat. This man, part of the Kenyan militia, was brought to guard the ballot boxes that were being held at the school. I had arrived in Kenya just days after the 2022 General Election, which had resulted in the election of Deputy President William Ruto as the president. Although the elections were generally peaceful, Ruto’s opposition - Raila Odinga - has since claimed that the results ought to be annulled (this was written in August 2022).
Seeing an armed guard at the gates of a quiet, shady children’s school was incredibly striking: curious about his personality, I decided to strike up a conversation with the man - polisi, as they are called in Swahili.
When we first arrived at the school, I’d found a curiously-shaped fruit on the ground locally known as ‘muratina.’ It was a pear of sorts, oblong and strange, which the deputy principal said could be used to make beer. I didn’t believe this argument for a second. Picking up the fruit, I wandered over to the prison guard and inquired: “what is this?”
He laughed, and said it was “baboon fruit.” Not the stuff of beer.
After this interaction, James stayed and conversed with the rest of the teaching staff, and I wandered into one of the classrooms to meet the students. Although it was Sunday, they were all still in the classroom. Good, bad, or indifferent, this was their world.
“What do you do in the classroom on Sundays when you have nowhere to go?” I asked them. They laughed and said, “We create our own games!”
In the U.S. and other fast-paced, career-oriented places, “free time” is a foreign and often despised concept. Empty hours are to be feared, associated with laziness or rectitude, intended to be filled with extracurriculars and thoughts of the future. These students weren’t being ground to the gears with busywork: they had nothing to “do,” and yet, seemed more than content just being.
I often think about Nobel laureautes Angus Deaton and Daniel Kahneman’s “happiness economics” research, in which the authors conclude that although household wealth has been shown to improve individual well-being (providing a safety net of protection against negative income shocks, allowing for free time and free spending, et cetera), for most individuals, higher income fails to increase happiness beyond a certain level – a threshold determined to be about $75,000 in the United States, though in some countries this figure might be lower or higher.
After this interaction, the kids led me over to watch a bit of a church service. It was loud and proud, and I watched through barred windows as students sung psalms back at the top of their lungs, clasped hands, stood up and down and swayed to the music.
When it came time, the children were reluctant to let us leave - James and I left for the Shekale Early Childhood Centre (ECDE), led by the volunteer teacher Abubakar M. Hamza who was contracted by Zizi Afrique to provide teaching support since there were no teachers. This was an extremely small village, only thatched roofs and mud-walled homes.
Mr. Hamza teaches a group of about sixty 5–7-year-olds in a single schoolroom in the center of the village, full of only a handful of books, one blackboard, and a few barred windows. Yellow light pooled in, gathering on the countertops. According to Hamza, since 2013, only 2 students have completed the program and made it on to Mapenya (the next level of education).
At a basic level, the room simply doesn’t have the right setup. There are only a few desks, nowhere near enough for every student there. We discussed the possibility of bringing a partition into the classroom. Beyond this, I shared other ideas: a wall for pictures and art to be hung, some sort of gallery or accountability system for students to feel represented and proud of the work they have done and accomplished.
We also met with Lilian, the school committee woman and cashew-grower who is responsible for helping to plan activities, organize meetings, and generally run the village school. She was a tall, regal-looking woman, with strong arms and a focused expression. She took us back to her home afterwards, and we sat beneath the shade of a cashew tree.
As we talked, Lillian brought us a bowl of raw and roasted nuts, pulled by hand from the nearby tree and roasted in bowls over the fire. Small white chickens roamed freely, and a little dog yapped quietly in the corner. The three of us pulled mysterious fruit off the trees - creamy tropical crops, like seedier apples with subtle notes of vanilla locally known as ‘Mikoma,’ wild fruits mostly fed by baboons and monkeys. The locals also tap wine from the trees.
After our impromptu fruit snacking, we had the privilege of meeting the man who donated the plot of land at Shekale ECDE. He was a tall, thin man with deeply-worn wrinkles and a rueful smile. I wished, desperately, that I knew Swahili: I would have loved to have spoken directly with him, to have picked his brain, understood what kept him going and inspired him through the long days.
Finally, after a long day, we wound our way home to James’s village for a dinner spread with his family. James hadn’t been home in months, so this was a huge feast: freshly butchered and grilled "nyama choma,” meaning grilled or roasted meat in Swahili. Nyama choma is a classic barbecue dish, seasoned in salt and slow roasted over hot coals in its own juices until the flesh turns tender and melts off your fork.
We also had pots and pots of “ugali,” which is perhaps the staple food in Kenyan culture – boiled cornmeal, hardened into a dense slab that tastes a bit like porridge but more buttery. Ugali is traditionally served with sukuma wiki, a bright green leafy vegetable like kale, fried with tomatoes, red onions, and spices – together, the food is eaten with your fingers.
Just before bed, James built a bonfire in the backyard with twigs and sparkling logs. We sat beside it and watched the embers flick into the heavens, and I looked up at the Kenyan heavens, so clear and expansive above me in the inky blue dark.
Sitting there alone, James introduced me to Lucy and Monica, two women from the local schools who had graduated to move forward with their respective certificates - Electrical Engineering and Hospitality. Under the blanket of stars, the girls told me their life stories.
Day 3: Monday, August 22nd:
My day began early, just as dawn was transitioning to the blue fleece of day. Multicolored chickens pecked their way along the path, and motorcyclists and drivers passed along the dirt road outside James’s village. I pulled myself out of bed and walked past the cow-pen to the main gathering area, where I was given a cup of freshly boiled coffee from James’s mother. The Mburu family doesn’t generally take coffee, so this was a rare treat which we picked up at a gas station in the village.
After the morning broke fully, we set off via car to the Mkumbi Secondary school. After spending some time at the school, observing children and teachers wandering through the classrooms. There, I had the privilege of meeting a 23-year-old student currently sponsored by Zizi Afrique - she is one of the last students still within the project, and is on track to graduate. As James said, he isn’t sure what motivates her: but something does, and that “something” carries her forward and allows her to be a source of inspiration for others in the project.
After an hour or so, we found our way back to the car and traveled to Bahati Njema primary school in the forests. This was a school nestled within the lowland coastal forests, composed of around 80 students at every age from 5-15 but featuring only 3 classrooms - one, the biggest, had three active groups of different cohorts within it, teaching everything from mathematics to the environment.
The next building was a long, broad green structure segmented into two sections, with a table to the left of 10–13-year-olds taking Kenyan national entrance examinations. It had the oldest cohorts of the group, those hoping to make it on to high school and then perhaps even college.
On the right, the older students were engaged in reading and writing activities. According to the Principal of the schools, the biggest issue affecting this community is truancy and lack of motivation on the part of the students - a trickle-down effect from parents who are illiterate, and who hope their children will stay at home to help with basic requirements of subsistence around the farm.
The flight back was an adventure in itself – we had to run, top speed and pell-mell, to make it to the tarmac, as the plane was prepared to leave without us. As the plane ascended into the sky, I watched the patchwork of Kenyan thatched roofs fade away, thinking of every cliché in the book.
After getting back, I met with Renaldah Mjomba, a Program Manager and heading the Policy and Advocacy for Zizi Afrique, in the courtyard of the Amani Inn. Together we had a video call with Francis and spoke about Ujana’s work with WYD (Whole Youth Development). We then walked to a nearby café for dinner, where I sat quietly with a cup of “Dawa” – an herbal tea and the de facto national drink of Kenya, served piping hot and made with ginger, lemon, and honey. In Swahili, dawa means “medicine,” and the beverage is used as a curative. It was introduced to Kenya from Brazil and is based on the caipirinha drink.
Late that evening, bones weary with the exhaustion of the day, we padded home along the highway as cars and buses whipped by in the dimming evening. I watched the lights flicker and change on the Kenyan billboards.
Day 4: Tuesday, August 23rd:
My second to last day began in a frenzied dash. From my hotel, I ran at a breakneck pace across four lanes of expressway traffic to the Clarence House hotel a few kilometers away. At the Clarence House I caught a bus to Nairobi National Park, where I spent 3 hours driving around the park along dirt roads and thrush grasses. The first animal we saw was a buffalo: a wide-chested, prong-horned creature with a grisly face and strong limbs. Coming from an hour east of Buffalo, New York, where hundreds of thousands of buffaloes used to roam free around the grasslands and the people of the Iroquois nation before poaching and metropolitan expansion killed them off, I felt a personal tug at seeing a buffalo as my first game animal.
The next animal we drove past was a crocodile, which reminded me of the alligators I once sat and read beside while living in an AirBnb in parts of rural Florida in spring 2021. The famous naturalist writer John Muir once reflected that nature is “where man himself is a visitor who does not remain,” and as my tour guide guided us through the wide savannah reserves, I thought about how much of a “visitor” the Nairobi city skyline was against the rifts of shifting grasses. As we drove past the hippopotamus pool and out towards the park exit, I watched long-necked giraffes plod along into the distance, their silhouettes as stark against the amber afternoon as the outline of buildings themselves.
In the afternoon, after a brief run through the streets and past the watermelon-sellers, I met up with Zizi Afrique workers Faith Mukiria and Winrose Bett. Together, the two of them showed me around the institutions’ offices on one of the top floors of Le Mac Towers, and we went out for a walk-through in Nairobi Arboretum.
It was pleasant, just walking in step with the two. The conversation flowed effortlessly, sharing pasts, narrating dreams. The park was heavy with the smell of bamboo and Brazilian rosewood imported from South America, afternoon light shading latticework along the ground. As we strolled, Faith and Winrose told me about their respective tribes and tribal customs, and the expectations for men and women from traditional lineages and in the context of 2022.
Before coming to Kenya, I’d read a lot about Kenyan marathon runners and the incredible spirit of these people. This is the same tribe that Winrose is from – the Kalenjin, called by some “the running tribe.” Since the mid-1960s, Kenyan men from the Kalejin have earned the largest share of major honors in international athletics at distances from 800 meters to the marathon.
On the way back from the hike, Faith asked me what the most “shocking” part of Africa was, for me as a visitor from the States. This question caused me a lot of pause. The most “shocking” part of Africa? I wasn’t sure - in many ways, it was the place I expected it to be.
When I went silent in the taxi, gazing out the window as I tried to come up with an adequate response, Faith piped up. As she explained, the last consultant from a foreign university who had come in had shared that they’d been struck by how day-laborers and men performing manual labor - people who ride donkeys as transportation and peddle roses along filthy street-corners as their only form of income - also chat amiably on brand-new smartphones and wear brand-name clothing, sporting fresh haircuts. As I listened to Faith talk, I found myself shocked into agreement: come to think of it, there was some cognitive dissonance here.
After our walk, we caught a cab to the local mall to play a round of bowling and get burgers. It felt strangely regular, wandering past the fluorescent stores, passing familiar ads, lining up to send blue and orange bowling balls rolling down a greased track. I thought about years past, doing very similar things with family and friends almost eight thousand miles and thousands of days distant.
This moment was one shaped a lot like moments I’ve felt before, and yet was so very different from the life of a six-year-old from the Bahati Njema school, only eating a single ugali meal per day and holding their mothers’ hand on a walk through shrub on the way to their schoolhouse.
Asante sana, Zizi Afrique, for the memories.
