Wednesday, 5th February,2014.5.32
a.m…
My mother wakes up to the sound of me
making a quick breakfast out of leftovers from last night’s supper. She’s
holding up an umbrella, her weapon of choice against what she thought was the
neighbourhood stray cat that always finds a way into the house after we’ve had
fish for supper. She breathes a deep sigh of relief, obviously glad she didn’t
have to go up against ‘ninja cat’ again.
Instead, she’s met by a fully dressed
Steph, ready to set off for an early day at work. Clearly she’s not buying
this, she knows all too well the many struggles her teenage daughter faces
trying to get out of bed before daylight. But, she decides to take her chances
on this one, seeing as to how I am dressed officially and carrying my trusty
backpack filled with all sorts of teaching paraphernalia. Now, knowing me, this
dress code would only see the light of day for work purposes only, so her ideas
of any dubious plans are quickly averted. Still, the sight of me out of bed
that early is one to behold, and as I quickly bid her goodbye, there is only
enough time for me to see her smile, shake her head and say, “You’ve finally
lost it.”
The morning breeze is cold when I step out
of the house, and I never did realise how dark it looks at 5.45, but brushing
off second thoughts about going back to bed, I start off with a brisk walk to
Kawangware Primary School, ready to launch an all out attack on a tall stack of
inshas that await me.
Thirty-minutes-and-one-fearful-matatu-ride-with-a-drowsy-conductor later, I
arrive at my destination. Walking in I see lights and hear sounds of activity
in some classrooms, and remember what drove me to get here in the first place.
Those kids were counting on me to get those inshas marked, and while I had the
comfortable choice of sleeping in till seven, a lot of those kids had to get up
at ungodly hours to get to school. For some, it was to escape the chaos at
home, for others it was the only place they could go to to actually be
themselves, to be recognised and acknowledged for a good job done. And so,
refreshed by that thought, I reach forward to open the staffroom door and begin
the day’s tasks….Oh great, it’s locked!
I pace around the administration block for
about fifteen minutes waiting for the caretaker. The class prefects are in
charge of their own class keys, but the other rooms are under the caretaker’s
jurisdiction. My patience is quickly growing thin as I recall how he assured me
the previous day that he always opens the staff room by six, all proud and
happy with himself. Then there he strolled into the school compound, rubbing
his eyes. On seeing me he smiles sheepishly and says, “Gai! Yaani ushafika! Ata
sikudhani ungemake. Aki ka-usingizi kalikuwa katamu! Pole!”…. The man is lucky I’m a Christian.
A few minutes later I am joined by my
fellow teacher’s assistants, and I am happy to see that they stayed true to our
pact to get to school early today to finish a heap of work. We tear away at our
inshas and compositions, correcting each grammatical error, giving personalised
advice and assigning carefully calculated grades . Compound this with lessons
to be taught and a talk on inshas to be given, and at the end of the day you
have some pretty wiped out teacher’s assistants.
Wednesday, 5th February, 2014.
6.40 p.m.
We’re leaving school, and I could easily
compare our mental exhaustion to an editor who has had to physically read
through the entire Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary looking for typing
errors…twice! But do we regret it? Not one bit! The simple fact that we got the
job done and were able to help those kids, whose work was often given only a
cursory glance to save on time but not save their grades, was satisfactory
enough. And, believe it or not, that too was enough to give us the energy to do
it all again the following week. Call us crazy, I call it service!
