Everyone has their morning routine, and school children are no exception. Yet children in the developing world have a different set of tasks each day, and their responsibilities belie their age. What you’ll read below is a description of a typical day for a school-aged girl...

Before school:

When I wake up, the sun has not yet risen. I roll my younger brother over and cover him with my part of the blanket. His breathing is rhythmic, and I am happy. If he’s still sleeping, he won’t follow me to the river.

I sneak outside, careful not to disturb the stack of dishes by the door, and grab the plastic can. I tug on my sweater, pushing my thumb through the new hole on the cuff.

The chilly air stings my legs as I hurry toward the path. I hug the can to my chest as I walk, cutting through the grass crowding the path. I can still hear the frogs humming. If they are still crying back and forth across the banks, I know I have enough time to make two trips to the river for water. If I  oversleep and the frogs have quieted for the rising of the sun, I know I only have time for one. Mama needs at least two cans full to cook and start the laundry for the neighbor up the hill. One can-full means I don’t wash up before school, or I don’t get breakfast. Sometimes I get to choose, but more often I go to school hungry.

I reach the riverbank and wait, listening for sounds of others. I am afraid of animals that drink in the dark, but the men who favor the shadows are worse. I am close to the bank and decide to fill the can – if I wait much longer, I may only have time for one trip.

I shift the can to balance it on my head. A tiny stream of water courses down my back, and I shiver as I shuffle up the path. Two kilometers to the river, two kilometers back. Two to the river, two back. That’s eight kilometers, and then to school. I stick out my tongue, trying to remember my addition facts. Three kilometers to school, plus eight for water… eleven!

My shoes are red with dust when I arrive at our house. I pour the water into Mama’s big kettle and turn around. Hinting at the sunrise, the horizon is pink. I long for the warmth of the sun as I make my way back to the river. The frogs are quiet as the sun peeks over the horizon line, and I pause, watching the sun paint over the hills.

I pick up my pace and as I reach the river, I hear the familiar burble of a water can filling. I am so happy to see my friend Thembi! She waits as I fill my can and laughs as I struggle back up the bank.

The walk back goes quickly with company. She has carried water twice this morning, too. We part ways for a moment, promising to walk together to school. I like walking to school best when I can walk with a friend.

Mama has started the cooking fire and sets out a bowl of rice and beans. I eat as much as she allows.

As I eat, she straightens my collar and brushes the dust from my shoes before I leave. I am anxious to meet Thembi, who waits for me at the road toward the school. The fog is just starting to burn off.

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After school:

The day has been long, and I am tired. The air is hot, and dust hangs in the air. I walk home quickly, peeking at my notebook as I walk. I did not understand today’s lesson in math. I wrote down every number and problem my teacher put on the board in my notebook. I walk and look, walk and look, trying to figure out what I missed. We are practicing multiplication. It is important I understand this, my teacher said, and I believe her.

What happens if I don’t understand this? Will I fall behind? If I fall behind, will I stay in the same class as my friends?

My class shrinks each year. When I started the first level, there were 18 of us all together. After three years, there are 11 of us continuing. Five of us are girls. We sometimes talk about the boys on our way home, but more often we worry about disappointing our families. Thembi wonders if she should stay home and help her grandmother. She is getting older, frailer, and Thembi’s siblings need better care.

One friend’s mother was sick, so she stayed home to care for her younger siblings. Another boy’s father would rather have him working, selling items in the street. Sometimes I see him on my way home from school. He looks so much older now.

One friend stopped coming to school when she outgrew her uniform, and her parents refused to buy her a new one. I am so thankful Mama traded a chicken for a neighbor girl’s uniform – mine was growing too small, and her skirt was longer. The girl was promised to an older man the next village over. She has no need of it, her mother said, as the girl hid her face. Her school days are over. I think of her whenever I put on her skirt. I wonder if she, too, has to get water from the river, or if she can send someone instead. She is only a few years older than me.

I marvel at the choice she will soon make. I love school. I want to finish. I want to do well. But there are other things to tend to. When I arrive home, I take one last peek at the math problems before tucking my notebook safely away. I check to see if the fire is still going, but before I start cooking, I need to get water. I grab the water can and head toward the river.

** If the statistics play out, only 10 of the 18 students who started class with this girl will finish primary school. Of those students, 3 will enroll in secondary school, but it is doubtful that all three will graduate.