The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind (29 page)

After several days, we flew to California and spent Christmas Day in Los Angeles with Tom’s sister and family. We drove to the Santa Monica pier on the Pacific Ocean and watched the surfers. Along the boardwalk in Venice Beach, I spoke to a man who blew fire from his mouth and walked on broken glass.

At the San Diego Wild Animal Park, which we visited later that week, I saw giraffes, hippos, elephants, rhinos, monkeys, and more. You know, half an hour east of my village was Kasungu National Park, and a couple hours west was Nkhotakota Wildlife Reserve, where many of those same animals roamed and played. I’d never been to either place. Instead, I’d traveled ten thousand miles to see them in America. This made me laugh.

Early the next day, we drove through the desert to Las Vegas for the Consumer Electronics Show, which was an endless maze of toys and cool gadgets, many of them using low-power technology, such as solar-powered LED lamps, a Bluetooth headset that hooks over your ear and recharges your phone from the sun, and Freeplay radios powered by a crank that never need batteries. That night, we stayed in Treasure Island Hotel, where jackpots of cars and other prizes are given away all night long and women in their underpants serve free soda.

Standing there on the casino floor amid the blinking lights, as fountains of money spilled from the machines to the sound of sirens, I had to remind myself to breathe.

“You having fun?” Tom asked, shouting over the noise.

“Yah,” I said, smiling big. “Great.”

But really, all the stimulation from the past week was too much for my brain to process, so I drifted back to the one place I knew. I stood there at the base of my machine, then scaled the tower rungs—slowly, one by one,
feeling the soft wood creak beneath my bare feet, so smooth and warm in the sun. From the top, I looked out onto the country I loved—across the vast green fields and craggy slopes of the highlands, which sent a familiar breeze through the valley and whipped the blades behind me. Later that night as I lay in bed, I let that daydream spin me off to sleep, the white noise of the machinery like a song my mother would sing. I went to sleep dreaming of Malawi, and all the things made possible when your dreams are powered by your heart.

T
HAT VISION OF HOME
was a place in my mind where I retreated often while traveling in America. It was always the same, and each time I went there, it brought a warm, pleasant feeling.

But not long after that night in Vegas, I found myself staring out onto a near-identical landscape of home as my dream—green rolling flatland, mountains on the horizon, draped in bright blue sky. Except I wasn’t in Malawi—I was in Palm Springs, California. And in that empty space between me and the hills, there suddenly appeared miles of windmills, more than six thousand of them, shooting from the earth like a giant forest of mechanical trees.

The true dimensions of the machines revealed themselves once we pulled into one of the wind farms. There, I seemed to lose my sense of scale. The round white trunks of the turbines were like cartoons I’d seen on television, so wide they could swallow my family’s entire house. Stepping outside, I was greeted by the sound of rushing wind, so deep and encompassing, it seemed to pull my very breath. Looking up, I saw the hundred-foot blades twirling slowly like the toys of God.

I had to be dreaming this.

These windmills were different from mine in every way. Each machine towered more than two hundred feet in the air, with wingspans longer than the airplane that had brought me to America. The head engineer of the Windtec wind farm, Chris Copeland, even took me inside the dark belly of one of the machines. On one wall, a computer monitor told us all
kinds of information—everything from voltage output to wind and blade speed. If the gusts became too strong, the computers shut down the rotors—unlike my windmill at home that sometimes snapped apart in heavy wind, sending the blades spinning through the air like flying knives.

Each turbine generated 12,500 volts, and in total, the wind farm produced over six hundred megawatts, which was delivered to a substation by underground cable, then to thousands of homes in Southern California. Six hundred megawatts was enough to power the entire country of Malawi, with energy to spare (ESCOM, by comparison, produced only 224 megawatts).

It was an incredible feeling to see the machines that I’d been imagining for so long. Now here they were, twisting in the wind before me. I’d come full circle. The pictures in the library book had provided the idea, hunger and darkness had given me the inspiration, and I’d set out myself on this long, amazing journey. Standing there, I waited for the next direction.
What will I do next?
I thought. What was in my future, after having come this far? I looked out across the expanse of machines and saw how the mountains seemed to tumble and dance along their twirling blades.

As I watched them, they seemed to be telling me something—that I didn’t have to decide just then. I could return to Africa and go back to school, reclaim the life that had been taken from me for so long. And after that, who knows? Perhaps I would study these machines and learn how to build them, then plant my own forest of them along the green fields of Malawi. Perhaps I would teach others to build more simple windmills like the one I had at home, to provide their own light and water without having to depend on the government. Perhaps I’d do both. But whatever it was I decided to do, I would apply this one lesson I’d learned:

If you want to make it, all you have to do is try.

I
N
J
UNE
2008, I traveled to Cape Town, South Africa, for the World Economic Forum on Africa, and spoke about technology in emerging countries. I was part of a panel discussion moderated by Dan Shine from Advanced Micro Devices’ 50x15 Initiative, which is working to connect 50 percent of the world’s population to the Internet by 2015. I’d met Dan in Arusha and he’d become my friend, so when he asked me to speak at this important event, I happily said yes.

I told the audience how I’d built my windmill and also about the different challenges I had faced, particularly when it came to finding a generator. I told them about Geoffrey, and that I hoped he could begin teaching people in the surrounding villages to build windmills while I was away at school. At the end, someone in the audience raised their hand and asked me what the Malawian government thought about my project.

“The government doesn’t know about it,” I said. I knew this because I’d just informed the president myself.

Malawian president Bingu wa Mutharika was also attending the conference, and the night before, we were at the same dinner reception. I admired President Mutharika because he cared about us farmers and made it possible for families like mine to afford fertilizer once again. The president was seated at another table, and after the dinner, I walked right up and
introduced myself—in English. I told him I was a speaker at the forum and that I’d been invited because of my windmill. The president looked surprised.

“Oh, that’s good news!” he said, then stood by me and posed for a photo. I was so proud. That picture now hangs on the wall in my parents’ living room and they make sure every visitor admires it.

A
FTER LEAVING
C
APE
T
OWN,
I flew to Chicago, where I was being honored at the Museum of Science and Industry. I was part of an exhibit called “Fast Forward: Inventing the Future” that highlighted some of the innovative technology and ideas that will shape our world for the better. My original circuit breaker and light switch were there, sitting alongside exhibits celebrating the work of people like Ayanna Howard, a robotics engineer who worked on NASA’s SmartNav Mars rover, and Dana Myers, who invented an all-electric car that can travel at 70 miles per hour. It was such an amazing honor to be mentioned alongside such smart people, and seeing my face blown up on a poster almost as big as my body was also pretty cool, if not kind of strange.

Once I got back home to Malawi, I spent the summer seeing my family and friends and did some much-needed repairs on my windmills. Every time I go home, it seems that one of my blades has snapped off from strong winds. This continued to happen even after I replaced the plastic blades with steel ones from an oil drum. I also noticed termites had burrowed through the wooden legs of my tower, right at the base, meaning I’d have to rebuild the entire thing (I later planted the legs in cement). With wobbly, termite-eaten wood, the tower legs became even more dangerous to climb when it was time to make repairs. Sometimes I wore a bicycle helmet in case I fell on my head.

W
HILE
I
WAS TRAVELING
in America over Christmas, I’d received news that I’d been accepted—with a scholarship—to the African
Leadership Academy, a pan-African high school in Johannesburg, South Africa.

The school brings together students from fifty-three countries with a mission to train Africa’s next generation of leaders. Out of 1,700 applicants, only 106 were accepted for its inaugural year. Many of these students are inventors and entrepreneurs like me who’ve overcome difficult odds to better the lives of their families and neighbors. Others are simply some of the smartest students in their countries, scoring the highest marks on their national exams.

Despite having worked very hard in Lilongwe at my previous school, I was still behind in English and math. I knew the school in Johannesburg would be extremely challenging, and I feared other students would be far more advanced (and younger) than me. Since speaking English was one of my biggest concerns, one of my American sponsors volunteered to send me to a language class in Cambridge, England. For five weeks, I attended classes near the Cambridge University campus and studied the Queen’s English along with students from China, Italy, and Turkey.

On the weekends, I walked the old city and learned about its buildings, many of them built by hand more than four hundred years ago without the kind of modern technology we have today. Seeing this, it gave me even more confidence that we Africans can develop our continent if we just put our minds and abundant resources together and stop waiting on others to do it for us.

I
N
A
UGUST, AFTER COMING
home briefly to pack and say good-bye to my family once again, I boarded a plane and flew to Johannesburg. My classes at ALA were just as rigorous as I’d expected. I took ten courses my first semester, including chemistry, physics, and a class in entrepreneurship, which became my favorite. The school is located outside Johannesburg on a beautiful campus with giant trees; wide, green soccer pitches; and lots of peacocks, which are even louder and more disturbing in the morning than the noisy chickens at home. I share a room with a Kenyan
guy named Githiora Thuku, who quickly became a good pal. But Githiora isn’t forced to share my bed, and anyway, I’m pretty sure he washes his feet more frequently than my previous roommate.

For the first time since the TED conference, I felt like I was surrounded by real colleagues who shared the same motivations—but this time in a much deeper way, because we’d also shared similar hardships in getting to this place.

There’s Miranda Nyathi from KwaZakhele, South Africa. During a big teachers’ strike that paralyzed her school, Miranda took charge and began teaching her fellow students math, science, and geography and managed to keep the school open. And Belinda Munemo from Harare, Zimbabwe, helped a local orphan girl start a successful hatchery and chicken farm to pay for her school fees. Since then, Miranda has opened a small video store so students can rent educational videos for free instead of wasting away in the boozing centers. My friend Paul Lorem is a “Lost Boy” from southern Sudan who survived the war and lived alone without parents in a refugee camp, much like my other friend Joseph Munyambanza from Congo, whose family fled the fighting and lived in a camp in Uganda, where Joseph attended school.

All these people’s stories are so inspiring to me. Even when my classes become difficult and I find myself discouraged, just being around them helps me continue. And I wonder just how many others like us are still out there struggling on their journey. Thinking of them reminds me of a quote I read recently from the great Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. that says, “If you can’t fly, run; if you can’t run, walk; if you can’t walk, crawl.” We must encourage those still struggling to keep moving forward. My fellow students and I talk about creating a new kind of Africa, a place of leaders instead of victims, a home of innovation rather than charity. I hope this story finds its way to our brothers and sisters out there who are trying to elevate themselves and their communities, but who may feel discouraged by their poor situation. I want them to know they’re not alone. By working together, we can help remove this burden of bad luck from their backs, just as I did, and use it to build a better future.

William Kamkwamba:
First I’d like to thank my parents and sisters and all those in my family, especially my cousin Geoffrey. Thanks to Gilbert Mofat, who was always by my side and became my partner in everything. I wouldn’t be where I am today had it not been for the diligence of Dr. Hartford Mchazime at the Malawi Teacher Training Activity, who will always hold a special place in my heart. Special gratitude to Blessings Chikakula, a wonderful tutor and teacher, and now a dear and loyal friend. Thanks to Eneret Santhe and Ralph Kathewala at MTTA; to Frederick M. K. T. Mwale, Carlos Lucas Chimuti, Edith Sikelo, and Gloria Mlokowa at Wimbe Primary School; Rhonex Banda at Madisi Secondary School; and McDonald Tembo at Kachokolo Secondary School. And thanks to the rest of my brothers and sisters in the great Republic of Malawi, for we’ve struggled together and we’ll succeed together, and your hard work and toughness make me proud of who I am. (Uncle John, Grandpa Matiki, Chief Wimbe, and Khamba—may you all rest in peace!)

Attending the TED conference changed my life and sent me on the new exciting journey that I’m on today. Much of that wouldn’t be possible without the assistance of Tom Rielly, who’s helped open many doors of opportunity, in addition to clearing the goats from the road and pointing me in the right direction. Along the way, Tom has become a trusted men
tor and friend, and to him I’m always grateful. The rest of the TED community continues to provide endless inspiration. Special thanks to Chris Anderson, June Cohen, and Emeka Okafor, and to the wonderful people who’ve invested in my future out of the kindness of their hearts: John Doerr, Mike and Jackie Bezos, Jay and Eileen Walker, John Gage, Gerry Ohrstrom, Andrea Barthello, and Bill and Sam Ritchie. You’ve all elevated my life in more ways than you know.

Thanks to Soyapi Mumba and Mike McKay for first sharing my story with the world, and to Gerry Douglas for giving me a home in Lilongwe and being a friend. (Also to Nancy Nyani for being my second mother in the city.) Thanks to Chuck and Joanne Wilson and Lorilee MacLean at African Bible College Christian Academy, and to Fred Swaniker, Chris Bradford, Christopher Khaemba, Scott Rubin, Gavin Peter, David Scudder, and Alison Rodseth at African Leadership Academy—I’m grateful to all of you for believing in my potential as a student and giving me the invaluable opportunity of a good education.

Thanks to my cool New York City documentary crew: Ben Nabors, Michael Tyburski, Scott Thrift, and Ari Kuschnir; to Sarah Childress at the
Wall Street Journal;
and to Monica Gillette, Will Allen, Matt Curtis, and Perrin Drumm. Thanks to Dan Shine at Advanced Micro Devices and Kathleen McCarthy and Cynthia Morgan at Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry. Thanks to my agent, Heather Schroder, at International Creative Management; to my editor, Henry Ferris, and deputy publisher Lynn Grady at William Morrow; and to Seale Ballinger and all the kind people at HarperCollins who’ve made me feel so welcome.

And last, thanks to my coauthor, Bryan Mealer, who gave me a voice. Without his incredible hard work this book would have literally been impossible. I’ve learned so much from him, and I’m proud to call him a part of my family. He is my brother.

Bryan Mealer:
First of all, thanks to William for never giving up and for allowing me to help him share his uplifting story with the world, and to my
agent, Heather Schroder, for making the introduction. This book wouldn’t have been possible without the unconditional cooperation and assistance of William and his parents, Trywell and Agnes Kamkwamba, who took me in for months, fed me, and answered every question I asked. In the process, I became part of their amazing family and gained three incredible friends. Blessings Chikakula spent nearly every day with me in Malawi, acting as both cultural interpreter and one of the best translators I’ve ever worked with. He’s a gifted educator and a proud African. I’ll know him for the rest of my life. Thanks to Gilbert and Geoffrey for letting me hang out, to Gerry Douglas for giving me a bed in Lilongwe, and to Nancy Nyani for her wonderful meals and company. And special thanks to Tom Rielly for his bottomless generosity, and for consistently going above and beyond to help me tell this story.

I’m also grateful to the kind people at African Leadership Academy, especially Christopher Khaemba and his lovely family for hosting me. Scott Rubin guided me through marathon sessions on electromagnetic induction and basic physics, all while William looked on and laughed. Brushing up on science was a big part of the reporting, and for that I’d also like to thank Meghan Maresh, Tony Blatnica, and Chris Copeland. Thanks to my editor, Henry Ferris, and all the dedicated folks at William Morrow and HarperCollins who believed in this book. And finally, thanks to my beautiful wife, Ann Marie Healy, who shared in my joy of finally coming home from Africa with some good news to tell.