Everything

I tend to write about things days or weeks after they occur. I don’t mean to; it just happens with the way time is moving these days. But I must write something about yesterday, about the Saturday I found myself on a crowded bus with around a third of the Orkeeswa student body on our way to the International School of Moshi for a track and field meet.

The whole day was spectacular. The bright sun. The energy of everyone there. Watching our students come in first, second, third place in long distance races, sprints, long jump, high jump, javelin throw, relay races, discus, and shotput. Even when they came in last place, it was magnificent. It was great to just see them try. The way Lucas became the leader he should always be, guiding his fellow students, encouraging them, making sure that when they did place, they knew where to go.

And when Orkeeswa won the biggest trophy for sportsmanship, our students erupted with utter glee and excitement. They sprang up from their sitting positions, arms thrown up, cheering like they’ve never cheered before. They hugged each other and kept cheering. They did victory laps and kept cheering. At one point, even Mama Paulo held the trophy in a tight grasp, pumped up her arm, and everyone kept cheering. When the victory laps ended and Petro held the trophy high with both arms, everyone encircled him under a tree and they kept cheering. It was virgin territory for all of us – our young school winning a shiny, gold trophy – and we embraced it with everything we had. With speeches, endless posed pictures, pats on the back, even some tears.

But what I want to remember about that day is the bus ride that morning. My original plan was to ride in the Suzuki with Quinn, but just as the Suzuki was leaving, Michael insisted I ride on one of the buses. At first I was a bit irritated for being on the slow, bumpy bus that was going toward school from Monduli town to pick up more students instead of toward Arusha. But after some time, maybe half an hour or an hour, I had one of those rare moments when there was no place on the earth I’d rather be.

I was in the last row in the back, wedged between Judith and pre-form student Babu, Lazaro next to him, Einote by the window. The Maasai and Swahili gospel singing was on and off. Ndito was sitting in front of me, my knees digging into the back of her seat. Lazaro would from time to time ask me a silly question which I found both endearing and irritating. I managed to make Judith smile. Before me were the profiles and backs of all these students that, in the past eight months, I’ve gotten to really know and feel close to. In the very front of the bus, I could see Victor and Thomas and, just behind them, Michael. The dust had settled and it was only the breeze that passed through the windows. I was almost dozing. But at some point, in the midst of all of that, I felt pure joy, as if I was one of the luckiest people on this earth for getting to ride on a bus full of Maasai students who have almost nothing but their voices and each other and a common goal of education, and somehow my path had – by choice as well as by accident – intertwined with theirs, and we were all together, on a bus going toward a track and field meet, and everything seemed worth it.