Picking up the pieces_The accidental educator

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“All day staring at the ceiling, Making friends with shadows on my wall.
All night hearing voices telling me, that I should get some sleep. Because tomorrow might be good for something.”

Unwell x Matchbox twenty. 

January 2016, Friday

One song defines my despondent relationship with myself, unwell by Matchbox twenty. Of all the rock bands I was listening to in my teens, that song resonated the most because it finally allowed me to make peace with myself. I came to terms with what I had always known but people around me, even my own family struggled with. I realized that it’s perfectly okay to be weird, to be a little abnormal, I was not crazy. Uniqueness and crazy are not mutually inclusive. That song was playing in my head for a good twenty minutes on a Friday afternoon, which I had spent lying on the bed staring sideways at the walls in my bedroom, my happy place since I moved back home. I was looking at those four walls as though I was expecting them to say something back.

Earlier that morning, I had gone through an experience that defined my twenties. I went to inquire about a job application, which was unsuccessful. Had the Omaheke Ministry of Education regional office sent me a ‘we regret to inform you’ letter, it might have saved me the inconvenience, but I didn’t expect much from a place that still uses a fax machine. I left a very frustrated young man, which was becoming an everyday thing.  Like the Nigerian proverb goes, “Life E no easy.”

My phone vibrated, a cacophonous motion on the table, then it rang. I looked at the screen, it was an unknown number. I was in a phase of my life where I wasn’t answering phone calls, something that annoyed my cousin Alexander to the point where he considered uncousining me (if such a thing exists), but something told me to pick up and answer. I hesitantly reached across the table and pressed the green button. 

 

Stranger: “Hello? Good afternoon?”

 Me: “Afternoon…”

I was slightly annoyed at this point, you interrupted my bout of self-pity to say Good afternoon?

Stranger: “Is this Mr Iiyambo, Filemon Iiyambo.”

 Me: “Yes, speaking.” 

Can this person get to the point?

Stranger: “My name is Katuu, I work at Gustav Kandjii High School. I am at the regional office for Ministry of Education, and I’m looking at your CV. We have a post available, Physical science and computer studies, it’s fine mos?”

WTF? Wait is this person offering me a job

Me: “That’s fine.”

Katuu: “Okay, then I will give you the principal’s phone number and he will give you the rest of the details.”

I had in principal accepted a job as a teacher, at a school I had never heard of, in a place that I had never been to, you couldn’t make it this stuff up if you tried.

I put those questions to Mr Meroro, a man who talked like a politician, basically he answered all the questions without really answering them, giving me enough information to keep me interested but not enough to be exactly sure of what was going on. But, hey, I had a job. Just like that, a door had finally opened, not the door I had been knocking on, but a door is a door. So, I went with it, I had nothing to lose, and if this was what the universe was pushing me towards, who was I to refuse? This was me trying to talk myself into a new adventure. After a year spent dodging falling rocks, this would be easy? If only I had known.

I broke the news to my parentals the next day, and on Sunday I left for Otjinene. I did what I always did and I packed my life into a bag in pursuit of a new adventure. I was an educator, me! Someone’s teacher, just saying it sounded wrong.

“A man of courage flees forward in the midst of new things.” – Jacques Maritain. 

 Sunday

Alternatively, you could say that only a reckless man would flee into what he does not know. But, that was what I was doing, with nothing but a bag and a yoga mat (don’t ask). My first impression of Otjinene, was that it was like all the other small towns I had travelled to, in my days as an exploration geologist. Except for one thing, there were about 4 different construction sites and roadworks, so it wasn’t quite like all the other small towns. Clearly people didn’t come here to retire, or die, it was a place that was growing – slowly.

I was dropped off at the service station, where a long line of cars that snaked all around told me one thing, they ran out of petrol – small town problems. A man walked past me, he greeted me in Otjiherero, I responded in Oshiwambo. I would need to at least program my mind to use my limited Otjiherero.

I called Mr Meroro. “Oh, you’re at the service station. Don’t worry, someone will come and get you.” Again, enough information to keep you interested, but not enough to be exactly sure. 

A red Bakkie came speeding up the road, dust spiraling up behind its path. Two women stepped out, one clearly younger and more talkative. The chirpy one, Ms Angula was quick to the truth and had absolutely no filter, always one word away from offending someone. 

“Ove iiyambo?” Are you Iiyambo? Said the older woman. She forgot to say hello, but we quickly moved past that. Mee Anna and I would develop a younger brother and older sister relationship, growing so close that she’d let me babysit her kids, me, babysit kids – the adulting involved.  The thing with Aawambo is that when we are in areas dominated by other ethnic groups, we are like two Africans meeting in Europe, when in a foreign land birds of a feather flock together. 

They took me to what would be my house, a one-bedroom structure with a bathroom, and a kitchenette the size of a broom cupboard. It was clean and bare, the only furniture was a chair and a bed. I thanked the ladies, dropped my bags and walked around to familiarize myself with my surroundings. I made a grave discovery, my neighborhood was next to a cemetery, literally less than a hundred meters between my house and the cemetery, which was overgrown with weeds and slightly neglected. It made sense, black people and death don’t belong to the same WhatsApp group, we bury you and forget. It also showed me that Otjinene was the commercial and service centre of the area, people worked and hustled there but that is not where they usually buried their dead, the people in that cemetery were those who had no family or no village nearby. 

I walked to the nearest mini market, actually the only mini-market at the time. Everything cost an arm and a leg but I had no choice, I bought Oros (a house without Oros is not a home) and tons of canned food. That would be my diet for the week, till I could go back home and get my stuff. That night, just before I went to sleep, I looked through the window just to make sure nothing was creeping across from the cemetery.

“The starting point for improvement is to recognize the need.” – Masaaki Imai, Kaizen.

 Monday

On my first day at work, I was late. So I said that I got a bit lost, a huge lie, since my neighbor was also a teacher at the school. But, I guess since it was my first day, I would get a pass. The principal introduced me to the staff, strangers who would later become good friends.  The thing with school is that when you’re not a learner/pupil/student, it’s different, school is different when you’re the teacher.

The school was reflecting the rapid development in and around Otjinene, we had more kids than classrooms, so my class group did not have a class. Eventually we had to be accommodated in the dining hall, which is bad in winter because it’s super cold, and bad in general because you can smell the aroma of the food being prepared, not the ideal classroom environment. But, that pales in comparison to the distance between the hall and the school. The dining hall was in the middle of the hostel, the school and the hostel are separated by a fence and a distance large enough for the little kids in grade 8 to either get lost or take a break to catch their breath as they walked over. It became clear to me, teaching was a different jungle, the Namibian education system is a beast and the beast is always ravenous. 

The first week passed without incident, but I was tired, the workload was intense. Most days, I had a full schedule from the first period to the last, most of my free periods were swallowed by admin and marking. For the first time in my professional career, I had an environment that was constantly changing, and I owned more than two pairs of chinos. I was teaching the Kinetic Particle Theory to young people who think that Niels Bohr is a Swedish house – the most interesting times in the life of Filemon Fly.