Zahir Mayunga

The morning sun had not yet climbed over the hills when I stepped outside, the cool air still clinging to the earth. I picked up my uncle’s tools and slung them over my shoulder. He usually carried them himself, but after his injury last week, the responsibility had fallen to me. I didn’t mind. It made me feel useful. Important.

I live in Mbulu, Tanzania, where water is becoming scarcer. The rains are less frequent, the ground drier. But at my school, we are fortunate. A European organization installed large fog nets that catch moisture from the air and turn it into drinking water. My uncle was hired as a craftsman for the project. He often took me along, showing me how to stretch the nets properly, how to secure the ropes. I learned by watching, my hands itching to try.

Now it was my turn. I arrived early, before the heat set in. The nets shimmered faintly, trembling in the breeze. They looked delicate, but I knew their strength. Drop by drop, they pulled water from the air, filling the tanks below. Without them, many of us would still be walking hours each day to find water.

I worked carefully, repeating my uncle’s instructions in my head. Stretch the fabric. Secure it tightly. Watch the wind. My hands moved with confidence, pulling the ropes taut, ensuring every knot was strong. When I was done, I stepped back and let myself feel it—pride. I had done this on my own.

I thought of my relatives in southern Tanzania, where there were no fog nets. The rivers they relied on had become dangerous, sometimes drying up, sometimes carrying sickness. Two of them had fallen ill from contaminated water. I imagined what it would be like if they had fog nets too. How many lives could be changed?

I am seventeen now. Old enough to understand that hope alone is not enough. That day, I knew what I wanted—to become a craftsman, to build, to bring water where there was none. Maybe one day, I would stand in another village, watching a new net catch the morning mist, and know that I had made a difference.