"We would love to stay here. But things have been getting worse."

We might have pushed the climate change agenda to the bottom of the list of things that need our urgent attention, but several regions, such as northern Kenya, are not out of the woods yet. The devastating impacts of climate change can still be clearly seen in the form of livestock and wildlife carcasses scattered across the parched landscape.

Apart from these heartbreaking sightings during our trip to Samburu not so long ago, we were greeted by beelines of skeletal cattle and camels with basic household belongings strapped on their backs as we drove across the sandy landscape baked by the sweltering heat of northern Kenya.

Men and women adorned in traditional attire, their faces firmed by drought and a cocktail of hardships, brought the tail ends of the caravans. Young boys and girls, magically appearing from the bushes along the dirt roads with bottles and containers in hand, waved down every car, traveller, and stranger to ask for one thing! Water. Even a drop. Most could barely speak either of the national languages, except for one fairly young girl.

"What is going on?" I asked.

"We are moving," she replied. "Life here is no longer bearable," she added, as my brain cells were still actively firing to frame the next question.

"How far?"

"Until we find a place that can sustain us and our livestock," she said, her dry lips cracking under the weight of her natural smile. A gust of dry wind blew her dusty hair as she held her bottle for refilling. The sounds of water pouring into the kids’ bottles and containers filled the air of silence that hung momentarily between us. I couldn’t immediately find the next question to ask or the right words to say.

"Is there any way we can help beyond just giving you water and going back to wherever we came from?" I blurted, unsure whether that was an appropriate question for her age.

"Can you make our suffering stop?" she asked, quickly following her question with a smile. A subdued smile. There was a hint of surrender in her demeanour. Surrender with a sliver of hope that there may be a solution to the challenges bedevilling them somewhere. A solution out of their reach but within someone’s.

"We would love to stay here. We’ve made friends and created memories together. We don’t want to go separate ways. We want this to be our home, forever. But things have been getting worse. We haven't seen a drop of rain in a while. We’ve lost our livestock to the drought. Violence has increased. There’s no more school for us. We are very worried about our future. We have never seen this kind of drought before," she added.

For a moment, I thought I had mistaken her for a young girl. Her articulation of the situation was notably impressive! She sounded ages older than she looked. An old soul hiding in a young body, perhaps.

"What is your name?" Hillary, one of the adventure crew members, asked.

"Esther," she replied.

The deafening silence as the car kicked up dust along the winding dirt road to our destination was only interrupted by the revving engine, occasional rustles of the scanty bushes, gravel and dry wood crackling under the tyres, infrequent chirps of birds and clanking cowbells receding into the distance. I wondered whether my friends were also haunted by Esther’s question and emotional appeal. I lowered the car window. The hot and dry wind blew the scent of the drought into my face and nostrils.

Just then, we drove past two frail men, seemingly fatigued, catching a nap under the porous shade of a skimpy acacia shrub.

"Man, that girl!" Alfred, our designated driver, muttered behind the steering wheel. There was a unanimous sigh, and soft murmurs, in the car.

I was lost in a mesh of thoughts. I subconsciously whipped my phone out of my pocket — to go online, I guess. Zero network coverage. I shoved the phone back into my pocket. The thoughts gave birth to questions, worries, and concerns that flurried like moths in my mind.

I wondered:

Beyond the massive climate change conferences that cost billions if not trillions to organize, beyond the lustrous films highlighting the plight of the communities hit by drought, beyond the emotional or stern speeches on national and international platforms, what can we ACTUALLY do to change the fate of Esther, her people, and people like her? What can we ACTUALLY do to undo the damage and end the suffering of the people who are actually bearing the brunt of climate change despite having little to do with the causes?

What can we ACTUALLY do to address the vicious drought that is slowly eroding lives, livelihoods, and cultures, especially in the global south?

What can we ACTUALLY do? Mmmh? What can we DO?