How do we continue serving our communities when the funding becomes uncertain?

For us, the answer was not to wait.

It was to build.

Rather than allowing uncertainty to define our future, we chose to redefine sustainability. We asked ourselves a different question:

What if our communities could become the source of their own transformation?

That question gave birth to one of the boldest decisions we have ever made.

We established Tererai Trent International School in Zimbabwe—not simply as another private school, but as a social enterprise with a purpose far greater than education alone.

Every classroom, every student enrolled, every school fee paid, and every milestone achieved brings us closer to a larger dream: creating a sustainable source of income that will provide university scholarships for talented young people from the rural communities where I was raised.

This is not a story about replacing generosity.

It is a story about multiplying it.

We remain deeply grateful for every donor, every foundation, every partner, and every individual who has walked alongside us throughout this journey. Their belief in our vision has changed countless lives. Yet true leadership requires us to prepare for a future where impact does not depend solely on the generosity of others.

Our goal is simple:

To create an organization capable of serving generations to come, regardless of changing economic climates or donor trends.

The photographs that follow tell the story of that vision becoming reality.

They capture a dream built one brick at a time.

A school rising from the ground.

Teachers and students filling classrooms with hope.

Laboratories, libraries, sports facilities, and learning spaces taking shape.

Parents choosing a school that not only educates their own children but also helps educate children they may never meet.

Every tuition payment becomes more than school fees.

It becomes an investment in another child’s future.

It helps create scholarships for rural students who otherwise would never have the opportunity to attend university.

This is the power of social entrepreneurship.

This is what proactive leadership looks like.

When one source of funding becomes uncertain, we do not retreat.

We innovate.

We build.

We create sustainable institutions that generate opportunity long after today’s donations have been spent.

As the African proverb reminds us:

“The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is today.”

This school is our tree.

Its roots are planted in Zimbabwe.

Its branches will one day shelter thousands of young people whose education, leadership, and dreams will transform communities for generations.

Our hope is that this story inspires other nonprofit leaders to think differently about sustainability—not as a departure from philanthropy, but as its strongest partner.

Because when generosity is combined with innovation, communities no longer simply survive.

They flourish.

“Vakuru, Vesai Moto Tionane, Rufu Runodada”

“Village elders, rekindle the fire so we may see one another before death, in all its arrogance, steals us away.”

The fire was never just a fire.

It was our first classroom.

Our first library.

Our first parliament.

Our first university.

As the sun disappeared behind the mountains and darkness settled over the village, our grandmothers, mothers, and aunties gathered us into a circle around the flames. The circle mattered as much as the fire itself. There was no front row. No back row. No one sat above another. The same light illuminated every face. Every voice mattered.

Before anyone told a story, we first looked into one another’s eyes.

We saw one another.

Only then did the stories begin.

Our elders understood something modern society is slowly forgetting: stories are not merely told to entertain. They are told to preserve a people’s soul. They carry memories that history books often erase. They remind us who we have been, who we are, and who we must never become.

One song has echoed in my heart since childhood.

“Ndati vakuru vesai moto tionane, rufu runodada…”

“Village elders, rekindle the fire so we may see one another before death, in all its arrogance, steals us away.”

The words were simple.

The meaning was immeasurable.

Our elders sang these words with eyes fixed on the embers, carrying that distant, reflective gaze. They were not singing about distant legends. They were singing about their own lives.

The song remembered a continent overflowing with abundance—gold, diamonds, platinum, copper, uranium, cobalt, fertile land, flowing rivers, and thriving communities. Yet that abundance became a curse when colonial powers saw Africa not as the home of human beings, but as a vast storehouse of wealth to be extracted.

The land was stripped.

The people were exploited.

Families were torn apart.

The song remembered the years when countless African men were recruited—or forced—to work in distant gold mines. They were valued only for the strength of their bodies. They endured dangerous conditions, exhausting labor, and lives measured by production rather than humanity. Many never returned home. Those who resisted or tried to escape often faced severe punishment or death.

“Ndati vakuru vesai moto tionane, rufu runodada…”

The song became the librarian of our collective memory.

Back home, wives waited.

Children grew up knowing their fathers only through stories.

Some men returned once a year.

Some returned after two or three years.

Some never returned at all.

When those fortunate enough to survive finally came home, it was often deep into the night. They would wake the village elders, who would breathe life back into the fading embers until the fire burned brightly once more. The village gathered in a circle—not because they needed warmth, but because they needed to see one another.

To witness the lines that suffering had carved into familiar faces.

To embrace those who had returned.

To remember those who had not.

Around that fire, grief found language.

Pain found listeners.

Silence found compassion.

Stories became medicine.

No one healed alone.

The fire reminded us that remembrance is a sacred act.

The circle reminded us that every life matters equally.

Together, they taught us that healing begins the moment we choose to truly see one another.

Perhaps that is why the elders always sang:

“Vakuru, vesai moto tionane, rufu runodada.”

“Village elders, rekindle the fire so we may see one another before death, in all its arrogance, steals us away.”

Even today, in a world illuminated by screens yet darkened by loneliness, that ancient invitation still calls to us.

Rekindle the fire.

Gather in the circle.

Look into one another’s eyes.

Tell the stories.

Remember.

For a people who remember one another are a people no darkness can ever conquer.

Today’s journey would take us to five schools—Matau Primary School, Chivakanenyama High School, Chiroti Secondary School, and Chiroti Primary School—with tomorrow’s visits planned for Zvimhonja Primary School, Musukwi Primary School, and Madudzo Primary School. Each school represents a different chapter in a larger story of what becomes possible when communities are empowered with sustainable solutions.

Before breakfast, we headed to Matau Primary School to join the morning assembly.

More than 1,300 learners, from ECD through Grade 7, stood proudly in neat rows waiting to welcome us. To say it was one of the greatest welcomes we have ever experienced would be an understatement. The singing, dancing, and joyful celebrations reflected not only the excitement of the children but also the incredible hospitality that defines rural Zimbabwe.

Our Oklahoma State University students were deeply moved. Many shared that they had never experienced such warmth from people they had only just met.

From Matau, we traveled to Chivakanenyama High School, where students were quietly writing their examinations. We met with the teachers before touring the school’s impressive science laboratory and newly completed classroom block.

We then visited one of the school’s most inspiring initiatives—a thriving agricultural project where 5,000 cabbages have been planted. This solar-powered irrigation project was funded by Wishes for Water (WFW), an Oklahoma State University-supported initiative.

The project is expected to generate approximately US$3,000 in net income each season—income that will be reinvested to strengthen the school.

What impressed our students most was not simply the garden itself, but the leadership mindset behind it.

Using revenue generated from its one-hectare garden, the school invested nearly US$12,000 to construct a block of two large classrooms and install a new school gate.

Chivakanenyama beautifully crystallizes not only the Tererai Trent International Foundation’s vision but also the Ministry of Education’s vision: schools that embrace income-generating projects are better positioned to sustain themselves while improving the quality of education they provide.

That is the very essence of sustainability.

The school has become a model for others across the region. Every successful project creates another opportunity. The proceeds from the garden strengthen the school, improve learning conditions, and inspire even bigger dreams. This ripple effect of visionary leadership is exactly what the Tererai Trent International Foundation seeks to cultivate—communities building sustainable solutions that continue creating opportunities long after the initial investment has been made.

Next, we traveled to Chiroti Secondary School, where a new Wishes for Water-funded borehole was being drilled to support the school’s planned Boer goat project. A one-hectare piece of land has already been fenced in preparation for the herd, allowing our Oklahoma State University students to witness firsthand how Wishes for Water, together with the Tererai Trent International Foundation, partners with communities to create lasting impact through sustainability.

For our OSU students, witnessing a borehole being drilled was unforgettable. Excitement filled the air when clean water was struck at approximately 30 meters below the surface. For many in our group, it was the first time they had witnessed the birth of a new water source—a powerful reminder that access to water is the foundation upon which education, agriculture, health, and economic opportunity are built.

We also toured Chiroti Secondary School’s remarkable science laboratory, another example of visionary leadership investing in future generations.

The school graciously hosted us for lunch, serving roasted chicken with a delicious sauce, accompanied by sadza, rice, and fresh green vegetables. As always, the generosity of our rural communities humbled us.

In the afternoon, we visited Chiroti Primary School, where another one-hectare irrigated garden, funded by Wishes for Water in 2025, is already transforming lives. In just one growing season, the school harvested one tonne of maize, helping feed its approximately 560 learners.

Again, our students witnessed something much larger than agriculture.

They witnessed sustainability in action.

The ripple effect at the heart of the Tererai Trent International Foundation’s work is profound.

Yet alongside these remarkable successes, we encountered a sobering reality—one that crystallized the importance of TTI’s partnership with the Ministry of Education, local authorities, and schools in supporting an education system built on sustainable, income-generating models.

At Chiroti Primary School, many classrooms have leaking roofs, broken windows, cracked floors, and worn-out desks. As part of our lesson on empathetic leadership, I invited the OSU students to sit at the broken desks and imagine learning in those conditions every single day.

The room became completely silent.

For many, the experience was deeply emotional. There were very few dry eyes.

The contrast was impossible to ignore. Throughout the day, we had witnessed extraordinary innovation—schools generating income, drilling boreholes, growing food, and constructing classrooms. Yet we had also seen learners striving for excellence in environments that often undermine their dignity.

It reminded us that leadership must hold two realities at once: celebrating progress while refusing to become comfortable with inequity.

As the evening settled over the village and another beautiful Zimbabwean sunset disappeared behind the musasa trees, we gathered for our daily reflection.

Josh Taylor, the professor leading the Oklahoma State University students, shared a thought that stayed with all of us.

Compassionate leadership is not simply recognizing what breaks our hearts; it is taking responsibility for addressing it. It is about using our knowledge, privilege, and influence to create opportunities for others.

His words perfectly captured everything we had witnessed throughout the day.

The boreholes, solar-powered irrigation systems, science laboratories, and income-generating projects supported by the Tererai Trent International Foundation are not acts of charity. They are investments in local leadership. They enable schools to generate their own resources, strengthen their own institutions, and create opportunities that continue long after the initial investment has been made.

That is why Chivakanenyama High School remains such a powerful example. A single investment in a one-hectare irrigated garden enabled the school to construct two large classrooms valued at nearly US$12,000 and install a new school gate. One investment sparked another, demonstrating how sustainable leadership creates lasting change.

As our conversations came to a close, one question lingered in my mind:

How do we build schools and communities that no longer depend on aid, but are empowered to sustain their own future?

Perhaps that is the defining leadership question of our generation.

Tomorrow our journey continues to Zvimhonja Primary School, Musukwi Primary School, and Madudzo Primary School, where we will continue exploring how visionary leadership, strong community partnerships, and sustainable development are transforming rural education—one school, one child, and one community at a time.

The first golden rays peeked through the graceful branches of the towering musasa and munhodo trees, their leaves filtering the morning light into shimmering patches of gold that danced across the earth. The cool dawn air carried the fragrance of dew-soaked grass and rich red soil, while birds announced the arrival of a new day with a chorus that echoed across the village.

As the sun climbed higher, its warm glow stretched across the landscape, illuminating homesteads, winding footpaths, grazing cattle, and the early morning fire waiting for my husband Mark to brew his coffee. The ancient trees, silent witnesses to generations of village life, stood bathed in amber light, reminding all who paused to look that each sunrise is both a promise and an invitation.

It is the glow of hope after darkness, of possibility after rest. In the village, every sunrise whispers the same timeless truth: today is another chance to begin again, to serve, to lead, and to dream.

Our visiting Oklahoma State University students woke with great anticipation. Today, they would experience something that cannot be taught in a classroom—a Sunday worship service in a rural Zimbabwean village.

This is my late mother’s church, the church I always attend whenever I am home in the village and my schedule allows. Returning here always feels like coming home.

The day felt especially meaningful. Just two weeks earlier, I had brought a group of women leaders who had joined me for a leadership retreat to worship with this same congregation. Although those women came from different churches and backgrounds, they found themselves united in worship. Today, our visitors came from a different kind of community—one university, my alma mater, Oklahoma State University. Yet the lesson was remarkably similar. Leadership has a way of revealing itself when people step into unfamiliar places with open hearts.

After two days of observing leadership in family life, community governance, and the management of shared resources such as water, I was eager to see what the students would notice in a place of worship. Would they recognize leadership beyond the pulpit? Would they see how faith shapes community?

We arrived at the church at exactly 10:54 a.m., just in time for the service.

Following worship, we planned to visit the nearby shopping center to continue observing Ubuntu in everyday life—to watch how people greeted one another, supported local businesses, and interacted within their community.

Later that afternoon, we gathered beneath the shade of a large mango tree for our daily reflection circle.

I asked Blake, one of the students, to facilitate the reflection session and guide the conversation around what everyone had experienced during the church service, particularly through the lens of leadership.

As each student shared their observations, I realized that I wanted to do something different today. Rather than simply recording our experiences, I wanted to capture them in the form of a letter to the pastor—a way of expressing our gratitude while preserving the students’ reflections exactly as they were shared.

The students’ insights were thoughtful, heartfelt, and deeply moving.

This is the letter I wrote.

Dear Pastor,

Thank you so much for today’s beautiful service.

Our Oklahoma State University students were deeply moved by the experience. After the service, we gathered for a reflection session, and the conversations were thoughtful, heartfelt, and inspiring. Many of the students shared how your message resonated with their own faith and challenged them to think more deeply about what it means to live out the Gospel in community.

They were especially touched by the warmth with which they were welcomed. They witnessed a church that doesn’t simply preach God’s love but embodies it through compassion, generosity, and genuine fellowship. They remarked that, although the Western world has much to offer, it also has much to learn from communities like yours that so beautifully demonstrate Ubuntu—the understanding that our humanity is found in one another. Your congregation reflected what it truly means to be the hands and feet of Christ, extending God’s love to everyone who walks through the doors.

One observation particularly stood out. The students noticed how attentively the children sat in the pews, listening to every word you preached. They saw young people who were not merely attending church but were learning, participating, and growing within their faith community. It reminded them that leadership is nurtured long before adulthood.

They were equally inspired by your pastoral leadership. Throughout the service, they observed how intentionally you empowered others to lead, particularly the women who played visible and meaningful roles in worship. They also appreciated your willingness to entrust another leader with translating your sermon. To them, this was a powerful expression of servant leadership—one that trusts others, shares responsibility, and develops leaders rather than keeping leadership centered on one individual. It was a beautiful lesson in humility, collaboration, and the multiplication of leadership.

Thank you for grounding our students in both faith and community. Today’s worship was far more than a church service; it was a living lesson in Christian leadership, discipleship, and Ubuntu. It is an experience they will carry with them long after they return home.

Thank you again for the goodness of heart that you are and for so generously sharing your congregation with us. May God continue to bless your ministry abundantly.

With gratitude,

Tererai Trent

We woke to another breathtaking African sunrise. Our neighbor’s cattle were already grazing in the nearby fields, while the gentle cooing of doves and a chorus of birdsong filled the morning air. The day held great anticipation as we prepared to visit four different homesteads, each representing a unique family structure within the village.

But life in a rural village often reminds us that the best lessons are rarely the ones we plan.

Just before breakfast, four community members arrived at the homestead to personally thank the Tererai Trent International Foundation for drilling a new borehole for their community. They shared that they were about to begin a community meeting to discuss the management of the new water source and warmly invited us to attend.

I immediately embraced the opportunity. I knew this would offer our Oklahoma State University students something no classroom could teach—a firsthand look at community leadership, shared governance, and how decisions are made around one of life’s most precious resources: water.

The students eagerly accepted the invitation.

After breakfast, we walked together to the meeting place. More than twenty women and two men were already gathered beneath the shade, patiently waiting for us.

As we approached, the community welcomed the students with a beautiful song:

“Imi mauya, mauya, mauya…”

“You have come. We welcome you. We welcome you.”

The warmth of that welcome immediately dissolved any barriers between visitors and hosts.

Once introductions were complete, the women began sharing what access to clean water has meant for their families. With the new borehole, many who once walked four kilometers each day to collect water from the river will no longer have to make that exhausting journey. Beginning Monday, clean water will be available within their own community—a transformation that restores not only health and dignity, but also precious hours that can now be invested in their families, farms, and livelihoods.

The community proudly showed us the borehole and explained how they had established a seven-member water management committee responsible for maintaining the system and ensuring fair access for everyone.

One observation sparked an important leadership conversation.

Although women are the primary users and managers of household water, only two of the seven committee members were women.

Our OSU students immediately asked why.

The women answered with remarkable honesty.

Many explained that although they would like to serve in leadership roles, limited literacy had often left them doubting their ability to lead. Their responses revealed how education shapes confidence, and how confidence, in turn, influences who feels empowered to step forward as a leader.

It was a powerful reminder that leadership opportunities are often determined long before leadership positions become available.

Following the meeting, we continued to the four planned homesteads: a widow-headed household, a male- and female-headed household, a single female-headed household, and a polygamous household led by one husband and five co-wives.

Each family welcomed the students with extraordinary generosity.

They opened not only their homes but also their hearts, sharing their daily realities, their struggles, their hopes, and the ways they lead their families and communities.

It was deeply moving to watch the students engage with such curiosity and respect. Their questions were thoughtful, reflective, and grounded in a genuine desire to understand rather than judge. Leadership, they were discovering, looks different across cultures—but its foundation is always built on listening.

As the African sun began to set, we gathered once again around the fire for our evening reflection circle.

The conversation was profound.

Overwhelmingly, the students shared that they had witnessed Ubuntu not simply as a concept, but as a lived reality.

They described seeing a community bound together by shared purpose, shared responsibility, and shared vulnerability—a place where people thrive because no one is expected to carry life’s burdens alone.

Several students reflected that this sense of collective belonging stood in sharp contrast to the individualism they often experience back home in the United States.

To close the evening, I asked each student to share just one word that captured what remained with them after this remarkable day.

One by one they responded:

• Humbled

• Eye-opening

• Shifted — “There seems to be so much joy in having less.”

• Grateful

• Community Pride

• Perspective

• Tradition

• Vulnerability as Strength

• Honored to be Welcomed

• Conflicted — “By the depth of Ubuntu, resilience, and the lack of material possessions.”

• Steadfast Leadership

As I listened, I realized something beautiful had begun to happen.

The village was no longer simply a place they were visiting.

It had become a classroom.

And its greatest teachers were the people.

Tomorrow, we look forward to Day Three as we worship at my late mother’s church—the Methodist Church in Zvipani Township. It will offer yet another opportunity to explore leadership through a different lens: faith, community, and service.

I am excited for our students to observe both the similarities and the differences between leadership in the church, the community’s water management committee, and the diverse households we visited today.

Because every community has its own way of cultivating leaders.

The privilege is learning to recognize them.

Others echo through dry earth.

This is the story of one that still lives inside me.

Denderedzi High School had been waiting for water for more than twenty years.

Not a week.

Not a season.

Two decades.

The school sits in one of Zimbabwe’s driest regions, where the earth guards its water like a secret. It is one of the twelve rural schools supported by the Tererai Trent International Foundation.

Every time I visited, I found myself asking the same question.

How does a school survive without water?

But this was never merely a question.

It was a memory.

Standing there, I was transported back to my own childhood. I knew what it meant to grow up in a rural community where every bucket of water had to be earned. I knew what it meant to watch women disappear before sunrise with containers balanced on their heads, only to return hours later exhausted. I knew what it meant to learn while thirsty.

Suddenly I was no longer the woman leading a foundation.

I was once again the little village girl who understood that before a child can dream, she must first drink.

Nearly one hundred and eighty students arrived each morning carrying dreams far bigger than the dusty landscape surrounding them.

Yet before they could think about mathematics, literature or science, they first had to think about something far more basic.

Water.

Children arrived with cracked lips.

Teachers rationed every drop.

Some students carried cloudy river water inside worn plastic bottles, hoping it would last until the final lesson.

Hope itself seemed thirsty.

When our team finally secured funding to drill a solar-powered borehole, excitement swept through the community.

Word travelled faster than any official announcement.

Before sunrise on Saturday morning, the drilling truck rumbled into the school grounds carrying its towering machinery. The deep growl of the engine echoed across the valley, drawing people from every direction.

Women arrived balancing empty twenty-litre buckets.

Village elders came leaning on walking sticks.

Schoolchildren ran barefoot across the dusty yard.

Nobody had been invited.

Nobody needed to be.

Water belongs to everyone.

Watching those women quietly line up their empty containers before a single hole had even been drilled taught me something profound.

Faith often arrives carrying empty buckets.

Across rural Africa, women and girls carry the burden of water.

They wake before dawn.

Walk for kilometres.

Carry heavy containers home.

Then cook. Wash. Clean.

Care for children.

The absence of water steals hours from every day and years from every life.

This borehole represented far more than water.

It represented dignity. It represented opportunity. It represented freedom.

Normally, our drillers expected to strike water somewhere between forty and sixty metres.

Anything deeper meant more money.

More drilling.

More uncertainty.

More pressure on a budget that was already stretched beyond comfort.

The drill bit sank into the ancient granite beneath the school.

The machine screamed against the rock as clouds of fine dust rose into the morning air, settling on school uniforms, weathered faces and the empty buckets waiting patiently beneath the trees.

Every few minutes the drilling paused.

Every pause sent hundreds of eyes searching the earth for the slightest sign of moisture.

Then, almost instantly, a piercing ululation burst across the schoolyard.

One elderly woman had been sitting quietly beneath the shade of a classroom wall.

She slowly rose to her feet.

She lifted both hands toward heaven.

Then she began to sing.

Within seconds, other women joined her.

Their voices rose together until the air itself seemed to vibrate.

I lifted my camera and quietly walked toward them.

When they noticed me, the singing softened into warm laughter.

The elderly woman adjusted the faded cloth tied around her waist and looked directly into my eyes.

Then she began to pray.

She wasn’t praying only for water. She was praying for dignity.

Not quietly.

Not politely.

She prayed as though heaven stood only a few metres away.

“May God increase the number of TTI Foundation days upon this earth.

May He keep TTI and her partners safe wherever you travel.

Through water you are bringing us freedom.

Water is our greatest struggle, yet it is life itself.

Look at me.

I have grown old searching for water.

Look at these feet.

They can no longer carry me to the river.

What of these children?

They drink dirty water from bottles filled at the river.

Disease has become part of our lives.

The God of Samuel whom I pray to—

may you protect TTI Foundation and all its global partners.

May you bless them with long life.”

I slowly lowered my camera.

There are moments when recording history feels almost disrespectful.

Some moments deserve to be received rather than documented.

Behind her, the drill continued its relentless journey into the earth.

Forty metres.

Nothing.

Fifty metres.

Still nothing.

Sixty metres.

Silence.

The engineer looked toward me.

“Maybe if we drill deeper.”

Hope and fear collided inside my chest.

Just then a small boy, no older than ten, gently tugged at my sleeve.

His voice was almost a whisper.

“Do you think we’ll find water?”

I smiled, though I wasn’t sure I believed my own smile.

“My grandmother told me to bring fresh water home today,” he said.

“I was hoping to drink before I walked back.”

He wasn’t asking whether the borehole would succeed.

He was asking whether he could keep a promise to his grandmother.

His words settled somewhere deep inside me.

No child should have to hope for a drink of water.

I turned toward the drilling team.

“Let’s keep going.”

Every additional metre felt like signing another cheque I wasn’t sure we could cash.

Seventy metres.

Nothing.

Eighty metres.

Nothing.

Ninety metres.

Dry.

Every metre carried another cost.

But I also knew exactly what failure would cost.

“Keep drilling.”

One hundred metres.

Still nothing.

One hundred and ten metres.

Nothing.

By now the singing had disappeared.

Children stood shoulder to shoulder without speaking.

Teachers folded their arms across anxious chests.

The village elders whispered quietly among themselves.

Finally one elderly man stepped forward.

He removed his hat.

“Let us pray.”

The entire crowd bowed their heads.

Even the drillers stopped talking.

Prayer has a way of making everyone equal.

When the final drill stopped turning, the foreman removed his helmet.

He didn’t need many words.

“There is no water.”

No one cried.

No one argued.

Sometimes disappointment is too large for noise.

The workers began dismantling the drilling rig.

Metal clanged against metal.

Engines started.

Dust rose once again.

The hole remained.

Empty.

One by one the women lifted their empty buckets.

The same buckets they had brought believing they would return home carrying life.

Instead they turned toward the river.

The journey had not changed.

Only hope had.

Empty buckets make almost no sound.

That afternoon they were the loudest thing I had ever heard.

The men stood motionless.

No one quite knew how to leave.

The elderly woman who had prayed was the last to walk away.

Her cheeks were wet with tears.

I watched until she disappeared beyond the trees.

That night I hardly slept.

The next morning I contacted a professional groundwater survey company.

They carefully studied the geology and identified another location.

“This one,” they assured me, “will produce water.”

For the first time in two days, hope returned.

Then reality arrived.

Our drilling budget had already been exhausted.

We had found the answer.

We simply could not afford to act on it.

I sat quietly for a long time.

People often imagine that development work is made of grand speeches and ribbon-cutting ceremonies.

It is not.

Sometimes it is sitting with the unbearable knowledge that the solution exists only a few metres away, but money stands between people and survival.

That is one of poverty’s cruellest tricks.

It rarely says no.

It simply says,

“Not today.”

Long before I understood the statistics, I understood the walk.

Zimbabwe is among the world’s most water-stressed nations.

Millions live where rainfall is unpredictable, rivers dry too early and underground water lies hidden beneath unforgiving rock.

Climate change has only intensified that reality.

Water is no longer merely an environmental issue.

It is an educational issue.

A health issue.

A women’s issue.

A children’s issue.

A justice issue.

The United Nations recognises access to safe water as a fundamental human right.

Yet rights written on paper mean little to a child standing beneath a scorching sun holding an empty bottle.

Whenever I think of Denderedzi High School, I remember that elderly woman’s prayer.

Not because the borehole succeeded.

It didn’t.

I remember it because gratitude arrived before the miracle.

She thanked God for water she had not yet seen.

She blessed our foundation before she knew whether the drilling would succeed.

Her faith was never dependent upon the outcome.

That prayer has remained with me far longer than the sound of the drilling machine.

People often ask what keeps me doing this work.

They expect me to speak about awards.

Recognition.

Success stories.

But the truth is much simpler.

It is a grandmother praying blessings over someone she has only just met.

It is a little boy hoping to carry one bucket of clean water home.

It is women arriving before sunrise with empty containers because hope told them to come.

Those are the moments that refuse to let me stop.

I still think about those women.

They arrived carrying empty buckets.

I left carrying one of my own.

It was invisible.

It was filled with responsibility.

And I have been trying to empty it ever since.

There are some stories that no novelist could invent because life itself writes them with astonishing precision.

My relationship with Cambridge spans decades. It is not simply the story of an examination board. It is the story of hope, perseverance, sacrifice, and the impossible becoming possible.

When Zimbabwe became independent, education remained deeply connected to the Cambridge system. For many children, earning a Cambridge certificate represented opportunity, dignity, and the possibility of a different future.

For me, that dream seemed almost impossible.

I had no money to register for classes, let alone purchase the textbooks I desperately needed. Every examination fee represented an enormous obstacle.

The only reason I continued was because of my mother.

She was a subsistence farmer working a small, infertile patch of land that did not even belong to her. As an African woman, she carried the weight of both colonial systems and patriarchal traditions that denied women ownership of the very land they cultivated.

Before sunrise each morning, she would rise quietly from her bed, pick up her worn hoe, and walk into the fields.

Planting.

Weeding.

Harvesting.

Always with her bare hands.

The ground was unforgiving. The soil was poor. The rains were uncertain. Each swing of her hoe echoed against hard earth and stubborn rocks. The harvest was never guaranteed, yet she never stopped.

She sold whatever she could—corn, tomatoes, mangoes, and peanuts—not because it made her wealthy, but because she believed education was worth every drop of sweat.

My tuition was paid by my mother’s sacrifice.

Because there was never enough money, I could not study all my Cambridge subjects at once. I registered for only two subjects at a time, waited until we could save again, then registered for another two.

What many students completed in a few years took me eight long years.

Eight years of failing

Eight of repeating

Eight years of determination.

Eight years of waiting.

Eight years of believing that one day I would finally earn my Cambridge High School Certificate.

I never imagined that those difficult years were preparing me for something much greater.

Today, I stand on the other side of that journey.

Not only do I own my own high school, but only eight months after opening its doors, Tererai Trent International School has been officially accredited as a Cambridge Examination Centre.

Even as I write those words, I pause in amazement.

It took me eight years to earn my own Cambridge certificate.

Yet it took only eight months for the school I built to become a Cambridge Centre.

How does one explain such symmetry?

How do you explain a journey that begins with a little girl who could only afford two examination subjects at a time and ends with that same woman leading a school trusted to administer Cambridge examinations?

Some will call it coincidence.

I call it grace.

I call it the faithfulness of God.

I call it the miracle that happens when perseverance meets purpose.

Every examination candidate who walks through the doors of our school will never know that there was once a little girl who wondered if she would ever afford another Cambridge examination fee.

Every certificate awarded at our centre carries, in some small way, the fingerprints of my mother’s worn hands—the same hands that tilled rocky ground before dawn so that her daughter could continue learning.

This accreditation is far more than institutional recognition.

It is a tribute to my mother’s sacrifice.

It is the fulfillment of a dream that survived poverty.

It is proof that dreams planted in difficult soil can still produce extraordinary harvests.

Looking back, I now understand that Cambridge was never just examining my academic ability.

Life was examining my perseverance.

Eight years taught me endurance.

Eight months revealed the miracle.

Sometimes God compresses into months what once took years, not because the journey was wasted, but because every struggle was preparing you for an assignment far greater than you could have imagined.

Today, Tererai Trent International School stands as living evidence that no dream is too delayed, no beginning is too humble, and no sacrifice made in love is ever forgotten.

What began with my mother’s sweat has become a legacy that will educate generations.

And that is a miracle no one could ever make up.

Some of you have been following my journey to establish a private school dedicated to generating income to support our foundation’s scholarship program.

We recently hosted an open day at the school, and it was truly a heartfelt celebration. It brought together the very first students and their parents as they toured the grounds, sharing in this meaningful milestone.

One girl caught my attention.

Chenai passionately expressed her love for science during the event.

Chenai was visibly excited when she entered the state-of-the-art science laboratory, saying, “I give you 10/10 for such a beautiful science lab.” Her enthusiasm and the inspiring comments made the day truly memorable.

I warmly invite you to help us celebrate our students, as we share our stories here.

Our Mandara Campus offices are open every day with open arms.

WhatsApp: +263 780728345

Email: info@tereraitrentschools.org

Address: 55 Beeston Ave, Mandara, Harare, Zimbabwe

Dear Sahwira,

As 2025 comes to an end, I share this not as a victory but as an invitation to rethink old models with courage and an open mind.

Some years pass quietly, and then some years ask everything of us.

For our foundation, and for many humanitarian organizations across Africa, 2025 will be a landmark. A year that required us to pause, and to look unflinchingly at truths we had long known but hoped we might not have to face so soon.

Economic instability tightened its grip. Global conflicts deepened and multiplied. External funding, once steady, once dependable, began to retreat. Not because compassion had vanished, but because the world’s attention had shifted, fractured by crises competing for urgency.

The suspension of grants by the U.S. government, coupled with the ongoing wars in Gaza, Ukraine, and elsewhere, reshaped the landscape of international aid almost overnight. Nations pulled inward. Foreign aid budgets were cut. Humanitarian funding was redirected to emergencies closer to the headlines.

For our foundation, this was more than a policy shift by a U.S. administration to focus on domestic issues rather than continue to fund international projects; it was a profound personal challenge.

For years, the generosity of friends and partners, many of whom are abroad, has sustained scholarships for rural students pursuing higher education across Zimbabwe. Their support changed lives. It kept young people in classrooms when poverty threatened to pull them away. It gave families hope.

But as the world reeled, I watched many of those same friends make difficult, compassionate choices. They redirected their funding toward women and children affected by the Israel-Gaza war, the Ukraine conflict, and other devastating wars and crises that have left countless innocent children displaced, traumatized, and grieving.

I understood. I honored their choices.

And still, the absence was felt.

At the same time, another door quietly began to close.

As if these challenges were not enough, in 2025, new executive orders and federal actions in the United States severely restricted Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs. For many speakers of color, these initiatives had provided not only platforms, but pathways, ways to share lived wisdom, to advocate, to be seen and heard.

I began receiving emails and phone calls canceling or postponing speaking engagements. Though my speaking had declined during COVID-19, I soon began rebuilding my platform and managed to maintain at least two engagements per month.

With the restriction on DEI, the loss of my speaking platform not only hurt me personally but also our foundation.

Not only because speaking had been my livelihood, but because it had been one of the most important ways I cultivated relationships, built community, and invited new supporters into the work of our foundation. It was how stories traveled. How trust grew. How scholarships were funded.

When that platform faltered, so did a pillar of our sustainability.

My reality unraveled quietly, but completely.

I found myself asking questions I could no longer avoid.

What does it mean to build an education system that depends entirely on external aid?
What happens to our students when global priorities change?
What happens when I am no longer able to speak, to travel, to fundraise?

I am an elderly woman in my mid-sixties, aware that life can be unpredictable. I hope, deeply, to live a long, healthy life, possibly reaching 100 years. I also understand the fragility of our time. I imagine myself reaching one hundred. I know that no movement, no foundation, should rest solely on the strength or presence of one person.

Even if my speaking platform were restored, I knew in my bones: this was not a sustainable future.

The message from the donor community was unequivocal: this reality is harsh and cannot be ignored.

To secure our foundation’s future and guarantee tuition for the students we support through donor-funded scholarships, I, as a founder, must reevaluate and fully understand what these global shifts mean for the survival of their dreams and the foundation itself.

What made this reckoning unbearable was knowing what was at stake. Hundreds of students, bright, determined, already enrolled in colleges and universities across the country, depended on our ability to secure tuition, accommodation, and living expenses.

Their dreams were not abstract. They had names. Faces. Futures unfolding in real time.

To fail them was unthinkable.

And yet, building a forward-looking strategy in the midst of scarcity, exhaustion, and uncertainty felt almost impossible.

Almost.

It was in this firelit moment that a different vision emerged, one born not of abundance, but of necessity. A vision for a self-sustaining revenue model, one that could break the cycle of dependency and ensure that a rural child’s education would never again hinge on the unpredictability of donor cycles.

Even if it meant risking my retirement savings, I was willing.

I was confident that the income generated locally, with dignity and intention, could fund scholarships for rural students pursuing higher education across Zimbabwe. That we could keep our students in school not through charity alone, but through structure, courage, and foresight.

I surrounded myself with a new kind of leadership, Sahwiras who thought strategically, spoke honestly, and believed when evidence was thin. They sat with me as I wrestled with fear and possibility. They helped me imagine what had never been done in quite this way.

There were no guarantees. Only conviction.

After months of planning, problem-solving, and collective courage, a dream took shape.

I had long carried a quiet desire to establish a private school, one that could sustain the foundation and model what quality, values-driven education could look like. I had postponed it for years, overwhelmed by the thought of financing, land, curriculum, and risk.

But some visions wait patiently until the moment demands them. I knew one day the chicken would come home to roost.

With the support of three friends who saw clearly and gave generously, and with my own savings, I began. Negotiations with builders, carpenters, and educators.

Brick by brick, I watched the school rise at my homestead in Harare.

In the images below, and in the short video that follows, you will see what I see now: walls standing. Classrooms waiting. A campus ready to receive its first students.

Today, I can finally say these words with confidence: we are done with construction.

This is the first of what I hope will be many such schools, spaces designed so we never again rely solely on external aid, never allow powerful systems to silence our healing, and never let age quiet our dreams or our responsibility to right old wrongs.

On January 12, 2026, the school will open its doors to students from Zimbabwe and beyond. Its purpose is clear: the income it generates will fund scholarships for rural students pursuing university and higher education. No student will be expelled for inability to pay. Even if external aid disappears, their education will not.

This school is more than a building. It is a promise.

A community-driven, giving-back model rooted in dignity, freedom, excellence, and global responsibility. A way of ensuring that children shaped by poverty are not defined by it.

A commitment to walk with them, not briefly, but sustainably, toward a future of their own making.

As this year draws to a close, I hold both grief and hope with equal tenderness.

I wish you warmth in these final days of 2025.
May you find peace in the remaining days of 2025 and carry that hope and inspiration into 2026, facing the future with courage and positivity.

Today, I honor the legacy of my hero, Jo Luck. Last month, an irreplaceable light left this world. On November 25th, Jo Luck, leader, mentor, friend, and one of the greatest humanitarians of our time, made her transition. The grief is profound, yet so is the gratitude for the extraordinary life she lived and the countless people she lifted through her unwavering belief in human dignity.

Today, I honor the legacy of my hero, Jo Luck.

Jo Luck was far more than a global development leader; she was a force of nature whose presence inspired courage and possibility. As the longtime President and CEO of Heifer International, she championed a development model rooted in dignity, education, accountability, and community-driven change.

Her leadership transformed Heifer into a global movement, expanding programs, elevating women, strengthening rural communities, and giving millions the tools to create sustainable futures.

She believed not in charity, but in empowerment. Not in handouts, but in partnership. Not in pity, but in potential.

And for me, her impact was deeply personal.

A Question That Changed Everything

Our story began in 1989, when Jo Luck visited my rural village in Zimbabwe on a field mission. I remember her gentle presence, her attentive eyes, and the rare sense that she wasn’t merely observing, she was listening and truly listening.

As we sat in a small circle under the shade of a tree, she turned to me with a question no one had ever asked before:

“What are your dreams?”

Simple words, yet they landed with unimaginable force.

In that moment, Jo Luck did something profound; she gave me permission to dream. She invited me to imagine a future beyond the limitations of my circumstances. She nudged open a door I didn’t even know existed, allowing a wave of hope to swell inside me.

Her question ignited a spark that would shape the trajectory of my life.

With her inspiration and with my mother’s quiet encouragement, I planted my dreams in the soil of possibility. I could envision something I couldn’t have articulated before: education, opportunity, a future with purpose. And from those seeds, hope took root and grew.

Those dreams eventually carried me to the United States, where I completed both my undergraduate and master’s degrees, steps I would never have taken without the spark she lit.

A Reunion Guided by Destiny

Years passed. Life unfolded. I grew into the woman that the young girl in the village had dared to imagine becoming.

Then one day, destiny orchestrated a reunion I could never have foreseen.

More than a decade after our first meeting, I found myself newly employed at Heifer International, a place whose mission so deeply aligned with the values Jo Luck had stirred in my heart long ago. On my first day, a woman approached me. Her voice, warm and unmistakably Southern, felt strangely familiar.

“Are you not the woman from Zimbabwe?” she asked gently.

I struggled to place her at first, but she remembered me instantly.

“We met in your village,” she continued. “We sat in a circle together.”

In that moment, recognition washed over me. The circle. The question. The spark. It was Jo Luck.

I felt as though our souls recognized one another before my mind fully understood. The memory of her question, What are your dreams? rushed back with startling clarity.

That reunion felt like the closing of a circle, a reminder that life often leads us back to our beginnings to help us understand how far we’ve come. Jo Luck rekindled in me the very dreams she had helped ignite. She reminded me of the purpose that first took root in my heart all those years before.

Her Leadership and Lessons That Shaped My Path

Working under Jo Luck’s leadership was one of the greatest honors of my life. She led not from the front, but from the center, always listening, always uplifting, always reminding us of the humanity behind our work.

Her belief in community-driven development wasn’t just a strategy, it was a conviction. It was love in action.

What she taught me professionally shaped every chapter of my career:

She taught me that leadership is service.

That to lead is to elevate the voices of those who are often unheard.

She taught me that dignity is non-negotiable.

Every family, every woman, every child deserves respect and the opportunity to thrive.

She taught me that sustainable change begins with trust.

Trusting communities. Trusting local wisdom. Trusting the power of people to transform their own lives.

And she taught me that courage begins with a question.

“What are your dreams?” opened my world. I have carried that question into every project, every classroom, every encounter with a child who dares to hope.

Jo Luck shaped me not just as a professional but as a human being. She instilled in me a sense of responsibility to give back, to uplift, and to build bridges of opportunity for those coming after me.

Giving Back: The Seed She Helped Plant

Years later, with a heart full of gratitude, I returned to my home village in Zimbabwe, this time with a mission. Inspired by the circle where Jo Luck first encouraged me to name my dreams, I created a foundation dedicated to education and empowerment.

Today, that foundation has supported thousands of children. It has provided scholarships, mentorship, and access to opportunities once unimaginable for many in rural communities. Children from villages like mine are now attending universities and colleges around the world.

Each scholarship is a living extension of Jo Luck’s legacy.

Each dream realized is a continuation of the circle she started.

Each child uplifted is a tribute to the woman who believed that change begins with a question and grows through empowerment.

A Friendship Rooted in Purpose and Love

My friendship with Jo Luck lasted a lifetime, beautifully rooted in mutual respect, shared purpose, and an unshakable belief that every child deserves the chance to dream. Her kindness was effortless, her leadership intuitive, her laughter infectious, and her compassion boundless.

She saw people, truly saw them. She made you feel recognized, valued, and capable of more than you knew.

Jo Luck’s Family

To Jo Luck’s beloved family, children, and grandchildren:

May you find gentle comfort in knowing that her impact is immeasurable. She leaves behind not only a global legacy, but countless individuals, like me, whose lives were transformed because she cared, because she listened, because she believed.

Her light lives on in every village, every community, every school, and every child whose dreams now take shape in places she once nurtured with her vision.

In Celebration of Her Legacy

As I celebrate Jo Luck’s extraordinary life, I offer my dance as my tribute to the woman who inspired me to dream, to hope, and to give back.

Goodbye, my dear friend.

Until we meet again.

A Call to Remember

If Jo Luck touched your life, inspired your work, or shaped your path, I invite you to share your memories, stories, or reflections. Together, we can honor the immense legacy she leaves behind, one story, one dream, one circle at a time.

Let us keep her spirit alive by continuing the work she devoted her life to: empowering others to dream boldly and build futures rooted in dignity and possibility.

As the physical construction neared completion, my focus began to shift inward, toward the school’s soul: its name, uniforms, and emblem.

If the walls represented structure, these elements would represent spirit and identity.

Naming the School

Our team felt strongly that the school should carry the name Tererai Trent Schools, honoring the legacy and mission that birthed it.

They believed that using my name was fitting, not as a gesture of ego, but as a reflection of the foundation’s values and its deep-rooted commitment to education for all.

Through the Tererai Trent International Foundation, we have touched the lives of over 40,000 students, improving literacy, providing scholarships, and nurturing dreams that once seemed impossible.

We have also established solar-powered agricultural irrigation systems as a sustainable business model for ten public rural schools in Zimbabwe.

This school would be an extension of that legacy, a living embodiment of The World We Envision.

Read more

By the following Monday after our powerful Sahwira gathering, the ripple effect was already visible.

Officials from the Ministry of Education, including the Director of Education, regional coordinators, and local council members, began reaching out to discuss how they could support the school’s launch.

Renewed Momentum

Meanwhile, Nothando, our TTI Country Director, and her team worked tirelessly to obtain the import license for classroom furniture.
Their persistence paid off. By mid-September, we had permission to import desks and chairs directly from China.

With the right contacts and guidance from my Sahwira circle, I placed an order for 150 desks and chairs, enough to furnish our first classrooms and give life to our vision.

I chose vibrant blue and calming sage green, colors that would both energize and soothe the space.
The blue echoed our new Chromadec roofing, a bright, hopeful hue under the Zimbabwean sun, while the sage green represented harmony and growth.

These colors beautifully complemented the students’ burnt orange, turquoise, and white uniforms that were already in design.

Read more

Dear Sahwira

I am brimming with excitement as I envision the future of our new campus.
I can already picture the high school students, full of promise and energy, moving eagerly between classrooms, their laughter and ambition filling the air.

I see a school where tuition fees not only sustain our foundation's operations but also fund scholarships for university and college students, helping reduce our foundation’s reliance on external funding.

My reasoning for building a private school to fund our foundation’s scholarship program isn’t just about avoiding total reliance on external grants; it’s also about maintaining dignity and integrity.

For a local, community-based organization like ours, which is truly heart-led and operates at full capacity to ensure every child, regardless of background, has access to quality education, the grants we depend on often come with complex, restrictive requirements and unrealistic expectations.

These conditions can be emotionally draining for our staff and volunteers, and they sometimes compromise our ability to serve our community effectively.

Ultimately, this reliance on external funding and the associated pressures can diminish the pride and dignity of the African girls we aim to empower, affecting their self-worth and prospects.

Determined to have the school ready by January, I began preparing to order classroom furniture, desks, chairs, and other essentials that would bring these learning spaces to life.

Facing Setbacks and Red Tape

In my search for furniture, I contacted several suppliers, from national chains to local carpenters, to equip classrooms for 150 students.

To my dismay, not one could guarantee delivery before January 2026.

Production backlogs and supply chain disruptions were affecting everyone.

It was a sobering moment. No local provider could meet our deadline, creating a significant hurdle in getting classrooms ready on time.

At the same time, the local council informed me that although the building had been pre-approved for school use, I still needed to formally rezone the property from residential to educational use.

Read more

Breaking Ground

Dear Sahwira

With funds generously contributed by Lu and Anne, my retirement funds, and a prompt response from Mark, we officially broke ground on September 1st.

The fear that had shadowed me for weeks dissolved, replaced by an overwhelming sense of grace and possibility. What began as uncertainty had transformed into a living promise.

It was a beautiful, unforgettable morning when the construction crew arrived. Watching them in bright orange vests, steel-toed boots, and helmets gleaming in the sun filled me with indescribable emotion.

Each carried tools and equipment, their laughter echoing across the compound as they prepared to begin.

A wave of hope and gratitude swept through me so strongly that tears spilled before I could stop them. My heart raced, and my nose ran as if overwhelmed by the sheer weight of joy.

The construction company had assembled a skilled and spirited team, complete with wheelbarrows, concrete mixers, shovels, and the raw materials to begin shaping a vision that had once lived only in my dreams.

My team and I stood outside the site, watching the cheerful crew jump out of their trucks with energy and purpose. Julius, ever the quiet one, was smiling so wide that I could see the light in his eyes. His joy mirrored my own, a mix of disbelief and triumph. Around us, the men sang rhythmic work songs that rose like prayers over the clang of tools. The entire homestead became a symphony of laughter, movement, and purpose.

Our homestead, especially the construction site, transformed into a bustling hive of activity. The men sang lively songs as they worked, filling the air with rhythmic chants and laughter.

The team ensured they always had enough water, crucial for mixing cement, steel, and sand to reinforce the building’s foundation and structure.

Water drums were filled and refilled under the scorching sun, steel rods glinted under the workers’ steady hands, and cement dust danced like golden mist in the light.

Every day, the crew was the last to leave the site and the very first to arrive each morning, eager to advance the project.

For the first time in a while, I felt peace settle over me.

That night, I slept soundly, a sleep so deep and restful it felt wonderful. My mind, once burdened by questions of “how” and “when,” was finally free. Truly, a restless mind is a thief of sleep; I had known too many nights of tossing in anxious thought. But this night was different. I felt covered by grace.

A Morning Prayer

The following morning, I awoke before dawn. Through my balcony doors, the African sunrise poured its golden light across the hills.

I lay back and listened to the harmonious chorus of the African early morning sounds, the distant yipping of wild dogs from the Chishawasha hills, and owls screeching through the neighborhood.

There is always the gentle, melodious sound of the two African resident doves cooing softly to each other in their lovers’ sing-song voice, their coos echoing through the tranquil morning air.

I could see one dove with its pristine grey feathers through the balcony, shimmering subtly in the sunlight as it sat perched gracefully on delicate, swaying branches of my bougainvillea trees.

What a remarkable world where even the birds with their delicate calls and the swaying trees adorned with vibrant green leaves seem to celebrate life in a harmonious symphony of nature’s beauty.

I sat quietly, breathing in the earthy scent of damp soil and the sweetness of the morning breeze. Even the trees seemed to sway in celebration.

And then, as I often do when words fail me, I prayed.

“She who guards the Korekore people
Carry my message to Nyadenga, the Creator and Keeper of Heaven and Earth.
Let the whispers of ancient wisdom guide this vision.
May our children rise, may our daughters and sons dream,
and may they rebuild with integrity the homes that once crumbled under oppression.
Hear our cry, not of pride, but of purpose, to heal the wounds of colonization,
to mend the broken dignity of families,
and to awaken within us the courage to create something lasting,
something wholly our own.”

Tears blurred my eyes as I whispered the final words. When I rose, I felt renewed strength course through me. I was prepared to face whatever lay ahead.

The Rhythm of Progress

Outside, the yard was alive again. The hum of machinery, the buzz of the generator, and the rhythmic clang of steel against stone filled the morning air. The men worked with remarkable precision, marking and laying the foundation with determination and pride.

Within just three days, six spacious classrooms began to take shape, alongside two offices and hygienic restrooms for both students and staff.

Every brick laid felt like a heartbeat of progress, proof that faith, when coupled with hard work, becomes tangible.

And at sunset, as I watched the golden light touch the unfinished walls, I whispered to myself:
“This is how legacies are built, not all at once, but brick by brick, with prayer, courage, and the unwavering belief that what begins in faith can end in transformation.”

Questions about Donating to My Private School

Over the past few weeks, I’ve received heartfelt messages from many of you asking how best to support our private school project. I am deeply moved by your compassion and faith in this vision.

Let me be transparent about contributions.

This initiative was born from my conviction that Africa’s education must stand on its own, not entirely dependent on aid or external donations. That principle remains at the core of everything I do.

The project is entirely self-funded, sustained only by a few close friends who have walked beside me in this journey. For that reason, donations to the school won’t qualify for a tax deduction. Still, if your heart moves you to give, purely out of solidarity and hope, I would gladly share an Ecocash link to make your contribution simple.

Every dollar, every Substack subscription, every kind word of encouragement helps us move closer to our dream: a fully equipped educational facility complete with a science lab, a library, and furnished classrooms.

There is still a long road ahead, but together, we are building more than a school; we are building a legacy of dignity, self-reliance, and opportunity.

These days, when I look back on these moments, from trembling uncertainty to the first sound of hammers striking concrete, I realize that dreams don’t build themselves; people do. And somehow, through faith, courage, and a few kind souls who believed before the foundations even settled, this dream is slowly becoming real.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know this: each brick carries not just my hope, but yours too. So, walk with me. Let’s see how far this dream can go.

Your comments and encouragement not only fuel me, they shape the way I tell this story in the next letter. Let’s build this dream together. 💬

In my last letter to you, I shared the firelit conversations and dreams that gave birth to the vision of a self-sustaining school, one that would break the cycle of dependency and ensure every rural child’s education is not at the mercy of fleeting donations. Today, that dream edges closer to reality.

After sending heartfelt letters to Lu, Anne, and Mark the next morning, I woke to a bright, golden Sunday. Sunlight spilled across my garden, igniting the rosemary, lavender, and rose blossoms into a fragrant symphony, lifting my spirits. Beauty surrounded me, yet my heart churned with anticipation.

The emails from Lu and Anne sat waiting in my inbox. Should I open their replies? Or should I linger in the suspense a little longer? I call this ritual the art of sitting in discomfort, that strange place between hope and fear, where one rehearses all possible futures.

But my mind raced with “what ifs.”

What if they turned me down? What if they offered less than the $55,000 I had requested? How do I come up with the remaining funds? What if Lu and Anne initially agree, only to realize that building six classrooms would cost more than I had anticipated? I worried about the implications of that realization. Even a yes carried its own fears.

I ran the numbers again and again. From experience with rural schools, I knew a block of two classrooms, measuring 6 meters by 5 meters, complete with toilets and an office, typically costs around $20,000. Therefore, a block containing six classrooms would be approximately $60,000. With the $55,000 I requested, I could make significant progress toward the goal, perhaps covering the remaining expenses with some of my savings.

And yet, another question haunted me: Was it wiser to spend $60,000 on infrastructure when that same amount could fund full scholarships for six students, covering three years of university each? Is constructing classrooms sustainable, or will it lead to a fleeting solution? What of the future? What happens to countless other students after the six secure their scholarships and graduate?

In that moment of reflection, I resolved to hold off on opening the emails until I felt ready to accept whatever outcome awaited me. As I ruminated on these scenarios and engaged in a spiral of “what if” questions, I decided to tidy up my house.

To ground myself, I gathered my team. Julius, once our gardener, now the trusted head of all design and maintenance after more than a decade with us, led the meeting. I also invited several current and former TTI students.

Their presence mattered. As leaders or visionaries, I’ve learned, we cannot walk alone; we sometimes harbor self-doubt, and it’s crucial to have a core team with whom to share ideas, one that can either validate our vision, suggest areas for improvement, or highlight aspects that may be infeasible.

As we spoke, the truth that had kept me awake countless nights rose again, undeniable and uncompromising. For me, the stakes were high.

I had made a resolute decision that what I was pursuing was anchored in a truth I could no longer afford to ignore: the education of an African child cannot depend on charity. If education is truly the great equalizer, a pathway to dignity, then how can that dignity rest on unpredictable gifts?

But my thoughts didn’t stop at numbers on a page or lines in a blueprint. They reached further back, into the marrow of history, into bloodlines marked by struggle, into wounds that whispered through generations.

I often see my great-grandmother in my mind’s eye, her life carved by poverty she never chose, her girlhood stolen by an early marriage, her dreams silenced by illiteracy.

She carried that heavy baton and passed it, not willingly but inevitably, into my grandmother’s hands.

My grandmother, in turn, passed it to my mother. Each of them ran the same relentless race, breathless and weary, carrying burdens they never signed up for. And in their stride, I recognized the echoes of my own steps.

The scars of colonialism, the liberation war, and a patriarchal society compounded those wounds, embedding trauma not only in memories but in bodies, in psyches, in the very fabric of who we are.

Maria Yellow Horse Brave Heart, the Lakota scholar, describes this as historical trauma, “the cumulative emotional and psychological wounding over the lifespan and across generations.” Modern research in epigenetics reveals that trauma doesn’t merely reside in stories; it imprints itself on our biology, silently passed down through generations.

This is why cycles repeat. For instance, women raised in environments where abuse is pervasive often create justifications for the emotional and physical violence they endure. Many find themselves trapped in a cycle of abusive relationships, unable to break free.

Additionally, we tend to perpetually compare ourselves to other women, leading to feelings of inadequacy and the harsh judgment of not being “good enough.” This internal struggle manifests as bottled-up bitterness and a propensity for easily triggered anger.

Sometimes, we adopt compensatory behaviors such as bragging, unnecessary name-dropping, perfectionism, and controlling or manipulative actions. These responses are all signs of unresolved soul wounds that significantly influence our choices and reactions, often driving us to numb our pain as a means of survival.

I know these wounds well. I inherited them, too, even from the resilient women in my family. They bore their pain quietly, wearing strength as a mask. But behind their eyes, I could always sense what was unspoken.

The silent suffering of these soul-wounded women resonated through their lives, casting long shadows even as they portrayed resilience. As a child, I was acutely aware of this dissonance; I could sense the weight of their experiences behind the facade they projected. By nature, soul wounds can be debilitating; they often inhibit women from pursuing their genuine aspirations.

However, this legacy does not have to render us victims. My grandmother and mother instilled in me the belief that with the transmission of soul wounds also comes wisdom, a powerful gift that can facilitate healing and forge a pathway toward realizing our dreams.

This insight empowered me to reject an unwanted role in a painful relay race of trauma that I had never consented to participate in, ultimately allowing me to initiate healing and pave the way for future generations.

When my country gained independence from colonial rule, I recognized a unique opportunity to alter my life’s trajectory. It was crucial for me to consciously choose not to remain a victim of a grim legacy but rather to draw upon the strength of the wisdom passed down through the generations. This chance was one my mother and grandmother could never afford.

I have personally navigated the repercussions of harmful patterns that persist across generations.

As I reflect on our rural communities, it becomes evident that without transformative change through education and opportunity, these cycles are doomed to repeat: poverty becomes entrenched, illiteracy continues to plague women, early marriages truncate their potential, and economic dependence constrains their choices.

Such patterns emerge as inherited burdens, with each generation striving to overcome obstacles born from the legacies of those before them.

Yet, with the inheritance of wounds also came wisdom. My grandmother and mother taught me that healing is possible. That we can choose to step out of the relay race of trauma and begin a new race of dignity, education, and opportunity. That choice, I realized, was now mine to make, not just for myself, but for the generations to come.

Amidst these reflections, the phone rang, jolting me from my thoughts.

It was Mark on the other end of the line.

“You have my unwavering support, and I hope we can secure the resources needed to build the school.”

His enthusiasm rekindled my sense of purpose.

His words rekindled my resolve.

Julius and the students immediately began surveying the land. Tape measures stretched, questions filled the air: How many blocks of bricks? How many levels? What exactly will this school look like?

We visited two nearby schools for insight. The first was mid-expansion, adding four new classrooms to keep pace with its growing enrollment. The second, a prestigious private primary school with 500 students, left us wide-eyed. Though only a day school, its tuition was a staggering $2,200 per term. The school gleamed with spacious classrooms, large windows, blackboards, and even smart TVs, a stark reminder of the inequality in access to quality education.

Back home, the urgency of our mission deepened. The TTI students spoke with conviction:

“It would be terrible if we, the current TTI cohorts, became the last to benefit from the scholarship.”

Their words stilled the room. Then came another:

“Doc, we will carry this vision with you.”

I felt their commitment resonate within me. I knew I had found steadfast allies in this endeavor.

Later, in the quiet of my home, I sketched a rough layout for the school: six classrooms, an office space, and eight toilets, three for each gender, plus two designated for teachers.

As I contemplated my draft, I recognized its clumsiness and the challenge posed for communication with the construction team.

To refine the plan, I enlisted Tatenda, a diligent student majoring in forensic accounting at the University of Zimbabwe. His expertise would undoubtedly enhance the clarity of our proposal.

Julius promptly rallied the team for a site visit to take precise measurements based on my rough sketches.

We divided responsibilities to streamline our efforts: Julius would oversee the construction progress, while Tatenda would forge connections with the construction company and negotiate our plans. Shaddy, a TTI graduate who now served as my finance officer, was tasked with drafting a detailed budget.

The construction company was ready to begin the following Monday. Their quotation totaled $76,000, with an optional addition of a science lab should our school expand into STEM subjects. They demanded a 50% deposit up front.

That demand threatened to stall everything. With my team’s encouragement, I pushed back, inviting the company’s representative to the site and negotiating fiercely. To my surprise, they agreed to reduce the deposit to 20%.

Though a victory, this adjustment carried its own weight: 20% represented the entirety of my savings, carefully preserved from my early retirement fund.

It was everything I had set aside, but it bought us a crucial breathing space. The rest of the payments would be staggered, tied to the successful completion of each building phase.

Time, however, pressed hard. By Thursday, I knew payment had to be made by Monday. My heart carried both the excitement of progress and the gnawing fear of failure. What if the remaining funds never materialized?

My team and I were surprised by an unexpected agreement from the construction company, which felt like a small victory. Shaddy, our talented accountant and a former TTI graduate with a degree in economics, is stepping into the role of legal advisor.

He will draft the contract, meticulously outlining each milestone and payment stage to foster transparency and build trust with all parties involved.

It was a Thursday, and the ticking clock echoed in my mind: by Monday, the construction company expected its first payment, just days before work was set to begin.

I was caught in a fragile balance, lifting my team’s spirits with the promise of progress, all while silently battling the fear that the funds might never come through. The thought of letting them down weighed heavily on me.

To keep momentum alive, we agreed that during the construction phase, Julius and his maintenance crew would devote their energy to the retreat center’s treehouses.

These weren’t just structures; they were part of the lifeline for our scholarship program.

About a year earlier, before the idea of a private school took root, we had transformed three of our cottages into a thriving Airbnb. The addition of three enchanting treehouses only deepened the retreat’s charm.

Guests adored them, especially the spacious swing set nestled beneath the trees.

Demand was high, and we knew careful upkeep and smart marketing were crucial.

Check out our Retreat Center at sawubonaretreat.org

Yet beneath these plans, uncertainty lingered. We had set events into motion, but the outcome depended on the letters from Anne and Lu. Their replies had arrived earlier, but I hadn’t yet shared their contents with the team. I carried the anticipation alone, waiting for the right moment to open them.

When I finally opened their replies, my heart nearly stopped. Both women had pledged not just what I asked, but more. $30,000 each.

Sixty thousand dollars in total! I read the words twice, then a third time, hardly believing my eyes.

They weren’t just offering encouragement; they were ready to wire the funds straight into my account.

I leapt from my chair, overcome with gratitude, laughter, and tears all at once. The fear that had weighed on me for weeks dissolved in an instant, replaced with a surge of hope so powerful it felt electric.

This wasn’t just a donation; it was a lifeline, a game-changer, a dream flinging its doors wide open.

In that moment, I knew we weren’t just building walls and roofs, we were building futures.

Hundreds of children, whose dreams once felt so fragile, now had a chance to shine. It felt like the beginning of something unstoppable.

As I sat with the news, gratitude overwhelmed me, but I also knew this was only the beginning.

The funds were pledged, yes, but the real test lay ahead: ensuring the construction stayed on track, managing every dollar wisely, and preparing our school to open its doors.

This journey has already stretched me in ways I never imagined, and I can sense that even greater challenges and victories are waiting around the corner.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:
👉 What part of this story resonated most with you?
👉 If you were in my shoes, what would you do next?

Your comments and encouragement not only fuel me, they shape the way I tell this story in the next letter. Let’s build this dream together. 💬

Questions about Donating to My Private School

Over the past few weeks, I’ve received heartfelt messages from many of you asking how best to support our private school project. I am deeply moved by your compassion and faith in this vision.

Let me be transparent about contributions.

This initiative was born from my conviction that Africa’s education must stand on its own, not entirely dependent on aid or external donations. That principle remains at the core of everything I do.

The project is entirely self-funded, sustained only by a few close friends who have walked beside me in this journey. For that reason, donations to the school won’t qualify for a tax deduction. Still, if your heart moves you to give, purely out of solidarity and hope, I would gladly share an Ecocash link to make your contribution simple.

Every dollar, every Substack subscription, every kind word of encouragement helps us move closer to our dream: a fully equipped educational facility complete with a science lab, a library, and furnished classrooms.

There is still a long road ahead, but together, we are building more than a school; we are building a legacy of dignity, self-reliance, and opportunity.

In my previous reflection, I shared a bold vision that I had never dreamed of before: creating a sustainable model for funding scholarships for our rural students by building a private school and retreat center in Harare.

That vision was born out of sleepless nights, questions of sustainability, and the urgency of breaking cycles of depende…

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For as long as I can remember, the survival and sustainability of my foundation have been a constant weight on my mind. Night after night, I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, turning over the same relentless question: How can we ensure that the education of Africa’s children, especially those in rural communities, does not depend on charity?

Our economic challenges, worsened by political and global shifts like the Trump era, only deepened that fear.

Today, we celebrate Girls’ Day. But for many girls in Zimbabwe’s rural communities, celebration comes with the heavy shadow of reality.

Roughly 67% of Zimbabwe’s population resides in under-resourced rural areas, where many lack access to running water and electricity. Within that 67%, over half are women, mostly unemployed mothers and grandmothers, who, despite their courage and sacrifice, struggle to educate their children.

This is where I was born and raised.

It is within this context that TTI works, supporting 14 schools serving nearly 7,400 students and funding more than 130 young people in universities and colleges across the nation. Yet, the truth remains stark. In communities like these, the school dropout rate among girls is painfully high.

The reasons are layered and complex. The colonial legacy left deep wounds, entangled with patriarchal traditions that persist today.

For decades, these forces combined to limit opportunity, diminish dignity, and create a cycle of early marriage, illiteracy, and poverty.

Rural girls, without access to education, often follow the same path their mothers and grandmothers walked before them, a cycle of dreams deferred, repeating across generations.

This is what we mean when we speak of intergenerational wounds, pain, and limitation handed down like an unwanted inheritance.

And yet, this is also where our work becomes most urgent because education has the power not only to break cycles, but to plant new seeds of healing and hope.

Each scholarship we awarded was a lifeline, a chance for a rural child to step into a classroom, sit at a desk, dream of a future beyond what they know, and discover their potential and what they can achieve.

Despite our efforts to fundraise for scholarships to enable rural students to attend school or to support our college and university students, I noticed that the resources available to us were dwindling, even as the number of children needing support grew.

It was not just numbers on a balance sheet. It was the lives of children in my community. It was the college student in the village who depended on us for tuition. The thought that the education of an African child relies on charity kept me awake at night.

My mother and grandmother raised me to believe that the answers we seek are often found within ourselves. They taught me that when a problem appears impossible, we must look deeper, not outward, for the solution.

And so, one night while I was in London for an event and staying at a fancy castle, I couldn't sleep, preoccupied with a single thought: if education is a great equalizer for a poor rural African girl, giving her the tools to achieve dignity, how can her education depend on charity?

That night, sleep came reluctantly. But in the early hours, sometime around 2 a.m., I had a dream that would change my path.

In the dream, I was struggling to open a locked door in my castle room. Frustration grew as the key refused to turn. Suddenly, my grandmother appeared beside me. With her calm presence, she placed her hand on mine, and together we opened the door with ease. She looked at me, smiled, and said, “The resources you need are already within your reach. Do not worry.”

I woke up shaken, but also strangely at peace. For a year, I contemplated how this would materialize. Yet somewhere in my heart, I knew she had given me the permission I needed to dream bigger. Then, I conceived a bold idea. I hesitated to discuss or share it with my husband because it felt too audacious and impossible.

The Fire That Sparked a Vision

Three dear friends had come to visit: Susan and Alice from America, and Peace from Australia, who also happens to be the chairperson of my foundation and my greatest supporter.

That evening, the air was sharp with June’s cold, and the flames cracked as we drew close, cups of tea warming our hands. As we laughed and shared stories, the conversation turned, and we started discussing the sustainability of TTI.

And then, I found myself speaking the dream aloud.

“I own a property here in Harare,” I said, “over three acres of land. What if I build something here that can generate revenue to sustain our scholarship program? What if I turn this place into a retreat center? What about I build a school here? A school that offers a Cambridge education. A school that could generate enough income to sustain our scholarships, so no child’s education hangs in the balance again.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, one by one, they leaned forward. “Tell us more about the private school,” they urged.

I had already done my research. I knew that private education in Zimbabwe was in high demand. Parents were eager to invest in quality schooling, with tuition ranging between $1,200 and $2,800 per term.

Our foundation had already worked with 14 rural schools and impacted over 40,000 students; our reputation and trust were solid. If I could attract 150 students, the school could generate nearly half a million dollars annually. Enough to fund scholarships. Enough to end the cycle of dependency.

The dream suddenly felt real.

As we sat around the fire that night, I shared not only the vision for the school but also the dream that had lived in my heart for years —a retreat center I call Sawubona. In Zulu, Sawubona means “I see you.”

I envision it as a place of profound healing, where individuals and communities can find rest, reflection, and renewal. While the school will nurture young minds with education, Sawubona will nurture souls with healing.

Together, these two dreams form a symbiotic relationship: the school provides education, the retreat center offers healing, and both generate resources to sustain the scholarships that keep rural students in school.

The Obstacles Along the Way

Of course, dreams meet reality in the form of obstacles. My first step was to secure funding. I approached a local bank in Zimbabwe, requesting a loan of between $50,000 and $80,000, with a two-year repayment plan. My mortgage was paid off, and I offered my house as collateral.

But the banker pointed out that I had no active personal bank account in Zimbabwe.

That door closed.

Later, the banker suggested applying under the name of my foundation instead, since the organization had an established banking history. It seemed like a logical path.

I approached the seven board members with this request. I laid out the vision, the numbers, the potential. But when the votes were cast, only a few stood with me. Others feared the risk of saddling the foundation with debt.

That door, too, closed.

Yet I refused to abandon the vision. Because what we were chasing was bigger than me, bigger than a loan, bigger than fear. This was about the future of African children, about ensuring that their education rests not on shaky donations, but on a strong, sustainable foundation.

A Dream That Belongs to All of Us

When I think back to that dream of my grandmother opening the door, I realize now what it meant: the key was never outside. It was always within.

Building this school is not just about bricks and mortar. It is about rewriting the story of education in Africa. It is about giving dignity to children who would otherwise be left behind. It is about proving that we can create self-sustaining solutions, rooted in our own soil.

Imagine a young girl in rural Zimbabwe, her eyes bright with possibility, stepping into a classroom funded not by fleeting donations, but by an institution built on vision and courage. Imagine hundreds of students every year finding their path because one bold idea became reality.

This is more than a project. It is a movement.

And This Is Where You Come In

We cannot build this future alone. Just as the fire that night brought warmth to all of us, your support, your belief, and your partnership can fuel the flames of this vision. Whether through advocacy, resources, or simply sharing our story, you become part of the answer to the million-dollar question: How do we sustain education for future generations?

Another evening, we sat again by the fire with my three friends, reflecting on what a private school dream might create.

This is about:

• Dignity and building a new legacy: ensuring every child, especially every girl, has the right to learn, to dream, and to shape her own future. This is about passing on opportunities instead of limitations; it demonstrates what happens when one generation invests in the next.

• Investing in empowerment models: approaches that respect cultural context while broadening opportunities, rather than imposing solutions that don’t honor people’s dignity.

• Intergenerational Healing: breaking cycles that have persisted for decades and healing historical wounds through practical solutions.

• Systems that Regenerate: creating regenerative funding models that sustain education for the rural areas, year after year.

I believe we can. I believe we must. And I believe that with you beside us, we will.

The road to sustainability is not easy, but it is a road worth traveling. For every child, every family, and every dream that education makes possible, we owe it to them to walk this path together.

In the following post, I will discuss how I secured the initial funds to begin construction and share updates on the project’s progress. The million-dollar question remains: Will I be able to sustain the education of our students and build a much stronger organization that does not solely rely on external funding?

Questions about Donating to My Private School

Over the past few weeks, I’ve received heartfelt messages from many of you asking how best to support our private school project. I am deeply moved by your compassion and faith in this vision.

Let me be transparent about contributions.

This initiative was born from my conviction that Africa’s education must stand on its own, not entirely dependent on aid or external donations. That principle remains at the core of everything I do.

The project is entirely self-funded, sustained only by a few close friends who have walked beside me in this journey. For that reason, donations to the school won’t qualify for a tax deduction. Still, if your heart moves you to give, purely out of solidarity and hope, I would gladly share an Ecocash link to make your contribution simple.

Every dollar, every Substack subscription, every kind word of encouragement helps us move closer to our dream: a fully equipped educational facility complete with a science lab, a library, and furnished classrooms.

There is still a long road ahead, but together, we are building more than a school; we are building a legacy of dignity, self-reliance, and opportunity.

"The village elders say that when elephants fight, the grass suffers. Similarly, when climate change's negative impacts occur, the poor and their children suffer."

My Sahwiras, gather around the fire and let the warmth of hope kindle your spirits as we delve into how TTI, with unwavering determination and steadfast partnerships, ignites a collective energy to pave the way for sustainable solutions for rural schools in Zimbabwe.

In the heart of adversity, TTI stands as a beacon of resilience and compassion, extending a nurturing hand to ensure a brighter future for the children of the land, TTI leverages its partnerships to create sustainable business models through irrigation projects, resulting in a collective effort to achieve the right solutions for rural schools in Zimbabwe.

The Challenge: Climate Change and Rural Schools

Like many developing nations in Africa, rural Schools in Zimbabwe and their communities are apparently facing the negative impacts of climate change.

Water sources are shrinking, groundwater levels are dropping, making it hard for students to access clean, safe water.

In Hurungwe District, where our organization operates, the lack of rainfall over the years has led to the depletion of the water table at a faster rate than the renewal rate.

This state now requires us to drill more than 70 meters to find water. Despite using technical machines to locate water, many times we have come up with dry holes, which can be devastating for the schools.

The Devastating Effects

The lack of access to water has had a devastating effect, especially on the education sector and particularly in rural schools where children resort to drinking water from unsafe sources such as open wells and dirty, drying rivers.

Inadequate water has significant impacts on rural communities that depend on rainwater for crop production. This reliance on rainwater is crucial for sustaining families' livelihoods, including providing income for school tuition for their children.

Without a business model that can deliver sustainable solutions, TTI faces the risk of reversing all the initial educational gains that had been noted to date.

TTI’s Multi-Partnership Approach

"She who journeys alone gets lonely and fatigued, but in the company of friends, the burden is shared and the journey becomes more joyful, soul fulfilling and anticipative."

Our village female elders share so much wisdom that guides us through life. They have a saying, “Chara chime hachitswanye inda,” meaning, “one thumb can’t crush head lice.” In other words, when we are faced with a challenge, it takes our collective energy and creativity to achieve the right solution.

TTI has partnered with the Ministry of Education and three women-led organizations, namely;

Wishes for Water, an Oklahoma State University student-led initiative founded by Lily Chavez,

Apotheosis Farm, a Maryland-based organization co-founded by Deborah and Heather Mizeur, and the

Awakened Woman Global Leadership Teaching Tours, founded by Tererai Trent.

Implementation and Impact

In this exciting collaborative partnership, TTI is embarking on a journey to create business models that can deliver sustainable solutions. Thus far we have established solar-powered drip-irrigated plots at four of our rural schools in Zimbabwe: Kanyati, Matau, Chivakanenyama Primary Schools, and Matau Secondary. Each school plot sits on one hectare of land, fenced and equipped with a drip irrigation system supported by a 10,000-liter water tank.

The solar-powered drip irrigation system is a well thought out business model designed to efficiently provide timed and measured water flow that is absorbed directly through the root system, ultimately preventing soil erosion.

This system has the potential to achieve multiple harvests throughout the year, creating food security for the school children and ensuring revenue streams for rural schools in Zimbabwe.

Criteria for Success

The schools that are involved in the irrigation project as a business model came up with criteria for judging the merit, value and significance of their project. In other words, what criteria do they want to use to determine the success of their school given the irrigation project, and what measurements do they need to determine the long-term sustainability of their school?

The discussion about how each school determines its success helped the school leadership to think about how to account for their success and what they value most. What does success look like, who determines success, and how does that success lead to the sustainability of their school?

As an organization working with these schools, we need to understand how each school gauges and owns its success. Our organization believes that self-determination of what is acceptable as a measurement of success leads to more ownership, accountability, and learning.

The following criteria were commonly agreed upon by the schools and their leadership:

• Improvement of School Infrastructure: When a school sees the income generated from the irrigation project being used to renovate the school infrastructure, and repair old desks and benches, ultimately, establishing conducive learning environments for students.

• Provision of Meals: Schools able to provide at least one meal a day to students, reducing hunger among them.

• Increased School Attendance: Verified by gender, showing regular attendance by students.

• Subsidized Tuition Fees: Making education accessible to every student.

• Increased Income Growth and Savings: Verified by a bank statement.

• Improved Academic Performance: Verified by national tests.

Committed Leadership and Giving Back

“As a school, not only do we intend to generate more revenue for our school, but also, we are committed to using our surplus income from the irrigation plot to fund a water well for another school,” declared Farai Taingofa, the Principal of Chivakanenyama High.

The vision to give back to other schools and build a science laboratory for their students is a remarkable goal.

Future Plans and Expansion

While TTI prides itself on getting more students into tertiary education, including girls, none of them are pursuing science at their universities. For example, just last year, we celebrated the graduation of over 20 students from colleges and universities, but none of them were able to pursue a program in science.

This is because the high schools we support, from which these students are graduating, do not offer science classes due to the lack of science laboratories. These high schools are not equipped to teach science, and as a result, many of our students fail to pursue science.

Therefore, the principal of Chivakanenyama has a significant vision to fulfill. Providing a science lab for the high school students would be quite a game changer for our rural students.

TTI intends to partner with all five of its supported high schools and establish science laboratories, ultimately enabling students to pursue STEM education as they continue their college and university studies.

We hope that with the proceeds from the irrigation project, all the high schools we support will be able to raise $30,000 to construct and furnish the science lab.

As TTI expands in the third and fourth quarters of 2024, the organization plans to establish more solar-powered irrigation plots at four high schools: Zvimhonja, Chivakanenyama, Madudzo, and Denderedzi High.

Support from the Ministry of Education

In a remarkable move, Mr. Mhuma, the Provincial Education Director from the Ministry of Education, seconded one of their educators, an agricultural technical expert named Mr. Elson Zinyemba, to work with TTI. Elson's role is to provide technical assistance and manage all the TTI school irrigation projects.

"As a high-ranking official from the Ministry, I have a mandate to improve our education and offer conducive learning spaces that can sustain our educational goals. As the Ministry of Education, in our efforts to achieve this vision, we're proud to support TTI, whose mission dovetails well with what the Ministry is trying to achieve in creating business models that can deliver sustainable solutions to our schools," remarked, Mr. Mhuma.

While Elson works directly with TTI, he also shares progress reports with the Ministry of Education through Mr. Manyepa, one of the District-level school inspectors.

"This structure ensures clear accountability and supervision of all the school projects between the Ministry of Education and TTI," said Mr. Manyepa.

Besides providing technical support and business expertise to the schools, Elson Zinyemba also assists schools in projecting future profits and income growth per growing season. (See Elson's diagrams showing expected yields and income per school's irrigation plot below).

Insights from Our Partners

TTI's vision dovetails with the Ministry of Education's policy.

"No child should miss school because their parents are poor and cannot afford tuition fees. It breaks my heart when kids are denied education because of poverty. TTI's mission is to provide universal access to quality education regardless of their gender or socioeconomic backgrounds!" Nothando, TTI Country Director, reiterated both TTI's position and the Ministry of Education's policy.

TTI is proud to roll out the irrigation program which has become a signature initiative toward the sustainability of education. Moreover, TTI's business model through the schools' irrigation system not only offers an innovative approach for sustainable agriculture but also provides employment and farming techniques to local communities.

With the revenues generated, TTI’s vision is to see schools subsidizing tuition at both primary and secondary school level, ultimately helping parents who are struggling to pay tuition fees for their children.

TTI's commitment to creating sustainable business models for rural schools is unmatched. The solar-powered irrigation approach has huge potential for creating revenue streams for rural schools to raise scholarship funding for its students heading to colleges and universities.

Thanks to the collaborative partnership and support from the three women-led organizations and the Ministry of Education.

Get Involved and Make a Difference

The journey to sustainability in rural schools and the fight against climate change's devastating impacts is a collective effort.

Your support can amplify our mission, ensuring that every child in Zimbabwe's rural schools has access to quality education and safe drinking water. Here’s how you can join us in making a lasting impact:

Partner with Us—Become a TTI Sahwira

Are you part of an organization that shares our vision? We welcome partnerships with businesses, NGOs, and educational institutions that can bring additional resources, expertise, and innovative solutions to our projects.

By partnering with us, you can help scale our initiatives and create even greater impact. Contact us at partnerships www.Tererai.org to explore collaboration opportunities.

Conclusion

TTI’s school’s irrigation program, a testament to innovation and foresight, not only serves as a sustainable business model for rural schools but also echoes with profound impacts. It stands as a resolute response to the depleting water table caused by global climate change, safeguarding food security and nurturing a conducive environment for enhanced student learning.

Moreover, this initiative breathes life into the concept of self-sufficiency, empowering schools to generate dependable income and fostering an education system that thrives on self-funding, progressively diminishing the heavy reliance on external financial support.

The ripple of change initiated by TTI's visionary approach echoes through the corridors of education, enriching the lives of young learners and sowing the seeds of a robust, self-sustaining future. Let us embrace this transformation with hearts full of hope and hands ready to build a better tomorrow.

Daily Ritual of Nurturing Our Dreams

Every day, without fail, we embark on the sacred journey of nurturing our garden of dreams and aspirations. Just like a devoted gardener who approaches their work with unwavering commitment, we too approach our dreams with the same level of dedication. With each passing day, we find ourselves planting the seeds of our aspirations into the fertile soil of life, hoping that they will one day germinate and flourish into a magnificent achievement.

As we tend to our dreams, we do so with meticulous care and attention. Just as a gardener diligently waters, nurtures, and cares for their plants, we too diligently water, nurture, and care for our dreams. We understand that it takes time and effort for our dreams to come to fruition, and so we provide them with the sustenance they need to grow - the sustenance of perseverance and resolve.

Like a guardian of delicate life, we attentively tend to our garden of dreams, ensuring that it thrives even in the face of uncertainty. We understand that nurturing our dreams is not a one-time task, but rather a daily ritual that requires our constant attention and effort. We know that by consistently nourishing our dreams, we are paving the way for them to blossom and flourish, despite any obstacles that may come our way.

So, every day, we continue to sow the seeds of our aspirations, fueled by the unwavering belief that our dreams will one day become a reality. We remain steadfast in our commitment to nurturing our dreams, knowing that with each passing day, we are one step closer to seeing them come to life.

In this journey of nurturing our dreams, we find solace and purpose. It is through this daily ritual that we discover the true power of our ambitions and the limitless potential that lies within us. And so, we continue to tend to our garden of dreams, knowing that with each passing day, we are nurturing the seeds of our future success.

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