A Rare Moment of Quiet

     The sun is bright and gentle at the same time, in a way that words cannot accurately describe.  Rain is falling softly, sparkling throughout our village skyline in the cheery, warm laughter of the sun.  Whispering at first, then slowly drowning out the rustle of students’ papers and the scratching of their pens.  Raindrops, like full, heavy goblets, fall upon the water-logged Earth and bounce away like my sister on her Pogo stick all those years ago.  I still wish I’d learned how to ride a Pogo stick.

     Students, just 19 – 20 years old, their brows furrowed in concentration well past their years, are seated in rather crooked rows in front of me.  Hundreds of questions race through their heads.  What kind of country is “imperialist in nature,” again?  Which African countries had to liberate themselves through armed struggle?  What, in the name of the tumultuous rain falling outside our window, is “armed struggle,” anyway?!   The thoughts echoing through their minds are almost audible as these Advanced Level students complete their exam.  I scan the classroom I am invigilating, watching for wandering eyes and whispering mouths, but my attention is diverted elsewhere.

     It’s a rare moment of quiet – our playing field is empty, except for the water-flecked blades of grass, finally drinking their fill after months of frying under the equatorial sun.  The sound of tree branches hitting flesh, and sometimes breaking flesh, has subsided for the time being.  The village children have already left school, taking their songs and strong lungs with them.

     In this rare moment of quiet, the frustrations of the day vanish.  The only things I have are a fresh stack of our grayish-yellow exam papers, my red teacher’s pen, fading after hours of making angry marks all over students’ essays, and a three-foot-tall stack of student exercise books I have shoved to the side of my small blue desk, neglecting work to put this rare moment of quiet onto paper.

     The morning events seem far away – the experiences that stretched my voice and my patience alike.  Now, however, I can remember the events like a distant dream.  I remember the dismal feeling of entering my first class at 7:28 am (two minutes to spare!), only to find empty seats.  I waited for a passing-by student to tell me the reason-of-the day –

the reason why my students were cutting spinach and grasses instead of filling my classroom. Granted, it has been a while since I exercised this speech, but I pulled the same old and tired words out of my pocket.  I explained to teachers, academic masters, whichever higher power would listen, the clear link between punishment work during class periods and student failure.  I preached about how it was time, today, to stop punishing the teacher, the school, and all of Tanzania by sending our students to the fields instead of classrooms.

     All the small successes, the challenges of the day fade away for a rare moment of quiet, before the chatter of students, the pit-pat of running feet, and the harsh slap of the stick return in a flood.  My fleeting moment of peace passes, just like it came, and the blessings of my daily life rush back in, without stopping to knock and allow my moment of serenity to pass politely.