Asante Sana. Thank you very much.
Those were the words that framed the day—gratitude deep enough to overflow the walls of our small mud hut, now transformed into what could only be called an auditorium of joy.

It was as if the very air shimmered in celebration. Parents, grandparents, and neighbors arrived in a rainbow of bold prints and soft pastels, wrapped in laughter and goodwill. The carpenter stood among them, Moses at his side, and others who had long ago slipped into the fabric of this extended family—woven between seams of children’s voices and shared labor. The volunteers had scoured the open-air markets of Mtwapa and Mombasa for anything that might speak festivity: streamers cut from vibrant paper, bits of ribbon, little parcels ready for each child—writing tablets, sharpened pencils, bright rulers, crayons, sticks of chalk wrapped neatly in twine. 

I watched as grown men and women bent over colorful books with the wide-eyed wonder usually reserved for the very young. They fingered the pages, traced letters, and took joy in scattering chalk marks across the blackboards. It was almost too much to ask them to settle when the program began.

The youngest children opened the celebration, their voices ringing with Simama Kaa (“Stand and Stay”), then Tutumie Pamoja (“The More We Get Together”), followed by the simple joy of The ABC Song. And then came the moment I noticed Tracy’s handiwork—the bright swirls of face paint turned the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” into living theater. Raindrops and sun rays danced among us, the great spider toddling with delight, shakers rattling, monkey drums pattering like small feet over the packed earth. Laughter loosened the room’s walls, sending it soaring higher into the afternoon light.

We moved from group to group, each class offering their performance before pausing to receive certificates for completing their tests. The packages of pencils, rulers, and crayons were pressed into eager hands, each offering met with shy smiles or small bursts of pride. Pastor James greeted each child in turn, his handshake steady, his congratulations sincere.

The oldest students stood poised, faces open, voices prepared. Each one read aloud original writings naming their joy—simple words that carried the weight of gratitude. Then, together, they lifted the room with a version of a folk song remade just for this day:

This land is your land, this land is my land
From the Great Rift Valley to Kenyatta’s white sand,
From Elgon’s shadow to Malka Mari,
This land was made for you and me.

This school is your school, and it is my school,
We love each other for that is our rule.
We are so thankful to all who help us,
This school was made for you and me.

Their harmony was not perfect, but it was sincere. And when the final verse fell into quiet, the entire student body rose for the closing hymn—He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands—its cadence carrying the weight of both conviction and joy.

Standing in the doorway as the golden light slanted across the dusty yard, I felt a truth set itself gently in my chest: the Restoration School had traveled a long, beautiful road since its first uncertain steps. Faithful hearts had built something extraordinary here—woven with discipline, resilience, and grace.

My heart brimmed with joy at what the day had revealed—a community alive in gratitude, a school brimming with promise, children rich in hope. And yet, as twilight drew its veil around the mango trees, another reality pressed in: my own days here were numbered.

I mourned the thought of leaving—the cadence of laughter in the courtyard, the smell of chalk and sun-warmed books, the wide-eyed children who had welcomed me into their story.
In the hush between songs and speeches, I whispered my own Asante Sana—to God for the gift of this place, and to these people, whose joy now lives in the deepest part of me.

Continue to Kwaheri, Marafiki.

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