Teaching is not just a career; it is a covenant with society. Every day a teacher steps into the classroom, they stand at a crossroad between shaping destinies and wasting them. A doctor may lose a patient, but another can be saved. A farmer may lose a harvest, but the rains will come again. For a teacher, however, every neglected lesson, every careless remark, every moment of indifference leaves a scar on a child’s future—and those scars never heal quietly. They become ghosts that follow the teacher for the rest of their life.
Mgongonje’s story is a testimony to this truth. He joined the teaching profession with enthusiasm, fresh from training college, carrying chalk with pride and a voice full of energy. In his early years, he believed in punctuality, in lesson plans, in discipline, and in nurturing young minds. But somewhere along the way, complacency crept in. The fire dimmed, and the classroom became more of a burden than a place of purpose.
Mgongonje developed a new habit that would define the rest of his career—he became fond of chatting on his phone during lessons. Learners would raise their hands to ask questions, but instead of leaning forward to explain, he would wave them off, lost in conversations and endless laughter that had nothing to do with teaching. Sometimes entire periods passed with learners copying notes silently while he scrolled or joked with friends on the line. To him, it felt harmless. To the children, it was betrayal.
The learners began to resent mathematics, the subject he taught. Some gave up completely, convinced they were “too dull” to understand, not knowing that their weakness was born of neglect, not inability. Parents started whispering at barazas and market gatherings: “Our children are not learning anything. That teacher is always on his phone.” But Mgongonje ignored the whispers. After all, his salary arrived every month, and the TSC rarely checked beyond official records.
Years turned into decades. Finally, retirement came. Mgongonje looked forward to peace in his village, away from the demands of the timetable and restless learners. He thought the past was behind him. But the ghosts of improper teaching were waiting.
One afternoon at the marketplace, he met a former student, now a young man in his thirties. The greeting was cold. The man’s voice carried a wound: “Sir, you made me hate mathematics. I struggled all through secondary school because the foundation you gave us was weak. I could have gone further, but I didn’t.” The words struck like a whip. Mgongonje forced a smile, but inside, his heart sank. That night, he could not sleep. A ghost had spoken.
ALSO READ:
TSC, MoE to take action against 17 Kilifi headteachers in learners’ hindu prayer scandal
Not long after, he attended a funeral. As mourners shared memories of their school days, some praised their teachers with warmth and gratitude. One man said, “I owe my career to my teacher who refused to give up on me.” Another added, “My teacher made me love English—I carry his words to this day.” Then someone mentioned Mgongonje. A silence followed before a bitter voice cut through: “Our children never gained anything under him. He was always on his phone.” Laughter followed, but it was laughter laced with scorn. Mgongonje lowered his head. Another ghost had spoken.
At night, his mind became a restless theatre. He remembered the girl who once came to his desk crying because she did not understand division, and how he had waved her away while still glued to his phone. He remembered skipping afternoon lessons, leaving children idle, while he lingered outside in long calls. He remembered his colleagues’ warnings—“You’re wasting their future”—and how he had brushed them aside. Now, in the quiet of old age, those neglected faces returned to him, not as distant memories but as haunting spirits demanding answers.
It was then he realized what it truly meant to teach well. Teaching well was not about showing up and marking the register. It was not about filling exercise books with copied notes or pretending to cover the syllabus. Teaching well was following the standards laid down by the Teachers Service Commission—preparing lessons, keeping time, respecting every learner, evaluating progress honestly. These were not empty rules; they were safeguards for the destiny of every child entrusted to a teacher.
But even beyond TSC standards lay a greater measure: the conscience. Conscience was the inner examiner, the silent inspector who could not be bribed or ignored. It asked questions daily: “Did you give your best today? Did you explain clearly? Did you care for the weak learner? Did you leave your class better than you found it?” Mgongonje had ignored this voice for years. Now, in retirement, it spoke louder than ever, tormenting him in the stillness of the night.
For weeks, he lived in regret. But one morning, he woke with a different thought: Perhaps it is not too late. He decided to begin again—not in classrooms bound by timetables, but under the mango tree in his homestead. He called the neighborhood children, most of them struggling with mathematics, and offered to help them for free. At first, they were hesitant; some had heard the stories about his negligence. But slowly, they came, and Mgongonje began to teach with a humility he had never known before.
ALSO READ:
This time, he prepared. This time, he listened. This time, he put the phone aside. He explained patiently, gave examples, and stayed with a child until the concept made sense. Parents began to notice the change in their children and in Mgongonje himself. The community, which once mocked him, started to respect him again—not for what he had done in the past, but for the redemption he sought in the present.
And as the months passed, a new role emerged. Young teachers in the nearby schools began visiting him. Some came to seek guidance on handling weak learners, others on how to balance discipline with empathy. Mgongonje welcomed them warmly. He shared his story—not hiding his failures, but using them as lessons.
“Do not let the ghosts I carry become your own,” he would tell them. “Teach with conscience. Respect every child. Phones and distractions will pass, but the lives you shape will live on forever.”
The ghosts did not disappear completely, but they grew quieter. Mgongonje had learned the greatest lesson of all—that teaching is not about salaries or timetables, but about conscience. The TSC provides the framework, but conscience provides the soul. And when both are honored, a teacher can walk in peace, free from the heavy shadows of regret.
Improper teaching is never a private matter. It is like a stone thrown into a river—the ripples spread outward for years, touching learners, families, and communities. But even for those who once failed, there is hope. By listening to conscience and returning to the true spirit of teaching, a teacher can begin to heal the scars of yesterday and turn ghosts into guardians of wisdom.
And so, under his mango tree, Mgongonje found redemption—not just for himself, but for generations of children and teachers who would walk away carrying not his ghosts, but his wisdom.
By Hillary Muhalya
You can also follow our social media pages on Twitter: Education News KE and Facebook: Education News Newspaper for timely updates.
>>> Click here to stay up-to-date with trending regional stories
>>> Click here to read more informed opinions on the country’s education landscape
