It is the last day before everyone leaves.  The internet lab--the first of its kind in Arusha and maybe even Tanzania--is humming as the kids type their tweets back and forth to one another and then their new counterparts around the world.  Teacher Johnson, handsome as always in his dress shirt and freshly polished shoes, logs on--could it be?--on the last day, for the first time?

Teacher Johnson!  You don't have any followers!  Where are all your tweets?  I don't know what he'll do on Monday when everyone is gone.  Did you go to the class for the teachers?  He feels my panic and flashes me that sheepish, worried smile. We both know how hard the volunteers worked; how insistent they were this could happen, that it would be easy, even if we both had our secret, silent doubts.

I'll get it.  I'm getting it, he says, as he hunts and pecks his way forward into his new responsibility as internet advocate extraordinaire. 

This is how it is when we bring new things halfway around the world.  We have no idea how foreign things  feel.  We glide right over how strange it is to trust that we'll still be together when we've always been so far apart.  We have no comprehension of what it means to be over and over again left behind and then in one instant, forever included.

I promise to retweet him religiously.  To help him get the most followers of any tweeter in the school.  His eyes flash with the spark of competition.  His fingers move a little faster as we joke and smile.  He is deciding to believe it might stay, this tiny thread connecting divergent worlds.  He is deciding to put a sliver of hope in it.  He is deciding to try.

You can follow Teacher Johnson's clever quotes and honest questions at @teacherjohnson1 on Twitter.