THE CLASS SAGA

THE PARENT WITH A CHALK WITH MANY KIDS

There is no job more entertaining, confusing, and mentally stretching than being a teacher in a Kenyan school. You walk into class expecting to deliver knowledge, but before you even greet the learners, you’re met with chaos that only God Himself can explain. Learners have a way of turning your lesson into a comedy show — and you are the main actor, whether you like it or not.

One day I entered class and found the board full of "Happy Birthday Madam Jane" — in permanent marker! I was not even Madam Jane. Apparently, one learner mistook the date and decided to surprise their CRE teacher with a message that would last a lifetime. I spent the entire Kiswahili lesson trying to clean it with jik and prayer.

Then there’s the “He stole my pen” saga that erupts at the exact moment you’re about to explain something serious, like how to calculate perimeter. Before you know it, two pupils are standing, fingers pointed, shouting “Si ni ya blue! Mine had a lid! Teacher, ask him to return my pen ama I go home!” At that point, even the headteacher peeping through the window knows that maths is over.

And don’t forget the learners who think whispering is silent. You’ll be teaching about the water cycle, only to hear faint voices at the back: “Ala! Ni hiyo dame ya Class Seven alikula chipo za Brian!” You pretend not to hear but inside you’re dying of laughter. The gossip mill in a Kenyan school is faster than Wi-Fi.

Let’s not even talk about composition writing. I once read an essay that started with: "It was on a dark and stormy Monday, the teacher had just entered, and we knew we were not safe.” The creativity is top tier. One wrote, “My uncle is a banker and has a lot of money, but he is wanted by EACC.” I nearly dropped the whole exercise book.

Sometimes, learners just decide they’re not learning. They form a cartel of “watazame tu” — those who come to class to observe life. They sit with zero books, just vibes. When asked about homework, they say, “Sijaskia poa leo, teacher.” That’s the same learner who was chasing a tyre bare-footed five minutes before class. Ukimuuliza, “Na hiyo nguvu ulikuwa nayo kwa field iko wapi sasa?” They just smile.

And the way they fake sickness is Oscar-worthy. “Teacher, my head is rotating,” or “My stomach is cooking me.” The dramatic ones even fake fainting. One girl once fell “unconscious” when she saw the maths test. Then when the bell rang for break time, she suddenly resurrected and asked, “Is there mandazi today?”

But the best of them all is when they try to sweet-talk the teacher. “Teacher umevaa smart leo,” only for them to ask, “Unaeza tusaidia na test?” Or worse, “Leo hatufanyi assignment, sindio?” Flattery with full intention. And if you fall for it, next time they’ll come with new compliments like, “Hiyo perfume yako inabamba.”

Despite all the madness, learners are the heartbeat of every school. Their humor, innocence, and unfiltered actions give life to the sometimes tough job of teaching. They remind us to laugh, to be patient, and to find joy even in the small things — like a desk labeled “Mr. Lerte was here” in permanent marker.

In the end, we don’t just teach them. They teach us, too — how to survive embarrassment, how to hold back laughter during serious moments, and most importantly, how to be young at heart. Kenyan learners? Wah! You’ve got to love them.