When I arrived in Africa it was interesting to witness children who had limited concentration skills, lacked listening skills and didn’t know what phonics was, couldn't read or write no IT skills, hadn't played a board game and had never had a story read to them. A beautiful ebony skinned talented seven year little girl presented me with her journal filled with wonderful drawings depicting her life with friends in Africa. Although this little one was a talented artist she was not proficient in literacy or math; we spent many hours together “reading” her drawings and her telling me in depth stories about her childhood through her pencil drawings. Asking open ended questions of her work, her imagination ran riot and I had a hard time ending these wonderful stories spewing from her mouth for hours on end.
When I sat down to spend time with each little doe eyed child, they were so active and willing to learn. They wanted and craved one to one attention and fought to be up close to me; it was often claustrophobic. Every piece of learning I offered was sucked up and their appetites could not be sated. Like the traditional American Indian Storyteller, I was clambered over constantly and suffocated with excited children craving to get more of me and my teachings...it was an exhaustive pleasure to work with these little people. My lap was full to overflowing. If they heard I was not appearing for a day or so sad whispers, cries and sighs echoed after my departure and if they heard I was returning tomorrow, hurrahs, laughter and whoops resounded as I entered the room and no minute of the day was my own.
One handsome little boy of five years took a shine to me and wanted my total attention. For the first time in his short life he found learning and began responding to his homework and suddenly began to enjoy engaging with books and conversations positively. He couldn't read or write when I arrived, nor could he count or sound letters, he knew no colours and his family spent little time giving him support. Living with his grandparents who were illiterate and spoke limited English, it was almost impossible to complete his school and homework. His family were aware and saddened they could not help and did their very best but with no schooling themselves it was nigh on impossible. By the time I left he could write his letters and numbers, had begun to sound his letters and had a hunger to learn and asked for a story every day. It had been a pleasure to get to know this boy and to be able to see him develop.
The classrooms were old fashioned, basic and tired in decor. Often run down and shabby but teachers did their best and at least there was school. Teacher training was an issue, very limited and backward....no EYFS here, no safeguarding, no behaviour or social networking policies and discipline was antiquated and harsh....let's just say we would not be allowed to practice it and I was extremely uncomfortable with their methods and thinking. So embedded in their culture, way of life and upbringing, the teachers had no understanding of my concerns. Indoctrinated by spiritualism and often the witch doctors they had entrenched beliefs that to us Westerners are wild and weird. In class they sat in formal rows behind old fashioned wooden lift top desks with ink wells, facing a traditional large grey blackboard, that desperately needed blackening. No interactive white boards, PC's or laptops in these classrooms and limited paper and pencils, fascinating to say the least. My large array of paper, colouring pencils, story and exercise books, that I had carried in my suitcase, did not stretch very far but for those children it did reach, it was appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed.
In rural schools the same meal is delivered every day, beans and rice, rice and beans and sometimes egosi may be thrown in for good measure. Children eat because they have to eat, it maybe all they get that day. Phenomenally, they all had mobiles, but often nothing else and were out of proportionally addicted to all the latest technology. Materialism was part of the mind set and culture in many ways. Few clothes, no school books, no reading books, limited food and money but always the current technology.
School uniforms were curious too; often brightly coloured, the girls wore oversized calf length dresses, with white starched "peter pan" collars, thick ankle socks and chunky badly fitting second hand shoes and carried traditionally shaped brown leather satchels. The boys wore brightly coloured oversized knee length shorts, stiff starched white shirts, ankle socks, chunky trainers and carried the same satchels as the girls. In their masses these brightly clad children walked, sometimes for miles, to and from school each morning and evening in the blistering heat only to begin housework and washing when they arrived home. Uniforms were washed each day, by hand on a ridged wash board over a metal pail, and hung to dry on ropes on patios; shopping, cooking and cleaning had to be completed and the children were expected to assist. If there was a few minutes to play, they played in the dusty crater filled streets and gutters with handmade cars and trucks recycled from trash while rusty scooters, cars, trucks and buses wove their way around them.
At the end of my day I was driven back to my very basic hotel room; I doused myself down with cold water in my make shift shower, hand washed my clothes and hung them to dry and retired for some well-earned rest to recharge my body and brain for another day. I snuggled down with my book and a good strong cuppa before the electricity was pulled and darkness obliterated all sense of meaning and I retreated into the land of nod. What seemed like only a few hours later I was woken, at 5.00am, to the sound of wails calling the locals to prayer, one hundred percent humidity and bitten to bits by mosquitoes and sand fly? And so starts another teaching day in Africa.