A walk to water

Today I am going to visit my friend Ahadi in Kenya. 


         I feel someone shaking me, awakening me from my sleep. I brush the hand away and lay back on my pillow. "Come on, Amanda. We need to go fetch water before the well dries up," I hear Ahadi say. 
Ahadi is 12 years old, one year younger than I am. She has two older brothers and one younger brothers. They all go to school farther into the village. I wonder what time it is, I look at the clock and it reads 4:30 a.m. Slowly, I crawl out of bed. The only pair of shoes I brought are falling apart, so I don't bother putting  anything on my feet. The sky is a deep, deep blue with twinkling stars scattered across it. I meet Ahadi outside the hut and she hands me an empty 5 gallon jug. She beckons me to follow her, we start walking and I know this walk is going to be very hard. Ahadi tells me that the well is 8 miles away and we will get there by 7:00. We will then walk back to the hut and reach it at around 11:00. 
        My bare feet are numb; at least I won't be able to feel the sharp rocks and thorns under them.  By now the sky has turned a lighter shade of blue. We have been walking for at least an hour. I hear Ahadi quietly singing. I ask her what she is singing and tells me it is a Swahili song of freedom. She tells me  one of the lines: "siku moja i watakuwa huru. . ."  I ask her what it means and she tells me that it means "One day I will be free..." While we walk in silence I think about that song. I wonder if Ahadi hopes that one day she will free; free from carrying gallons and gallons of water, free from living in a small little hut, free from all the chaos. . . I think what Ahadi really wants is to be able to go to school with her brothers.
      Now the sky is a blazing orange, looking as if someone had set it on fire. The sun slowly rises into the sky, casting light onto all below. After a long journey we have finally reached the well.There are other women there, filling up their gourds and plastic jugs. Some have small children strapped on their backs. It amazes me how these women are so strong and I never hear a single one complain. Ahadi and I scoop water into our jugs. The water is a whitish brown color, but what other choice do we have?
      We pick up the jugs. They are so heavy and I feel like complaining, but I see Ahadi just lift it up to her head and smile. Slowly we start our journey back. The whole way Ahadi encourages me to keep going and even sings me the song of freedom. Overhead the sky is a beautiful blue and there are white puffy clouds scattered around. 
     Finally we reach the hut. Ahadi's mother welcomes us home. The walk was so hard and at times I felt like I was going to die, but Ahadi helped me to keep walking. Ahadi has to do this walk every single day, sometimes even twice a day. Back home, I am able to just turn on the tap and fresh, clean, beautiful water comes out. I am never going to take my water for granted again. 
I am proud that Ahadi is so strong and calm. I hope one day she will be free and be able to go to school. I know that she will do well in anything that she does.
                            After all, Ahadi means promising.