“I have born 10 children,” she says, “7 of them are alive.” The oldest is only a month older than I am. “So I can be your Pokot mother.”
She tells about her latest. Died in the womb at 9 months. Induced labour. The whole thing. In the middle of nowhere. I walk passed the tiny, rusty hospital later that night. How many more babies never see the day of light in hospitals like these, I can’t help to think.
Next day. Meeting again. Struggling through indicators, KoBo surveys and project implementation plans. A phone call interrupts the conversation. It’s about girls that ran away from home to school. Escaping from forced early marriage. Later that day I sit down and simply listen to one of the women that dealt with setting up the rescue mission: “on Sunday I saw one of the girls in church. I asked if she and the other 6 girls were still in school. They all were, she said.”
And that’s why I am here. To get these girls and boys an education. To somehow make a tiny bit of difference. To get them the start in life that I had.