Charlotte Sobolewski's Story
“I'm only one person, what difference can I make?”
I posed this question one afternoon to a Grade 5 class at Laila Primary School in Kenya’s Maasai Mara region. I was there on a volunteer trip with Leaders Today, and was working with another volunteer to teach a class of awesome students.
Sinawa, one of the more outspoken girls in the class, volunteered to write the question on the board. We broke the class into smaller groups to let them brainstorm ideas and list what the question meant to them. As the students worked together, I looked out the window and off into the distance.
The scene was perfect—the clouds resembled delicately placed puffs of white cotton candy. Across the horizon I could see a group of Maasai mamas walking with large barrels strapped to their backs, probably returning from getting water. Every day, access to water begins with a journey to the Maasai “ocean”—a waterhole a 1/2 kilometre (about 1/4 mile) walk from the school and the village.
Eventually my attention returned to the class. One by one the students approached me with their answers to the question, but soon my co-volunteer pointed out a boy at the back of the room who still hadn’t come forward.
The boy’s name was Benet. He was no taller than 150 centimetres (4'11"), with a chiselled worn face, dimly lit eyes and legs like spindles. His clothes were tattered, his sweater worn and stretched. Crouching beside him I heard his terrible cough and saw the phlegm and blood he’d coughed up onto the classroom floor. I’d met Benet many times before, but this was the first time I’d seen him so sick.
Before I could react, older students in the class proceeded to move a desk over the “infected” area and demand that we continue with the lesson, while encouraging Benet to sit outside the classroom. Sickness was part of daily life for students at Laila.
I let the other volunteer take over the class and sat outside with Benet to see what was going on. His eyes were wide and deep with stories and thoughts. He told me a little bit more about his life—that he was 15 years old, had four brothers and three sisters and a mama who was a kind and big woman.
I asked him how long he had been coughing up blood. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled sheepishly without giving a direct response. He removed his maroon school sweater and sat beside me in his school dress shirt trying to pick the dried blood from his clothes. He was so skinny I could see the knobs of his ribcage and spine, and his stomach was bloated from not getting enough healthy food to eat. It was clear how sick Benet was. For one of the few times in my life, I found myself at a loss for words.
In an attempt to break the silence, Benet pulled out his small water bottle and took a swig of water, boasting that it had come from the Maasai ocean. I pulled out my water bottle and also took a fresh swig. Benet stared at me with curiosity and asked what type of liquid I was drinking. Puzzled, I told him it was water. He looked at both of our bottles and started to laugh, then accused me of drinking soda—he was convinced it was 7-Up. I poured some of my water into the cap of his bottle and let him try for himself. He drank cautiously, then told me that mine tasted funny. He asked which ocean I had gotten it from—was it the Maasai ocean?
As I’d seen before, the Maasai ocean was no more than a small waterhole shared by everyone in the community. Human and animal waste along with other pollutants like pesticides from privately owned commercial farms in the area are partly to blame for the brown murky composition of the water that Benet and others in the village were drinking. People bathed, washed clothes, answered the call of nature and watered their cattle all from the same source. Maybe this was why Benet was so sick.
I asked Benet what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said his dream is to be a tour guide so he can show people around his beautiful country, and that he especially wants to show tourists the manyattas (homes) in Maasai villages and to let them share tea with himself, his mom and his family. He said he wants to show the world how much he loves his school and how thankful he is for it.
He also told me that he wants to make big changes in the world, and although he is just one person, he said he believes that one day he can do great things, ensuring all people in the community have smiles on their faces and love in their hearts.
I left Laila that evening, but two and a half weeks later I returned with the other volunteers to give health kits to the children. As each grade lined up in single file, pushing and shoving, like mini volcanoes of excitement ready to explode, I scanned the scene for Benet, hoping he would be there. He wasn't. I asked around and found out that he hadn’t been at school for the past few weeks. Knowing how sick he had been, I feared the worst.
Then, just before leaving, a senior student at the school named David rushed out to greet me and to send warm wishes to all of my friends in Canada. I hugged him goodbye and wished him luck with his studies. David asked if I’d had a chance to buy some Maasai beadwork, and when I told him I hadn’t he slid a double-sided and intricately woven beaded bracelet onto my wrist.
“From you, David,” I asked.
“No.”
“Then from who?”
“Benet,” he responded. “He told me to give it to you to remember him, to remember how important it is that we make change in our lives, even so small that you can’t really see with your naked eye.”
I smiled and asked David to send my sincere gratitude to Benet for the gift and to make sure he received a health kit. Then I slipped one of my own bangles from my wrist. I handed it to David and asked him to give it to Benet. A reminder, I said, that we’re united to make a difference in this world.
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