There are many things teacher training college prepares you for. It teaches you how to make lesson plans look intelligent, how to ask ‘Are we together?’ even when nobody is together and how to smile through chalk dust, hunger, broken staffroom chairs and impossible deadlines.
But nowhere; and I mean nowhere; in the curriculum are you prepared for the kind of humiliation that comes with teaching your ex-girlfriend’s child in the same class as the principal’s child. That, my friend, is not ordinary teaching. That is advanced suffering with a timetable. That is not a profession. That is a humbling ministry of emotional warfare. And if I never resigned, then somebody somewhere needs to write my name in the Book of Endurance.
The trouble began innocently enough when the new class list was released. I was seated in the staffroom, taking weak tea that looked like it had once passed near milk, when my eyes landed on a name that made my soul sit up. Not just any name. A surname I knew too well. A surname that once made my heart race, my wallet weep and my future look promising before it crashed like a poorly built kiosk in a windy market.
I blinked. I checked again. Then again. I told myself, ‘No, no, this is Kenya. Many people share surnames.’ But when I looked at the child properly on opening day, I did not need DNA. The forehead testified. The attitude confirmed. The silence convicted. That child carried the exact expression her mother used to wear whenever I said, ‘Babe, things are a bit tight this month.’ I knew instantly that heaven had allowed my past to register for my class.
Before I could even recover from that emotional earthquake, I scanned further down the list and found another name that nearly disconnected my spirit from my body; the principal’s child. At that moment, I realized I was not entering a classroom. I was entering a carefully arranged ambush. If my ex-girlfriend’s child was emotional danger, then the principal’s child was administrative terrorism in a school sweater.
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Any teacher will tell you that once the principal’s child enters your class, your freedom expires quietly. That child is not just a learner. That child is a walking CCTV camera with lunchbox privileges. Every word you say can be quoted in the office before break time. Every disciplinary action can become a management discussion. Every assignment can turn into a constitutional issue. And now imagine balancing that pressure while trying not to collapse internally every time your ex’s child calls your name with suspicious familiarity.
As a class teacher, I had to remain professional. But professionalism becomes very expensive when your ex-girlfriend’s child raises their hand and asks a question using the exact same tone their mother once used while interrogating you about ‘that female colleague from church.’ One day, while teaching English, I calmly told the class to underline the correct answer.
Before I could proceed, that child looked at me with inherited confidence and said, ‘Mummy says you used to like giving wrong answers.’ The class exploded in laughter. I laughed too, not because it was funny, but because there are moments in teaching when pain arrives publicly and your only options are either to laugh or immediately apply for transfer. That child did not even need to try hard. Their very presence was a walking reminder that some chapters in life do not end; they just come back wearing school uniform.
At home, I was probably not being referred to as ‘Mr. So and So.’ I was likely that one. That cautionary tale. That unfinished sentence. That former candidate who nearly became family but instead became class teacher. And now here I was, standing at the front of the room, teaching nouns, punctuation and comprehension to a child who may have heard my name in family storytelling. That is not just humbling. That is character development with a blackboard.
Then there was the principal’s child; a special category of learner who can turn a qualified teacher into a cautious diplomat. With that child, even normal correction required prayer, fasting and legal consultation. If they forgot homework, you did not know whether to punish them or apologize.
If they talked in class, your whistle suddenly developed fear. If they scored low marks, you found yourself remarking the script as if your mortgage depended on it. And the most dangerous thing about principals’ children is that they often carry themselves with the quiet confidence of people who know the system bends slightly in their direction.
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One day I simply told the child, ‘Please sit properly and stop distracting others.’ No insult. No shouting. No public embarrassment. Just a normal teacher correction. The child looked at me calmly, adjusted their sweater and replied with the confidence of a junior cabinet secretary, ‘I will tell my dad.’ That sentence was not spoken in anger. It was delivered with the coolness of a government warning. At that moment, I felt my soul leave my body, wave goodbye and hover near the class notice board. From then on, I taught that class like a man handling explosives. Every sentence had to be measured. Every joke had to be filtered. Every punishment had to be approved internally by all branches of government. I was no longer just a teacher. I was a diplomatic ambassador trying to maintain peace in a politically unstable republic.
Yet strangely, that painful season became one of the most important in my teaching life. Beneath the comedy, the awkwardness and the pressure, there was a lesson I could not ignore. Teaching is not about comfort. It is about character. That class forced me to grow up emotionally.
It forced me to rise above history, bury ego and separate personal wounds from professional duty. I had to teach fairly, assess honestly and lead wisely, even when every instinct in me wanted to emotionally resign and teach trees instead. Every morning, I still had to enter that classroom with dignity, composure and a smile that was only partly sincere. And somehow, I survived.
That experience taught me restraint. It taught me self-control. It taught me that some of the most difficult children to teach are not difficult because of what they do, but because of what they represent in your life. It also taught me that a real teacher must sometimes stand in uncomfortable spaces without allowing any child to suffer because of adult history, school politics or private pain. That is not weakness. That is strength wearing a tie and carrying a class register.
If you have never taught your ex-girlfriend’s child while also trying to safely manage the principal’s heir in the same classroom, then with respect, please lower your voice when discussing stress. Some of us have seen things. Some of us have survived educational humiliation at Olympic level. Some of us deserve not just salary, but trauma allowance and annual counselling vouchers. Because what I went through was not a normal school term. It was emotional military training under CBC conditions.
And if I never resigned, then let history record it properly. I am not just a class teacher. I am a survivor of professional embarrassment. A warrior of the whiteboard. A soldier of the syllabus. A man who looked pressure in the face, picked up a marker and still said, ‘Good morning, class.’ Frankly, after surviving that experience, I am convinced there is no class on earth that can intimidate me again. At this point, even the devil himself would fear assigning me another stream.
By Angel Raphael
Angel Raphael is a seasoned educator and insightful writer with a passion for transforming real classroom experiences into powerful lessons marked by wisdom, clarity and authenticity.
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