School Drama! - Timetables are Out!

 

The Timetable Chronicles

Today was one of those days that makes you question your life choices—like, why did I even become a teacher? We finally got our timetables. “Finally” because, as usual, they had been "heavily revised" to suit different cadres and alignments in the school. You’d think Mrs. Oloo, our esteemed headmistress, was planning a military invasion the way she micromanages. The golden rule is simple: how your timetable looks depends on which side of Mrs. Oloo you’re aligned. Aligned could mean you laughed at her joke during the last staff meeting or sent a long email about “collaborative strategies in pedagogy.”

My timetable? Surprisingly humane. But that’s not the story. The story is the parent who decided to chew my ear off because his daughter—let’s call her Tasha—couldn’t make head or tail of her Fine Art assignment.

“Sir, she says she doesn’t understand! Isn’t that your job, to ensure she understands?”

“Uh, Mr. Kamau, I teach Math.”

“Yes, but you’re her teacher! Can’t you speak to the Art teacher and fix this?”

Fix it? Like I’m some all-purpose academic handyman. By the end of the call, I had promised to “look into it,” which in teacher-speak means, “I’ll pretend to care for the next five minutes.”

Meanwhile, my colleague Faith was fuming in the staffroom.

“Why did you get extra snacks and I didn’t?” she asked, folding her arms like she’d caught me stealing.

“I don’t know, Faith. Maybe because I smile at the lunch ladies?”

That didn’t go down well. She walked away mumbling something about favoritism.

The real comedy, however, happened during the Year 10 Religious Studies lesson. A student, Eric, asked the RS teacher, Mr. Mboya, the question of the decade.

“Sir, how do we know Freemasons aren’t Satanists? They say they’re not, but maybe that’s exactly what they want us to believe.”

The class erupted in laughter. Mr. Mboya’s face froze for a moment, probably calculating how best to tackle this theological minefield.

“Eric, let’s focus on today’s topic,” he said finally, sidestepping like a politician in a debate.

But nothing topped my encounter with Seleiyan, the angel-faced Key Stage 1 student. Today, just before knocking off, I found her struggling to put on her shoes.

“Teacher, help me,” she said sweetly, and my heart melted. I knelt down and wrestled with her boots for a good five minutes. When I was finally done, I stepped back to admire my work.

“Teacher, you made me wear banana,” she said, pointing at her feet. To my horror, I realized I had swapped the shoes—right on the left, left on the right.

It took me another three minutes to fix the error. Just as I was finishing, Seleiyan delivered a bombshell.

“Teacher, these shoes are not mine.”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

“These are my sister’s shoes. My mum made me wear them this morning.”

I boiled inside but kept my cool. I helped her take them off and put them back on again. When I was finally done, she looked up at me with those innocent eyes and said, “Teacher, what about the socks?”

“Where are your socks, Seleiyan?” I asked, trying not to lose it.

“In the shoes. They’re pressing on my toes.”

That’s how I ended up sitting on the floor, rethinking my life choices and wondering who I had offended in another life to deserve this.

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you questioned your life choices at work? What happened, and how did you handle it?