When the civic initiative was first introduced to my cohort, it landed on ambivalent ground. Beyond a handful of enthusiastic volunteers, most responses hovered between open skepticism and quiet resistance. It seems embarrassingly shortsighted in retrospect, but the weekly contribution of 250 shillings represented something undeniably tangible within a student’s budget. For me, it was the Red Bull I treated myself to each week with ritualistic loyalty.

Even so, I conceded. My reasoning was simple. If a marginal sacrifice on my part could generate a disproportionately meaningful benefit for someone else, then the decision was defensible in principle. I sent in my contribution every week, and it soon became a habit carried out with the same automatic ease as breakfast. In all honesty, I felt very detached at this stage. That distance is, I suspect, why signing up to go to Narok felt qualitatively different from transferring a few hundred shillings via M-Pesa. I am still not entirely sure what exactly prompted me to volunteer beyond my general desire to do good, but the decision shifted the experience to lived engagement.

Nothing had prepared me for what we encountered at Enengeetia Primary School. I do not mean this melodramatically. The conditions were stark. From floors collapsing into holes, desks balanced precariously with nails jutting out, library books scattered on the ground, to toilets in an advanced disrepair. The environment these children were expected to learn in produced an amalgam of shock, anger, moral discomfort, and acute awareness of my own privilege. Yet amid this, there were signs of progress. Previous cohorts had installed a functioning water system, repaired some floors, and had electricity installed in classrooms. This progress gave me hope.

The work that followed was tough. We filled and pushed wheelbarrows, broke and repaired floors, painted walls, planted trees, wrote up charts, and fixed desks. Still, the strain was softened by an unexpected buoyancy born of shared purpose and the accumulation of small victories. It was also the first time I had worked closely with peers I had barely interacted with in the three years we had attended school together.

More subtly, the visit altered my sense of what we owe to others. I found myself reconsidering the idea that there exists a moral responsibility, grounded in shared humanity, to facilitate the flourishing of others to the extent of our capacity. This reflection naturally invites a broader question within this context: What can each of us do to address the systemic challenges in our education system?

First, participate in civic engagement aimed at long-term reform. Monitor policy proposals, question their rationales, and demand transparency in budget allocation. The durability of an education system is shaped as much by citizen vigilance as by legislative action. Second, actively seek out schools that require assistance. These spaces rarely find you; you must seek them out. Once you do, determine what you can meaningfully contribute, whether that is financial support, tutoring, or helping to repair classrooms. Cultivate a culture of volunteerism within your circles. Third, if circumstances permit, consider donating to existing initiatives. The amounts need not be extravagant. I have learned that consistency often matters more than scale.

In my view, the initiative’s most powerful feature is its accessibility. One does not require legal training to recognize and address structural inequality. What is required is a willingness to acknowledge that other people’s lives can be made materially better through collective action. If that is within your reach, then signing up is not merely an act of charity but a deliberate affirmation of the kind of citizen (and the kind of human being) you aspire to be.

Article written by Faith Gakii, 3rd Year Strathmore Law School Student.