The rain began before the first bell.
It was not the kind of rain that asked people to wait ten minutes. It came with wind, driving water under the tarpaulin and making the Form Two B tent crack and flap like badly fastened roofing iron.
Amina was already seated with two pens on her desk when the first drop landed in the middle of her assessment paper.
“Madam,” one student said, “the exam has started answering itself.”
The students laughed.
The mathematics teacher did not.
“Everybody stand. Papers up.”
A second drop fell. Then a third.
Within two minutes, an entire corner of the tent was leaking.
By the time Salma arrived from the office, students had crowded to one side, clutching papers against their chests. The two buckets from the previous day were already half full.
“The assessment is finished here,” Teacher Jengo said.
“Another classroom?” Salma asked.
“Full. Form One is in the library. The workshop roof leaks too.”
“Shifts?”
“What time would we finish? Form Three also has a paper.”
Rukia entered the yard beneath a large umbrella.
“Parents have started calling.”
“How did they find out this quickly?” Jengo asked.
Rukia looked at the tent shuddering in the wind.
“Children have phones.”
“Not all of us,” Amina called from behind them.
“The point remains,” Rukia said.
Salma checked the time.
“Can we wait for the rain to ease?”
Jengo shook his head.
“Forecast says until midday.”
“We can move the assessment to tomorrow.”
“And if it rains tomorrow?”
Nobody had an answer.
Within twenty minutes, three parents arrived to collect their children. One said he would not bring his son back until the school had a “real classroom.” Another demanded that the cooperative rent a hall immediately. A third asked why children should sit exams while the Kito family “kept fighting over the plot.”
Salma did not answer the last question.
She said only, “Today we are solving where the children can study.”
At nine, Jengo received a call.
Two minutes later he came out of the office holding a sheet of paper.
“There’s an option.”
“What?” Salma asked.
“Mawimbi Vocational Hall.”
It was a small technical training centre on the eastern side of town, almost four kilometres from Upendo Ridge. Its large hall had been divided with partitions and was normally used for evening courses.
“They can give us three rooms,” Jengo said. “For two weeks.”
“Free?” Rukia asked.
“The rooms, yes. We pay cleaning. Electricity is theirs. Transport is ours.”
“Can the children walk?”
“Not all of Form One and Form Two. And the road crosses the industrial junction.”
“Quote?” Salma asked.
Jengo handed her the paper.
Two minibuses. Two trips in the morning and two in the afternoon.
The cost for one day looked manageable until it was multiplied by ten school days.
“We’ll collect money from parents,” Rukia said.
Salma shook her head.
“Some already cannot afford another emergency levy.”
“Then those who can pay contribute more.”
“We can make a transparent fund. We cannot make payment a ticket for a child to enter class.”
Jengo placed the quote on the table.
“Even then, we need a deposit today if the buses are to start tomorrow.”
“Reserve?” Rukia asked.
Salma opened the budget sheet.
The school reserve had already been reduced by temporary tents, tarpaulins, replacement stationery, and night security. What remained could pay transport for only four days without touching the small support-staff wages and the food supplier.
“We don’t have two weeks,” she said.
“Then we need a public appeal,” Rukia said.
“Yes.”
“And we say why.”
“Yes.”
“And we say demolition.”
“Yes.”
“And Doto?”
“No.”
Rukia closed her eyes.
“I tried.”
“I know.”
At ten-thirty they went to Mawimbi Vocational Hall. The centre director, Halima Tenga, showed them the three rooms. They were not beautiful. One had welding posters on the walls, another had mismatched desks, and the third had a single noisy fan.
To Salma, they looked like a palace.
“The assessment can happen here,” Jengo said.
“Morning until two,” Halima said. “At three we have a short course.”
“We can arrange the timetable.”
“How many children?”
“Three classes in rotation.”
“Supervision?”
“Our teachers.”
Halima folded her arms.
“I am not joining your land dispute.”
“We are not asking you to,” Salma said.
“I have heard the radio.”
“We only want rooms.”
“Then you have rooms. Two weeks. If we need one for training, we’ll tell you a day before.”
Jengo produced a short temporary-use agreement he had prepared on the way.
Halima read it.
“You won’t write that we hosted you because we support one side?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She signed.
The roof problem had an answer.
The problem of getting the children there did not have even half of one.
They returned to Upendo Ridge and held a parents meeting under the veranda and in the library. The rain had eased, but the yard was mud.
Rukia stood in front.
“We have three temporary rooms for two weeks with no room rent. We need transport.”
“How much?” one parent asked.
Salma wrote the budget on the whiteboard.
Minibus.
Fuel.
Cleaning.
Emergency stationery.
Current reserve.
Shortfall.
She hid no number.
A man at the back said, “The family that broke it should pay.”
Another said, “First tell us who broke it.”
Voices began rising.
Salma stood.
“We cannot finance tomorrow using an accusation we are still verifying today.”
“Then who pays?”
“We start with a continuity fund. Contributions are voluntary. No child will be denied transport because their parent did not pay.”
“And if the money isn’t enough?”
Salma paused for a second.
“We reduce trips, seek local transport support, and use the reserve for the first days. But every shilling goes into a ledger people can inspect.”
“We’ll publish total contributions and spending every evening,” Rukia added. “Donor names will be listed only with permission.”
A woman raised her hand.
“I can’t give cash. I have a bakery. I can send buns for the children going to the hall.”
Jengo wrote it down.
Another man said, “I have a van. Not a bus, but it can carry equipment and teachers.”
Rukia wrote.
Someone else offered one day’s fuel.
Another person offered no money but said he would help supervise the crossing at the industrial junction.
Salma watched the list begin to fill.
It was not a complete solution.
It was a community refusing to wait for a perfect one.
Then Doto walked in.
The meeting went quiet.
He had no umbrella. Rain dotted the shoulders of his shirt.
“Did you come for the meeting?” Rukia asked.
“I was told there is a transport problem.”
The man at the back said, “You pay.”
Several voices agreed.
Doto stood without answering immediately.
“This fund is not an admission process,” Salma said.
“But his business paid the contractor,” someone replied.
“The investigation is continuing.”
Doto took an envelope from his pocket.
“I’ll pay for the buses for two days.”
The room began murmuring.
“Why two days?” Rukia asked.
“Because that is the cash I can give today.”
“And we are supposed to take it?”
Doto looked at Salma.
“If it enters the fund, it will be recorded as a contribution,” Salma said. “It will not erase evidence, it will not be a settlement, and it will not change the mediation.”
Doto nodded.
“That is what I want.”
The man at the back laughed contemptuously.
“He’s buying his image.”
Doto turned.
“If you want the children to walk four kilometres so I can look worse, say so.”
Salma saw Rukia prepare to intervene, then decide not to.
The envelope was counted in front of two people. A receipt was issued. The ledger recorded:
**Doto Kito — voluntary continuity contribution — transport, two school days — no settlement condition stated.**
Doto signed the receipt copy and left without sitting down.
After the meeting, Rukia said, “That would make a very good headline.”
“Don’t make it a headline.”
“I was joking.”
“I’m still learning your jokes.”
At four in the afternoon, Salma and Jengo were still in the office arranging the student transport list.
Amina came in.
“Are we going to the vocational hall tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Assessment?”
“Yes.”
Amina groaned.
“I thought the demolition would at least give us a free week.”
“Sorry.”
“And the rain?”
“Has not helped.”
Amina sat in a chair.
“People say Doto paid for the buses.”
“He paid for two days.”
“So he’s good now?”
Salma looked at her.
“A contribution is a contribution. Evidence is evidence.”
Amina nodded.
“I know. Two tracks.”
“You listen too much.”
“Our house has no secret walls.”
Salma laughed.
The next morning, light rain was still falling.
The first minibus stopped outside the school at 7:10.
The children boarded carrying bags, transparent exam folders, and far more noise than the situation deserved.
Amina paused at the door before climbing in.
“Salma.”
“What?”
“Don’t lose the school while we’re taking the exam.”
“I’ll try.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I know.”
Amina climbed aboard.
As the bus pulled away, Salma saw the soaked tents behind it and the remains of the two classrooms standing like broken teeth at the rear of the compound.
Her phone rang.
It was the transport company.
“Ms. Salma? We have confirmation for two days. But for the rest of the week we need the deposit by noon tomorrow, otherwise we’ll give the buses to another contract.”
Salma opened the continuity ledger.
The previous day’s contributions had reached only about half of the required deposit.
The children had found somewhere dry.
Now they had less than twenty-four hours to make sure they could get there again.
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