Rewriting the Future: How Patinaai Osim Is Transforming Learning in Maasai Communities

 A few weeks ago, I sat down (virtually) with Semerian Sankori, founder of Patinaai Osim. It was the end of the day and I was suffering from information overload—made worse by how bad the news is (IYKYK). It didn’t take long for me to sit upright and be fully engaged. I hope her story gives you as much hope as it did me.

Named after an endearment, “Patinaai Osim”—loosely translated from Maasai as “the one who brings me joy,” often used by women for their children—this NGO envisions a world where children in rural Kenya have the same opportunities as their peers elsewhere.

“Why do we have learners aged 12 still in villages just starting ECD (Early Childhood Development)? Why do our schools not have computers? Why do children under 10 walk 7 kilometres to school? Why do we have only four teachers in a big school?”

These are the questions that drive Sankori. A proud member of the Maasai community she serves, she was fortunate to attend boarding school from the age of 10—an opportunity that shielded her from the severe resource constraints of local schools. Today, she channels that privilege into purpose, leading an organisation grounded in five core pillars:

• Education access and equity
• Livelihoods and economic resilience
• Sexual and reproductive health and rights (SRHR)
• Climate action and environmental justice
• Culture and indigenous knowledge

Sankori highlights one of Kenya’s biggest educational challenges: chronic under-resourcing. While the Competency-Based Curriculum (CBC) was designed with good intentions, it assumes a level of parental literacy and access that many rural families simply don’t have. Materials needed for projects (in school and for homework), like manila paper and crayons, tend to be hard to find. Many schools do not even have the electricity they need!

She points out, 

“In everything we do, we ensure that our indigenous knowledge guides us. We respect where we are, the communities, their culture and norms. The younger generation is losing so much, there’s friction between elders and youth. Issues like climate change? Indigenous leaders knew how to deal with this many centuries ago. Maasai depended on livestock that depended on the earth and natural resources.”

This philosophy shapes Patinaai Osim’s approach: listen and empower. Every intervention begins with listening—understanding that each rural community has its own unique challenges.

The organisation’s education interventions began with primary schools. When national exam results consistently placed local schools at the bottom, Patinaai Osim conducted a baseline survey—and the findings were sobering. Some Grade 8 pupils, preparing for national exams, couldn’t read a paragraph. When teachers asked questions, no hands went up.

In response, with support from their partner GRIC, the team launched a numeracy and literacy programme using the Teaching at the Right Level (TaRL) model for Grades 3–5. The programme strengthens foundational literacy for Grade 2-4 learners through a fun, level-based model inspired by the TaRL approach. Over 30–50 days, learners participate in short after-school, weekend, or holiday sessions. They are first assessed and grouped by ability (beginner, word, or paragraph level) rather than grade or age.

Assessments are done in Maasai, Swahili, and English. As Sankori says, “Who says if you can’t speak English you’re dumb? They’re not dumb—they’re learning a new language. And once we start in Maasai, they pick up English so much faster.”

The results have been remarkable. Learners who once sat silent now compete to read aloud in class. Partner schools now have libraries and remedial sessions focused on play that children look forward to.

Teachers, too, have been empowered to innovate using local resources creatively—and parental engagement has soared. But slowly, that began to change. Today, parent-teacher meetings are almost always full—and not just with mothers. In Maasai culture, children have long been seen as belonging to women, and education was often viewed as a woman’s responsibility. Patinaai Osim recognised this and worked within that cultural reality rather than against it. By inviting dialogue, respect, and shared ownership, they’ve helped shift how families see education. Now, fathers are engaged too.

After the success of its primary school pilot, Patinaai Osim expanded its focus to Early Childhood Care and Development Education (ECCDE) and childcare centres.

“If you gave me one million dollars and told me to spend it on one thing,” Sankori smiles, “it would all go to foundational learning.”

In many rural Maasai communities, young children are kept home. There is a long journey to school, and human-wildlife conflict in the area means this journey can often be unsafe for younger children who might not be as fast or resourceful as their older peers. The organisation has worked with this reality: now: communities donate spaces (often churches), which are transformed into early learning centres equipped with materials and teachers.

Just weeks ago, 100 + learners graduated from these centres and joined primary schools—already reading and counting, with no need for remedial support from a programme like TaRL.

For children aged 0–3, especially those born to teen mothers, Patinaai Osim builds informal childcare networks. Older women in the community care for the babies, freeing young mothers to work and provide for their families.

“There’s a girl in our scholarship programme—an orphan living with her grandmother, who’s part of our tailoring project,” Sankori shares. “She’s around 11 or 12 now, and she was top of her class last week. I’m so proud of her. I can’t wait to see how far she’ll go.”

Patinaai Osim’s work is currently centred in Kajiado County, but the organisation has its sights set on scaling to Narok, where similar challenges—and an even higher rate of teen pregnancy—persist.

In a world that often rewards short-term thinking, Sankori’s vision is refreshingly long-term. She is, quite literally, planting trees whose shade future generations will sit under.

Interested in learning more or getting involved?

Reach out to Patinaai Osim at info@patinaaiosim.org

Apartment 28

I remember walking in and looking around as my stomach slowly sank. The paint was peeling, the floorboards faded. The place was considerably more weathered than I had expected. And yet, this was to be home. 

My older cousin sensed my energy and brought some of his own—he wisely advised me to "stay there for a couple of months while I found somewhere else". My sister, a few hundred kilometres away, spoke to his younger brother and they provided the voice of reason. Stay. You'll be fine. We've all done this before. 

The place was small, about 750 square feet (hush, New Yorkers, I know), and yet the quiet felt cavernous as they drove back home that day. I had Planty for company, a succulent my sister thoughtfully shipped so I wouldn't be alone. Its early demise, surprisingly, I mourned more than I thought I would. But in the 689 days between then and when I would leave 28 for the last time, it became home. 

Leaving in June 2023 was strange. I looked at these walls that had borne so much—laughter, vulnerability, grief, community. I had a strange reluctance to part with some of my furniture and household objects that had become part of my life. And yet, my sadness when leaving was coupled with deep gratitude. 

In those first few weeks, it was the quiet that got to me. I was in an apartment building, there were people all around me. I was in New Haven, community and new friends were short walks away. I had begun to host. But it was the spaces in between, where I would return after classes, and miss the pitter patter of puppy paws on floors. The constant hum of household noises running in the background. The felt but quiet sense of other humans a few doors away. The sense of my pups, my heart, a few open doors away.

What is it about our culture, I wonder, that demonises solitude to the extent that we cannot separate it from loneliness? It wasn't the quiet, you see. It was that for the first time I was alone, truly alone with me.

The warmth and laughter and light that were poured into 28's walls weren't just special because of the community that infused them. They were special because in a way, they were about me coming home to myself. 

I'd like to say that the different groups I hosted blended into each other at some point, and while that's true to an extent, there was such special, unique energy that each brought. Discussions about faith with two friends a year above me. Laughter and shoulder massages with strong women who I'm still in awe of. Being curled up on the couch with people who felt like my people musing about the happenings of the social circus that's an MBA. Confessions of crushes and budding relationships. Deep vulnerability as people peeled back the layers. My neighbour/friend popping in and out over the months, sometimes with delicious food I'd be hard pressed to duplicate (I tried). When my past came to meet my present, the gift of living not too far from one of my besties. 

That's the power of being in a new space. It allows us to rediscover ourselves and take back these new selves—look world, hi, see who I discovered I could be! It's not always perfect. I don't want it to be. I don't agree with those who say they have no regrets. I don’t agree with those who say they have no regrets. I don’t believe them—or maybe I just don’t understand. I have many. Words that can't now be said or unsaid. Presence that can't be given or taken back. But these regrets are also coupled with gratitude for the spaces and people that have held me and allowed me to grow. 

I was slow to discover the beauty of my surroundings. The sparkle of the string lights by the window as I sat on my couch with some wine or herbal tea or warm haldi dudh. And what fast became my favourite, the way the morning light would pour over my bed like warm honey. I remember so many warm moments, content moments, that were just me sitting in that space on my bed soaking up the precious sun with some coffee. It's where I learnt that I'm just a plant, really. 

This is where I first fell in love with a tree, the tree that I saw from my bedroom window first thing in the morning and sometimes last thing at night, the tree that I witnessed and photographed through different seasons, the tree that quiety witnessed me through my own. I learnt a lot from observing that tree—is it strange to miss a plant? 

My favourite date night with myself has to be the one where I laughed myself silly because I over bubbled my bubble bath, came out to cook myself some simple but delicious pasta, and watched an episode or so of a K-drama I was enjoying at the time. There were the reprieves I got from studying (yes, I had to do that too) when I hopped on my rowing machine for 5, 10, 20 minutes. That rowing machine saved my sanity and my triceps. Rest in peace, rowing machine (or in whichever basement you ended up in). There was murder basement—laundry day was never really fun, at least not the laundry part of it. I remain unconvinced that a few bodies don't lurk there. 

When did Apartment 28 become a place where the quiet made me want to crawl out of my skin to a place where every time—EVERY TIME—I walked in the door, I felt joy and gratitude and contentment? Love seeps into spaces, one small moment at a time.

And that sadness and gratitude I felt when I left was a reminder that I'll always carry that home with me.