A dozen teenage girls sit quietly on scattered chairs, waiting their turn to be interviewed. They fidget and watch for clues as classmates in front of them are called forward to sit one by one across from an American representative of the Kenya Keys program that is sponsoring their attendance at school. Without that sponsorship, they couldn’t afford to attend this secondary school since the Kenyan government only pays for public education through primary school.

Most of the girls come from dirt-floor shanties where neither electricity nor plumbing is even considered, where a corrugated steel roof that doesn’t leak is a luxury. A few of them tell me, in recounting their childhoods, how they used to admire the girls fortunate enough to go to school as those girls walked by in their “sharp” uniforms. The uniform symbolizes a ticket to escape the hopelessness of daily survival in a village that hasn’t evolved in generations. At least it’s a ticket to try. Otherwise, they would almost surely be sentenced to a life of gathering wood, herding goats and chickens, caring for siblings and aging parents until they are married off at a young age to repeat the cycle of their mothers’ and grandmothers’ lives. That is why these girls remember how fervently they dreamed of someday, somehow, earning the privilege of wearing a uniform.

High School girls in their “sharp” uniforms

A school uniform consists of a white, short-sleeved, cotton, collared blouse. It is paired with a simple skirt of dark cotton, navy blue or forest green. Neckties appear to be optional. But most uniforms include a V-neck knit sweater, the same color as the skirt, with a school logo positioned proudly on the left breast.

Sitting in front of me now are the lucky girls. These are the ones who, first, distinguished themselves by scoring highly on their primary-school final exams and then impressed the Kenya Keys leaders as being determined enough to be good gambles for long-term scholastic success. These are the few girls deemed deserving of a sponsorship to “unlock their potential” - those being offered a chance to reach for a life beyond that of perpetuating their family’s generational poverty. Of course, they’re proud to wear their uniforms.

From a distance, large groups of girls look tidy and coordinated in their school uniforms. But closer inspection reveals a more accurate tale of their reality.

I try not to let the student I’m interviewing notice that I’m staring at the cuffs of her sweater sleeves. They are frayed and the stitching is unraveling. The last girl I interviewed had elbows that were thread-bare and the girl before that had a tear in her shoulder seam where the yarn stitches were starting to separate.

I wonder why so many of these bright-eyed girls are wearing sweaters at all in the equatorial heat that makes my sweaty clothes cling to my unaccustomed skin. I’m told that it is probably their way of concealing blouses that are severely torn or stained or waistbands that are held up with make-shift pins or rope. Most of these students only have one blouse and one skirt, so the sweater is a way to protect their dignity. That’s the only possible explanation for so many girls’ choice to wear their sweaters in full sun, during PE, while they dance, even when they carry 30-kilo water jugs from the well to their dormitory.

They don’t beg for replacement clothing or whine about the discomfort of wearing a sweater in the sweltering heat. They’re nothing but grateful – oh, so grateful – that some sponsor has paid the tuition to keep them in school. They wouldn’t dream of complaining about ANYTHING!

A team of spiffy women is bustling about, proficiently managing the logistics of our student interviews. These are mostly Kenya Keys alumni who obtained their own degrees through the program’s scholarships and now work as administrators for the program.

Mwanaisha Mwayama is originally from a tiny outback village with a four-mile walk to her primary school but is now charged with overseeing all the libraries sponsored by Kenya Keys. Helping coordinate today’s schedule in this tiny dusty school, Mwanaisha is wearing a tailored dress with a stately bow at the hip, made of a rather sophisticated African striped fabric. Her lovely dangling earrings are of a cut-wood design that noticeably compliments the fabric of her dress. The earrings and bow combine to make a confident fashion statement. Every detail of her outfit is professional and polished. Mwanaisha used to wear a school uniform like those in front of me, one that was also undoubtedly frayed.

Clemence Budala had previously shown us the one-room mud hut she grew up in with her parents and siblings alongside chickens, goats, and a cat to manage the mice. She, too, was lucky to have worn a school uniform for years on her way to graduating. She went on to obtain several certificates leading to a diploma, and eventually earned an esteemed position on the Kenya Keys staff.

Rinda Hayes and Clemence Budala in dresses sewn at Clemence’s sewing shop

Now she stands in front of these dream-filled teenage girls, wearing a neatly fitted outfit she made at her own sewing shop, a smart black skirt with a custom-fit, polka-dot blouse accented with a black belt and sandals that match the red in her blouse. Clemence always wears shoes that accent her outfits. And her hair – as well as Mwanaisha’s – is always in a meticulous “do”. Today, she wears braids that wave neatly over her scalp to gather at the back of her head, where they are lassoed and then allowed to fall elegantly over her scapulas. Her dedication to detail, from her attire to her management, makes me wonder how she managed her teenage years of making do with a tattered school uniform.

The schools we are visiting are located in the rural area of Taru, a starkly undeveloped edge of the Kenyan desert. It requires four-wheel drive and a strong stomach to navigate getting there. Nevertheless, the female administrators and teachers at these outback schools are, without exception, exceptionally well dressed. It’s not that the fabric or brand name of their attire is expensive. It’s that each woman has clearly put forth the effort to find, or probably make, an outfit that perfectly fits her figure, modest and highly professional. And each has carefully accessorized to complete her presentation.

In a week of visits to schools tucked into “the bush,” I haven’t seen a single female employee of any Kenyan school dressed as casually as nearly every educator I know in American schools.

Yesterday, Clemence was wearing another dress she had made for herself. With a nicely fitted bodice over a gathered skirt, the fabric was a black netting that was sheer on her arms, lined everywhere else. The distinguishing feature was a cheerful swirling pattern of red and pink sequined flowers that gave the dress a joyous sparkle you would normally see on a dance floor. But Clemence wore it comfortably even as she took part in the ceremonial planting of new seedlings at one of the schools. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to let her fine-dining outfit get in the way of her professional responsibilities. In actuality, her attire elevated the importance of the occasion.

That dress symbolizes for me the dignity and pride with which these accomplished Kenyan women view their hard-earned careers. They may not have gone literally from rags to riches, but they’ve certainly paid a price I’ll never understand in developing themselves from starving school girls to proud professionals.

From Frayed Sleeves to Sequins

I Would be Nothing

Abled