As I passed the daily assembly of the Village School, it overwhelmingly dawned on me quite what an experience this is. I have to get a picture, or ten!
There is something about the mundane tasks and daily African events that stick in my head. The assembly was one of these. A strict and ordered gathering of presumably near 1000 children, dressed in their mud-caked black and white socks, torn trousers hastily patched together and shredded jumpers epitomises Africa. Ordered but deprived; strict yet out of control. The children standing bolt upright to the front, right and back in a perfect square encompassed the small circle of drummers. As the teachers stood by, some concentrating with frightful faces, others oblivious as always, the children sang as the drummers played to a perfect beat. It is this which could be used to explain a plausible belief that education in Africa must be well managed. With their beautiful sunsets, stunning scenery, majestic creatures and incredible people surely the African education would further represent the question – just how wrong we have got Africa? The dark continent, full of despair, sorrow and sadness it most surely is not. But, then we realise Africa is a third world continent, and the education system is like the economy and corruption, unfortunately, is representative if this. Maybe we are not so wrong. Despite its treasures, Africa is in need, and more in need that I had realised.
Reading clubAs I walked in the 90 faces lit up. Their eyes showed excitement and interest for the first time that day – in all honesty, probably for the first time that week. They stood up to welcome me, and thanked me as they sat – an order that had probably been literally beaten into them from day one. Scrabbling to write their names on the reward chart I introduced, the previous strict African order turned to chaos. Thankfully, eager to please they eventually settled and watched my illustration of a ?. Aah. Too nervous to answer the first question, they all jumped out of their seats, whole bodies stretched up, to answer the second.
It was just like from a gap year brochure, and I was just as excited as them – probably more.
As I progressed through the lessons the usual problems resumed. Bolshy boys, who wouldn’t write, and girls finishing too fast. Nevertheless I still enjoyed it. In fact I absolutely loved it, so much more than I thought I would. “Teacher, teacher, teacher!” shouted unknown and unknowable faces to show me yet another sentence. As the boy running outside ringing the bell signalled the end of the lesson, I asked the class monitor to collect in the books and made for my exit. I was soon reminded that the customary goodbye from the children was needed and left feeling thrilled.
Near the staff room, a group of teachers were congregated, including the teacher who had failed to turn up to my lesson. Whether she ever had had any intention of arriving is wholly debatable.
The speed at which emotions can change is another African speciality. In the staff room a group of over 20 children were huddled in. Hands out, with quivering faces, they were hit three times each on the hand by their teacher, then another three teachers had their go, too. It was almost unbearable. The terrified faces forced me to ask what they had done, “Not written down the work” – is that equal to 12 hits each? Worse was to come. For a country where beating is illegal, and a school that told me so, it is a surprisingly common event. Mama Nokmbe had hit 20 children in the first lesson of the day and many more followed in the weeks after. What a crime, to have not written down their corrections. How dare they?
But it is the brutal caning byte discipline master (who seems to get a sadistic pleasure from his role) who annoyed me the most. That day, again, there were boys who were beaten. The force put into the final whack was reflected by the straining face of the discipline master. The children hobbled out. Is it necessary? One girl was crying so much that the other teachers actually asked what she was being punished for. She was handed a new exercise book. Beaten for not working, while poverty had prevented her from buying the required book.
Sitting outside in the warm sun, one sweet boy with holes in his T-shirt walked by, stared inquisitively and said hello. His toy, a dilapidated car made of wood, which must have equalled if not exceeded his own seven years. As he walked off, one wheel and then the next fell of. The toy seemed to be his prided possession but without crying, as a western child might, he quickly went off in search of wood to mend it with.
I went inside feeling quite overcome with sympathy and brought out a new car I had been given. As I walked over, he stood up, his face a mixture of fear and bewilderment. Taking the car, and finishing opening it he looked like he couldn’t quite believe it. Persuading him to give it back so I could show actually how to play with it, he set about playing. Children came to ask where he had got it. Hiding and protecting it, I heard him say the “Mzungu.” Children looked around in amazement.
It is the small things that make this trip memorable, and I think that day will one of the memorable ones!
