Twenty-three-year-old Isaac Moses waves a dead branch picked from his drought-stricken shamba to herd a half dozen skinny chickens back into their earthen enclosure. In this twilight hour, the sweeping golden light of the setting African sun casts a shimmering orange hue over Isaac’s two-acre farm, and—for a precious moment—his heart is at peace.
The sun descends quickly below the western horizon and a shroud of blackness envelopes the farm. Little is visible beyond the southern hemisphere’s twinkling canopy of stars, and Isaac is now on high alert. His ears focus in on every sound, sorting between the mundane (cicadas and crickets, pearl-spotted owls and fiery necked nightjars) and any possible threats (bleating goats, heavy footfalls, hushed voices). Isaac’s farm is the only one for miles that has water, and in this barren ocean of beige and swirling dust, any glimpse of green spreads news like wildfire.
Isaac crouches his thin frame over a three-stone fire to boil water in a tin pot. He proceeds to drink cup after cup of instant coffee to stay awake. While his plot may be relatively small, it is far too big for one man—armed only with a solar-powered flashlight and machete—to police. So, despite his most valiant and exhaustive efforts, they come. What can he do?
Isaac’s makeshift perimeter fence—hand-constructed using sticks, thorny branches, and dried grasses—yields quickly to the pressure of sinewy muscles and hungry goats. And by the dawning of the morning light, proof of his overnight visitors is visible everywhere. In the northwest corner, a patch of fencing lays trampled, fanning out towards dozens of neatly raised, carefully-weeded beds of spinach—all of which have now been consumed or stolen—and tomato plants stripped of their fruits. The people and their animals are hungry. And more are coming. What can he do?
Isaac is, relatively speaking, one of the lucky ones. After a long and rigorous grant application process, Isaac received funding from Unite to secure and develop this farm in the valley. During the dry season, little beyond the Neem tree grows in this harsh, semi-arid environment. However, due to the nature of the soil and the once reliable and abundant rains, the valley is known throughout Tanzania—and all of East Africa—for being an excellent source of quality rice and maize following the “long rains,” which historically fall between late March and mid-May every year. In fact, for most years within memory, small-scale farmers in this region have found themselves so flush with healthy crops that to earn any money at all they had to compete for a market and sell for just cents per kilo shortly after harvest.
This year, the long rains were “insufficient,” the harvest “failed.” To put this in context, Unite owns 20 acres in the region, all of which had been planted with maize and forecasted to conservatively yield 650 100-kg bags following the rains. Instead, the land yielded 45. Nearly the entire investment made in clearing, cultivating, weeding, fertilizing, and harvesting was lost. Short of installing an irrigation system (from what water source? and with what funding?), what can we do?
Without adequate rain, Isaac’s vegetables shrivel and die. Many seeds simply never grow. For months since the drought began, Isaac has needed help. Unite gave him another grant. This time to run a pipe many kilometers from his farm to the single government tap in the region. Isaac would have to pay for the water, but if he could grow vegetables, he could sell them and earn enough to pay the government for its water and hopefully a bit more to live and sustain his farm.
However, time went on, the drought worsened, and for some reason the government raised its water prices. Villagers rebelled and cut pipelines to siphon off water. Isaac’s pipe too was cut; his water stolen. What could he do?
Isaac watering his farm in August before his water line was cut.
Isaac’s vegetables dying from a lack of water.
From there, Unite gave Isaac more funds. This time to purchase a metal wheelbarrow and six plastic buckets. Isaac then spent his days walking hours back and forth to any village that had a well from which he could collect water (and pay the well owner). Unfortunately, despite his passion, dedication, and youthful vibrancy, Isaac simply couldn’t keep pace with the thirst of his vegetables. His plants died as he struggled to push and carry hundreds of pounds of water. Alone with no funds to hire help, what could he do?
Next step, dig for water. With funding awarded again from Unite, Isaac paid a shirtless, barefoot, chiseled man to hammer the rock-hard concrete-colored ground with a pickax—down, down, down—day after day. Over time, the man descended deeper and deeper into the round hole—about three feet in diameter—his black skin turning ash white from the disintegrating earth enveloping him. And just when the hot breath of despair began choking everyone involved, Isaac’s brave (and desperate) well-digger hit water, 28 feet below the surface.
Today, it is estimated that, as a result of five seasons of failed and insufficient rains, more than 50 million people across sub-Saharan East Africa are suffering from acute food insecurity.* Isaac and his neighbors are among them.
Isaac is now able to haul water, one bucket at a time, laboriously dropping and pulling by hand using long ropes. However, he cannot stop the thieves from coming. His is a losing battle, and nothing short of an eight-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire and shards of broken glass built around his entire farm can protect him. (Such a wall would cost more than $3,000 to build.) But even then, the people and the animals who are facing the hunger will come. They will find a way. What else can they do?
***
At home in America, most of us sit in the comfort of our climate-controlled homes enjoying a surplus a clean water and plentiful foods of all kinds. We watch TV and surf online and may stumble across an image or two of drought in Africa. Perhaps we even see the United Nation’s photo of a dark stick-like figure—face obscured by a scarf wrapped tightly to prevent death from dust inhalation—herding a small flock of emaciated goats over hot camel-color sands which rise from the ground and morph into the sky itself. Most often, we shake our heads, sigh with pity… and move on. What can we do?
But what would happen if we stopped… and we asked ourselves—really…
What can we do? What could happen then?
Isaac with one of the few banana trees he has managed to keep alive.
Note: Unite is working with Isaac and a few of our other Unite Scholar graduates who have chosen to pursue agribusiness to sell off our very small harvest—which is being stored in Agro-Z hermetically sealed grain storage bags—in extremely small increments (2-5 kgs at a time, something villagers may afford), to earn then some income. In “non-drought” years, such “extra” harvest would have been held until February or March, when the need for food would have been typically widespread and intense. However, this year’s drought and harvest failure is unprecedented, and people are hungry and desperate now. We will continue to do all we can.
Thank you for your continued interest in and support of our work to serve and empower those living in greatest need.
Source: “WMO: Greater Horn of Africa drought forecast to continue for fifth year,” United Nations UN News Global Perspective Human Stories, Climate and Environment, August 26, 2022. Accessed October 14, 2022, from https://news.un.org/en/story/2022/08/1125552