You might find yourself struggling to make ends meet from time to time, or may have a dream of education or maybe landing a particular kind of job someday. When times are tough we tend to look for inspiration in other people. This was one of those days when I after having done some reading stumbled across an interesting story about a boy from Rhodesia in Africa.
Legson Kayira was born in the late 1930s or early 1940s, during the harvest in May or June. He eventually chose May 10, 1942, as his date of birth. His father, Timothy Mwenekanyonyo Mwamalopa Arinani Chikowoka Kayira, and mother, Ziya Nyakawonga, were members of the Tumbuka tribe in the small hill village of Mpale in the Karonga district of northern Nyasaland, which at the time was a British protectorate federated with Rhodesia. They were poor and illiterate. Kayira would later write that he came from “one of the poorest families that God ever created since the beginning of time.”
After completing junior primary school he was out of money and was unable to continue his education which he saw as a way out of poverty. Kayira read alot and saw a window of opportunity in America.
Kayira announced to his village that he was going to walk to America on Tuesday–October 14, 1958. Since no one in the village knew where America was, his mother sent him off with enough flour for a five-day journey.
Dressed in his school uniform, barefoot, and penniless, he carried a small ax, a blanket, a map of Africa, a map of the world, and two books–an English Bible and a copy of John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress. The latter had been sent to him by a correspondent in England. Although most travelers carried spears, Kayira was afraid that a weapon would frighten or provoke strangers. His plan was to make his way north to Port Said or Alexandria in Egypt where he would find work on a ship headed for New York.
Within three days Kayira had crossed the border and begun his trek through Tanganyika (now Tanzania). He walked through the dry and wet seasons, through dust storms and thick jungles, making friends in villages along the way. Sometimes he followed roads or trails from village to village. Other times he followed the railroad tracks, wishing he had money to take the train. Often the people he met could not give him directions. “I was constantly reminding myself that north was on my right,” he said in his autobiography.
By the end of a year 1 had walked 1,000 miles and had arrived in Uganda, where a family took me in and I found a job making bricks. I remained there six months and sent most of my earnings to my mother. In Kampala, I unexpectedly came upon a directory of American colleges. Opening it at random, I saw the name of Skagit Valley College, Mount Vernon, Washington. I had heard that American colleges sometimes give scholarships to deserving young people, so I wrote and applied for one. I realized that I might be refused but was not discouraged; I would write to one school after another in the directory until I found one that would help me.
Three weeks later I was granted a scholarship and assured that the school would help me find a job. Overjoyed, I went to the United States authorities, only to be told that this was not enough. I would need a passport and the round-trip fare in order to obtain a visa. I wrote to my government for a passport but it was refused because I could not tell them when I was born. I then wrote to the missionaries who had taught me in my childhood, and through their efforts was granted a passport. But I still could not get the visa because I did not have the fare. Still determined, I resumed my journey. So strong was my faith that I used my last money to buy my first pair of shoes; I knew I could not walk into college in my bare feet. I carried the shoes to save them.
Across Uganda and into the Sudan I walked. The villages were farther apart and the people were less friendly. Sometimes I had to walk 20 or 30 miles in a day to find a place to sleep or to work to earn some food. At last I reached Khartoum, where I learned that there was a United States consulate. Once again I heard about the US entrance requirements, but this time the Consul was interested enough to write to the college about my plight. Back came a cable. The students, hearing about me and my problems, had raised the fare of $1,700 through benefit parties. I was thrilled and deeply grateful, – overjoyed that I had judged Americans correctly for their friendship and brotherhood. News that I had walked for over two years and 2,500 miles circulated in Khartoum.
After many, many months, carrying my two books and wearing my first suit, I arrived at Skagit Valley College. In my speech of gratitude to the student body I disclosed my desire to become prime minister or president of my country, and I noticed some smiles. I wondered if I had said something naive. I do not think so. When God has put an impossible dream in your heart, He means to help you fulfil it. I believed this to be true when as an African bush boy, I felt compelled to become an American college graduate. And my dream of becoming president of my country can also become true.”
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