Kenya—July, 2010. How do I begin to explain this experience? It was both enlightening and perplexing, both empowering and daunting, both invigorating and draining, and something I wish I could repeat over and over again. This was my fourth trip to Kenya with Koins, my fourth attempt at making sense of my role in Mnyenzeni, and the fourth time I’ve foolishly gone to Africa with expectations. Three previous trips should have taught me to never step on the plane with certain expectations in mind. Things like what a Primary School Headmaster’s response might be to the question, “what do you need most right now?” or how 60 young children might react to a pile of unsharpened pencils. But they didn’t. These are the things that this naïve American should not have tried to answer herself.
The months leading up to departure found me searching for an idea of how I could do some good on my upcoming Kenya trip. I remembered an experience my mom had had while on an expedition a few years ago. While talking with a headmaster, she asked him the question, “what do you need most right now?” When listening to her account, I remember thinking, they probably need new classrooms, better desks, textbooks at the least. His response was simple and direct, “Pencils.” Excuse me? Pencils? How in the world are these children learning a thing if they don’t even have pencils? And is this an indication of all the materials you lack? What about those classrooms and desks? Do they exist? A slew of questions filled me to the brim, along with a burning commitment to get pencils to Kenya, no matter how heavy the suitcases are! So the informing of friends and family began and the gathering was enormous. We ended up with over 8,000 pencils (at least one for every student in every school that Koins serves), 30 wall-mount pencil sharpeners, and bags full of scissors, chalk, rulers, and all kinds of teaching necessities. I was ecstatic because I knew these supplies would be received with grateful hands—those of the teachers. I couldn’t wait to “leave some pencils at the schools,” as I wrote in my journal. Little did I know that smaller hands would receive them with even more enthusiasm.
Vikolani is an early-childhood school, serving children from preschool to 2nd grade and is located about 15 minutes from the Koins Community Center. Our group walked to the school one afternoon, toting bags of pencils, ready to present our gifts to the headmaster. When we arrived, we found a classroom full of adorable students waiting for us. They welcomed us with beautiful song as only African voices can produce, and I thought to myself, Poor things, they’ve been waiting here since school ended today. Their teacher probably made them stay to welcome us, I’m sure they are anxious to get home. What was that? An expectation? Yes. And wrong again. I learned that these children had voluntarily waited without food all afternoon to meet us. I presented the supplies by explaining that many good people in America had heard about them and wanted to send a gift. I expressed my desire for them to be hard-working students, and I pulled from a bag a handful of unsharpened pencils. I asked, “Who would like a pencil today?” All they could do is stare at my hand, disbelief written on their faces. I clarified, “Raise your hand if you would like a pencil.” Every single child raised a hand. I explained that I had brought enough so that each student could have a pencil of their own, and what followed had the power to bring me to tears. The room erupted into shouts of joy and clapping, and the measly expectation I had had of “leaving some pencils at the schools” was dashed again. How? I asked myself that moment and for weeks to come, how have I been here 3 previous times and never noticed this huge need? My only answer is that I had expectations. Fourth time around, and I think I’ve finally learned that listening to the people express their needs, then rejoicing with them when the needs are met is really what this is all about.
