It was a small schoolhouse. Run down and broken. It had been damaged from years of dust and rain floods, but it still stood. A small and creeping vine had started to make its way up the wall, just barely passing the windows to which the kids should see. Outside had nothing new, nor fantastic, but what more could you expect from a desert? The cracked ground and empty horizon only added to the eerie feeling of this shack.
But the students didn't mind. Where you and I would've seen a sad and lonely building, pleading to be taken apart, they saw hope. A new era for everyone to come and be apart of. They had seen an opportunity and an experience that to them, was extraordinary.
There were some who didn't agree, like Wale Ambao Wanaua. They were a nasty tribe in Kenya and a constant fear to the innocent people that attended the schoolhouse. There name meant "Those Who Kill" and it was enough to lead a desperate mother to never let her child be apart of education.
It was rare to enjoy the benefits of reading and writing where the hut was built, but those who did never forgot.
I will never truly know how the school had come to an end, but much evidence of an attack had been prominent to my every day life. I may never get to sit in the seats the way they did, or read the books exactly like them, but one can only hope I'm doing it right.
