Kenya's child shepherds tend their books by night

"It's a bit tricky, we have to sometimes walk around quite a lot to find those students whose families have traveled far away to look for better water holes," says John Lekuye, a shepherd and teacher. "But we know the general migration patterns. We have experience in these matters."

The curriculum is created in conjunction with the shepherds and their families, and features classes on livestock diseases and wild herbs along with English, Swahili, and math classes. Masai elders are invited in as guest speakers to discuss tribal traditions.

Studies take place in any structure available - or under the acacia trees and the stars. Sometimes classes are cut short when wild elephants threaten to stampede.

The biggest problem, say organizers, has been convincing parents to allow the children to take part. Many of the older Masai - most illiterate themselves - are wary of sending their shepherd sons and daughters away with pens and paper, afraid that education and the options it brings will erode their traditional way of life.

"We called meetings through the local chiefs and explained to the parents that we were not taking the children away forever," says James Legei, Osiligi's program officer. "We spoke to them in our own Masai language. We showed them the teachers were Masai. We said we are one and the same - we do not want to forget our culture either, ...but this is why we must educate ourselves. We need to learn the tools for surviving in the modern world so as to preserve our culture."

"Pastoralism does not have a clear future," says Kaparo. "Droughts one after another have killed off 80 percent of herds. Our land is not enough for the growing population, and we have no alternative land. We want to make sure these shepherds have options, that they see there are other ways to create income for themselves. We do not want them to be ignorant. They will speak English and Swahili, and the world will be open to them.... But that does not mean we are encouraging them to move away from our culture.

"We have the right to be who we are," he stresses. "When we have money, we will use it to buy more goats and cows and drugs to keep our livestock well, and go out and tend to the goats. It's a question of identity."

It's 5 o'clock, and young Boscow is getting ready to walk the 2 kilometers to classes, which, this month, are being held in a mud hut church. He gets down from a tree, where he has been cutting off leaves for his goats - his family's flock now decimated by the drought from 60 to four - and clutches his worn green notebook with two hands. He nods a shy farewell to his brothers and father.

"When I am with the animals, I sometimes read in my notebook and practice my math, so I can be clever like my brothers," he says, covering his mouth and speaking almost in a whisper.

"But when I am in school, I miss my goats. I worry about them," he confides. "I like both lives. And I am happy I can be everything all at once."

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