If they haven't already, kids in the U.S. are heading back to school. There will be #2 pencils shoved in the side pocket of a book bag, a water bottle with the top not screwed on tightly enough, leaking through the nylon L.L. Bean backpack, and a snack inevitably smushed under books and soccer cleats. There will be new shoes, new team jerseys with their name across the back. There will be long silences accompanying the "How was school today?" asked while looking in the rearview mirror, trying to understand how these small humans are growing up so fast. A snack at home. Homework on the kitchen table. Early morning "Shoes, jacket, backpack, now!"
And with each of these rituals, in each of these small moments over the next few weeks, our heart aches. We want our Ajiri scholars to feel these small moments of love as they go to school. We want there to be someone to drop them off at school and embarrass them with a hug. We want there to be someone waiting at home to talk to them. We want them to feel frustrated when their parents try to help with their physics homework.
But most of these scholars don't have parents. And they all attend boarding schools. There isn't someone waiting there at the end of the day to talk with them. We buy them new shoes, new uniforms, pencils, books, etc. and they carry it all—along with the weight of expectations, responsibility, and uncertainty—all on their own.
Learning math from the tutor in June
There is a mental health crisis amongst teenagers in Kenya. Over the past eight years, there have been an increasing number of school burnings. Teenagers in Kenya are literally burning down their schools. Abdimalik Farah, who studies this trend, writes "school fires in Kenya trace back to the same converging pressures: student unrest, punitive discipline, mental health strain and dormitories so overcrowded that enrollment has long outpaced infrastructure." Our scholars were sent home from school for weeks at a time this June over concerns of copycat arson. And so, in true Ajiri fashion, we embraced them.
While they were home, we organized our own school. We hired our own teachers to come each day and teach our scholars nearly every subject. Our kids gathered in our small office or the kids who lived further in the villages would gather in one house. We provided snacks, lunch, and hired mental health counselors. Regina and Difna, our Ajiri social workers, were there each morning to give them a hug. And called them each night to make sure they got home safely.
Quillent learning how to weave a traditional basket
They organized hikes and swim lessons and art activities such as basket weaving. Our kids were painting and reading and kicking a soccer ball in the small backyard of our office. When it seemed like the threat of school burnings had subsided, and it came time for the schools to reopen, our scholars were sad. They enjoyed the smaller and more personalized lessons. They enjoyed each other's company—their Ajiri camaraderie. They felt, as Regina and Difna said, like they were a family.
We know our kids won't have someone at school every day to tell them things will be all right. We know they won't have someone there to do their laundry or tell them to go to bed. We know they won't have anyone there to just sit there in silence on a car ride home from school. They might not have everything we want for them, but that doesn't mean they are alone. Thanks to your tea purchases and donations, they have predictable love to come home to. They have Regina and Difna calling them and attending every school parent day. Their artwork might not be on the refrigerator, but it is taped with white masking tape on the bright blue walls of our office.
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Angela, Wesley, and Damacline were now hopelessly off course. They had managed to scale that final fence and were walking down toward a forest. I wanted to run to them, set them on the right course, explain scale and direction and how they should put the compass on the map. But instead I watched them from the top of the hill. They were now making pretend owl calls to each other, quite literally hooting from one group to another and then bursting into laughter.
See, there is this tip-toeing around issues in business. No company should align itself too "political" for fear of alienating customers. But to have opinions and emotions—well, that's just human. As a society, we've become too corporatized—too sanitized to believe that companies shouldn't have a voice. Of course politics affect our business. Tariffs on tea! The war in Iran means higher costs of shipping our tea. The elimination of USAID and its direct impact on our community in Kenya. But more so than something directly affecting us and our business, we still care about policies that affect our neighbors and people across the world.
At Ajiri, we feel so lucky to be on this earth at the same time as all of you. Your purchase of tea holds a lot of that elusive power of art. Sure, your purchase is the transference of physical money that goes to support women and children. But your purchases of tea, time and time again, transfers this feeling of belief. You believe in these women. You believe in these kids. You believe that the world can be a better place.
Kate Holby
Author