This time of year holds a lot of significance for me as a mom. I mourn the end of summer and the fun times we have as a family outside of school. Simultaneously, I look forward to the newness of a school year and setting up new routines.
Three years ago, my family experienced a different kind of back-to-school newness. We arrived in Kenya in mid-August, in time for my husband to teach courses at Africa Nazarene University for the entire semester. Our kids were participating in an online version of their school back in the U.S., but we also wanted them to experience attending a school in Kenya.
In what appeared to be similar to our school calendar, Kenyan kids were also coming off a break and heading back to school. The difference is that at the end of August, Kenyan kids enter their final term of the year, which in Kenya is the shortest term. With just about 6 weeks of classes, the term ends with a couple of weeks at the end of October for their annual testing, and then kids are off for their summer break.
Despite the differences in the school calendar and joining their classmates at the end of their school year, my kids were able to attend a full term at their Kenyan school. We were told that because we were only enrolling them for one term, it wouldn’t be required to purchase the uniforms and black shoes.
My kids are caucasian, so they were going to stand out in a sea of Kenyans no matter what. But it was still important to them to wear the same thing as their classmates to try to fit in as much as possible, because it helps a kid’s self-esteem when they feel like they belong.
Thankfully, although purchasing their uniform and shoes was an extra expense, we were able to do so without it being a huge financial strain for us.
Every day, my kids walked down the rural road to get to school. Despite purchasing good-quality black shoes, my son Henry still ended up with an acacia thorn in his shoe that almost went straight into his foot during one of his walks.
Additionally, upon returning home each day, my kids would change into a completely different pair of shoes for whatever came next—an excursion, church activities, an afternoon wandering around the university campus or playing with the neighbor kids. Many days the rural road was so dry and dusty that their shoes were dirty. Other days the rain was so heavy that the road was a mess of thick mud. Regardless, their shoes needed a good cleaning. Thankfully, they had other shoes that served other purposes.
Honestly, I didn’t think too much about shoes and the purpose they served.
Here in the U.S., August has meant my kids gearing up once again for a new school year. First-day outfits, new lunch boxes and new notebooks. Yet I keep remembering what "gearing up for school" looks like this time of year for the kids we work with in Kenya, who will soon be heading into that short, final term to finish out their school year.
For my kids, prepping for a new school year meant taking a good look at the shoes in their closet. Multiple pairs of shoes are “needed” to serve different purposes. In Kenya, it is often the case that one pair of shoes must do the work of many pairs. Harliet, the Because Kenya programs manager, interviewed the mom of a boy who had already received a pair of The Shoe That Grows. His mom told her “shoes help, he does everything with them: clean, walking, showering; still uses them at home, varies wearing one or the other on either foot to make them last longer.” Another girl Harliet spoke with said the shoes she'd had before The Shoe That Grows were "completely torn,” and this was the first real option she'd ever had.
And then there's the walk itself. For my kids, it was a short 20-minute walk to school, and the school was considered to be close by. Many kids around Kenya aren’t so fortunate. Their walk can be 40 minutes, an hour or more. In one Maasai community I visited, kids were walking up to 10 kilometers one way! They started their journey before the sun came up, walking across rocky ground covered in acacia thorns, the same kind that nearly went through Henry's foot.
That single pair also has to survive whatever life throws at it beyond school hours. Harliet talked to one boy who wears his shoes to collect firewood at home and then goes straight to class the next morning. There's no separate "chore shoes," because there's no other option. Another kid told our team he genuinely dreads rainy days—not because of getting wet, but because walking to school through the mud means risking the only pair of shoes he owns. My kids ran into that exact problem three years ago on their own muddy mornings. They solved it by changing shoes. Many Kenyan kids don't have that option.
So while I'm over here in the U.S. mourning the end of summer and getting sentimental about backpacks, I'm also thinking about what "back to school" actually requires when a pair of shoes isn't a wardrobe choice, but rather a barrier standing between a kid and showing up to class healthy and confident. That's the gap we're trying to close, one term at a time.
