A million small beginnings

In past posts, I’ve written about collapse, about false urgencies, about what happens when systems built on extraction and control unravel. And I’ve written, too, about seeds — those small, grounded beginnings that might carry something different. In April I shared reflections from the ChangeNOW conference in Paris, where I tried to walk with a composting lens, noticing not the unicorns but the overlooked seedlings. This week, I want to tell you a story from Tanzania. A single seed.

I first met Mbayani Tayai in 2018, in China, of all places. The University of Xiamen was hosting a massive student innovation and entrepreneurship competition. Out of more than a million entrants, a thousand finalists had been invited, mostly from China, with about a hundred international participants. It was a parade of youthful energy and exciting startup pitches, most of them high tech, but some focused on social enterprise. And there, among them, was a young Tanzanian, a Maasai man from a farming village a few hours west of Arusha. His name was Mbayani Tayai. He was there because he had founded Vijana Assembly, a rural youth empowerment organization in Tanzania.

We spoke a few times, exchanged contact details, and promised to stay in touch. As one does. Except that only a few months later, I happened to be on my way to East Africa. I was scouting sites for a large conference (that we eventually held on the shores of Lake Victoria, in Kisumu, Kenya). Arusha was one of the possible locations, so I arranged to stop there. Knowing no one, I reached out to Mbayani. His response was immediate and generous:

"Of course I will take care of you. I’ll pick you up at the airport."

And so he did. I landed at Kilimanjaro International Airport, and there he was, waiting. We drove toward Arusha, and when he asked what I wanted to do, I had no answer. He paused, smiled, and said:

"Why don’t I take you to my home village?"

We drove through the city and turned west. First, a nice new paved road, then dirt, then smaller tracks, climbing into the hills. Eventually, we arrived at a small farm: a few huts, some cows, a fence of thorny branches. His parents’ home.

You have to imagine my bewilderment; apart from a short stay in Cape Town years earlier, this was my first visit to Africa. A few hours after stepping off the plane, I was here, in Maasai country, greeted by his family, smiling and generous. They served me the staple food: a porridge made of maize and fermented milk (perhaps the most energy-rich meal I have ever had). Life here was clearly hard. Subsistence farming in an arid climate. Women walking for many hours every day to fetch water. Water was the women’s chore.

Mbayani was already trying to find his path. He was the firstborn, he had eight younger brothers and a sister, he was the first of his family to go to school (walking 11 kilometers from home each way), to high school, to university, to travel abroad. He had started organizing youth assemblies, he’d co-founded a community centre in Losimingori, and was experimenting with different ways to empower young people. Some things worked. Some did not. One event would gather a crowd, the next wouldn’t get funding. A partnership promised much, only to fizzle (including one of my own ideas). He was navigating the kind of trials familiar to every entrepreneur: the moments of energy and recognition, and the long stretches of uncertainty when you wonder if it will all hold together. What stood out, though, was his persistence. He kept moving, adjusting, learning by doing. Never a straight line, but he kept walking.

Back then, he shared with me his vision:

“I want to bring clean and safe water to villages without water. I want to bring better health services for rural mothers and children. I want to improve infrastructure of roads and reliable energy to our communities.”

We stayed in touch. Over the years, he shared both successes and setbacks. And then, a new chapter opened. He received the chance to study in the United States. In late 2021, he moved to St. Paul, Minnesota, to pursue a graduate degree. Imagine the contrast. From the sun and dust of Monduli district to minus 24 degrees Celsius. He told about one of his first days, when he missed a bus and had to wait half an hour outside in the freezing cold. His ears and fingers numb, his feet on fire from the chill.

Two years later, in December 2023, he graduated from Metropolitan State University, with a Master’s degree in Non-Profit Organizational Management. His post on that day spoke volumes:

“Finally, we made it! Grateful for this achievement. Grateful for God of Miracles! … There was a time I wanted to quit and go back home! … But the skills, the network, the connection, the knowledge and creativity will remain for me forever! I did it for my Family, I did it for my community, I did it for my Country, I did it for my People and I did it for myself to prove God Miracles! … I promise you, By Grace of God, I will make these achievements, skills and education useful for hundred thousands to millions of people in the near future.”

While in the U.S., he founded a new organization: Maji Wells (Maji means water in Swahili). Its mission is straightforward: to bring clean water to underserved communities, to empower women, and to help build healthier, more prosperous futures. He raised funds wherever he could find them, not least from American philanthropists.

The work is already changing lives. The 2024 annual report records that they installed 109 rainwater harvesting systems, reaching over 2,000 people across Maasai villages in Northern Tanzania. They also deployed a solar-powered water filtration system that now serves 600 people. Maji Wells has even been using AI and satellite imagery to map the communities where women still walk nine to twelve hours for water. That mapping guided the placement of the new systems.

The impact is profound. One mother from Lepurko told them: 

“Before the rainwater harvesting system, my daughters and I would spend hours walking to fetch water. Now, we have clean water right at our doorstep. This has given us more time to focus on our small business and my daughters’ education.”

It is tempting, especially from far away, to measure such work by scale. To ask: will it reach a million people? Will it change a nation? Is it “scalable”? But maybe those are the wrong questions. Each rainwater tank is a seed. Each filtration unit a seed. Each household that makes it through a drought, each girl who no longer spends her days carrying water: a seed. Mbayani quoted a hero of his, Muhammad Yunus: 

“Never think small. Think BIG! But always start very small!”

Maji Wells is not stopping here. In 2025, the plan is to install another 200 rainwater harvesting systems, build a community pond, and expand training and empowerment programs. They are also launching a poultry farming initiative, so that women can generate income and improve nutrition at home. These are modest steps - a well, a tank, a chicken coop - but they are transformative. And they are not charity handouts: for the rainwater tanks, for example, Maji Wells covers two-thirds of the cost, while the family or village contributes the remaining third. One farmer put it this way: 

“If we had gone to buy the tank ourselves, in town, without the project, we would have had to sell more than four cows. But now, we only had to sell one cow to get the tank.” (The total cost per unit installed is about US$600).

I have a photo of Mbayani with his parents, taken that day in 2018 on their farm. They stand inside their hut. The parents look proud, as any parents would. Imagine how proud they are today, seeing their son return not only with a degree from Minnesota, but with an organization that is already transforming lives in their village and beyond.

Mbayani Tayai with his parents in the family farm (October 2018)

In one of my recent essays I quoted Edgar Morin, who wrote that 

“everything, in fact, has already begun, but we don’t know it.” 

What survives will not be decided in boardrooms or at summits. It will be decided by those who, like Mbayani, start where they are, with what they have. That is what I mean by A million small beginnings. Not polished roadmaps. Not promises of scale. Just beginnings. A rainwater tank in Losimingori. A filtration system at a community dam. A poultry project in the works. Seeds of something different.

So what can we do, those of us who watch from far away? First, we can notice. We can tune our attention to these seeds, however small. We can resist the temptation to dismiss them as marginal or insignificant. Second, we can support them. In this case, that may mean supporting Maji Wells directly (like here), or helping spread the word. But it also means seeking out the seeds in our own communities, the beginnings that already surround us but may not yet have a name. Because if there is a path through collapse, it won’t be designed in the centers of power. It will grow in places like Losimingori. It will grow in a million small beginnings.

This article is also published on Substack. illuminem Voices is a democratic space presenting the thoughts and opinions of leading Sustainability & Energy writers, their opinions do not necessarily represent those of illuminem.

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