There are two kinds of teachers in Kenya: those who know how to catch a matatu at 5:30 a.m. with a thermos of black coffee and an attitude and those who milk a cow before class and still manage to teach English with Shakespearean flair. Both carry chalk dust in their lungs, lesson plans in their heads and frustrations in their hearts; but they live on opposite ends of the educational universe. The shags teacher and the city teacher may share a TSC number, but their classrooms, lifestyles and daily realities couldn’t be more different. If the Teachers Service Commission ever staged a swap, it would make a better reality show than Nairobi Diaries.
For the city teacher, the day begins in traffic; staring at red brake lights, inhaling exhaust fumes and calculating how many minutes are left before assembly. The first lesson often begins with a deep sigh and the words, ‘Class, open your books to page…’ before a Form Two joker asks, ‘Madam, umechelewa?’ In contrast, the shags teacher begins the day to the symphony of roosters, bleating goats and the smell of dew on Napier grass. There’s no traffic, but there’s mud; real, ankle hugging, shoe swallowing mud. The teacher cycles to school, dodging potholes and cows and occasionally giving a ride to a barefoot learner carrying a jerrican. City teachers race time; shags teachers wrestle nature.
In Nairobi, classrooms are tiled, walls painted and desks occasionally labelled Donated by Equity Bank. There’s Wi-Fi in some schools and a working printer in the staffroom. The students know how to say ‘excuse me’ in English and they’ve probably watched a TED Talk or two. Meanwhile, in rural Kenya, chalkboards still groan under the weight of time. Desks are scarred with initials of long gone pupils and the ‘science lab’ doubles as the staffroom, store and prayer center. There’s no Wi-Fi…only strong faith and weak network. Yet, the shags teacher produces miracles. They turn stones into lesson aids, cow dung into classroom floors and local proverbs into pedagogical tools. A city teacher might Google ‘lesson plans for critical thinking.’ A shags teacher invents one using a cooking stick, a Bible verse and a story about a stubborn donkey.
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City learners are digital natives. They spell check with Grammarly, chat in English infused Sheng and submit assignments on WhatsApp. They quote TikTok as evidence. Ask them who discovered the mountain and they’ll say, ‘According to Google…’ In the shags, learners arrive late because they were herding goats or fetching water. Some carry bananas for break instead of snacks. But they are grounded, respectful and when a teacher speaks, silence falls like a benediction. A city teacher’s biggest battle is distraction; a shags teacher’s biggest battle is deprivation. Both fight to ignite the same flame of curiosity; but one does it with PowerPoint, the other with pure persistence.
City staffrooms are buzzing ecosystems of gossip, fashion and frustration. Teachers sip instant coffee, scroll through memes and whisper about promotions or side hustles. One is a real estate agent, another a TikToker and another sells perfumes from a handbag. In shags, the staffroom smells of kerosene tea, chalk and resilience. The table is a retired blackboard. Conversations revolve around rain, bursaries and the latest chicken thief. Someone might bring a roasted maize cob and share it like communion. City teachers compete in style; shags teachers compete in survival. Yet both share the same anthem: ‘Hii CBC itatuua.’
In the city, a teacher is just another face in the crowd. Parents are busy; PTA meetings are half empty. Teachers must chase them via SMS or through the class WhatsApp group; where the loudest parent is usually the least involved. In the village, the teacher is the custodian of wisdom, the unofficial chief, counsellor and sometimes the village judge. They are called ‘Mwalimu’ even at funerals and weddings. Their opinion carries the weight of the elders. When the teacher walks to the shop, children stand aside. A city teacher has followers on Instagram; a shags teacher has influence in the entire sub location.
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The city teacher lives in a bedsitter that costs half their salary. They survive on Uber offers, fried chips and motivational quotes. Their evenings are spent marking books under electric light; or ranting on X about CBC workloads. The shags teacher walks home to the smell of wood smoke, fresh ugali and the laughter of children playing outside. They may have no Netflix, but they have stars; real ones. They may not know about sushi, but they can milk a cow blindfolded. In the city, success is measured by where you live. In the village, it’s measured by how many students you’ve sent to university.
Despite their differences, both teachers fight the same invisible war; the war of underappreciation. Whether they’re teaching in Kibera or Kitui, Githurai or Githanga, they stand before a sea of young faces and try to turn ignorance into enlightenment. The city teacher faces noise, traffic and inflated egos. The shags teacher faces distance, drought and delayed salaries. Both wake up every morning knowing the system is flawed; but still show up, because somewhere in that chaos sits a dream worth teaching for.
When the bell rings, both the city and the shags teacher pack their bags with equal exhaustion and unequal payoffs. Yet, they share one sacred identity: Mwalimu. The city teacher shines in the lights; the shags teacher glows in the dust. One teaches with gadgets, the other with grit; but both shape destinies, one learner at a time. So the next time you see a teacher, don’t ask where they teach. Ask how they keep teaching; because whether in shags or in the city, Kenya’s classrooms survive on one timeless force: the undying spirit of a teacher.
By Angel Raphael
Angel Raphael is a seasoned teacher of English and a creative writer who captures the humour, grit and heart of Kenyan life through a teacher’s eyes.
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