In the past, the very mention of a school inspector was enough to unsettle even the most confident of teachers. Their arrival was dreaded, their methods harsh, and their reputation frightening. They carried themselves not as colleagues in the noble task of education, but as enforcers, policing schools with an iron fist. For many teachers, the inspector’s visit was not an opportunity to learn or improve, but a day of reckoning.
Teachers still recall vividly the unique growl of the inspectors’ government-issued motorbikes. Long before the man himself appeared, the sound of that machine would ripple through the school compound. Pupils would whisper, “Inspector amekuja,” and in an instant, tension would seize the staffroom. Teachers would scatter — some rushing to dust off files, others scribbling hurried lesson notes, while a few would dash into classrooms to appear busy. That motorbike was not just a means of transport; it was a symbol of authority, intimidation, and fear.
The inspectors rarely showed mercy. They searched for faults with sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Teachers who faltered were mocked, scolded, or belittled, sometimes in the presence of their learners. Stories abound of inspectors who slapped teachers as though they were pupils themselves, stripping them of their dignity before the very children they were meant to inspire. The humiliation was unbearable, and it left scars that many carried for years.
One story still circulates in hushed tones among retired teachers: a young man, unprepared for inspection, panicked at the inspector’s sudden arrival. Rather than face the humiliation, he bolted out of the staffroom and sprinted toward the school fence. With adrenaline surging, he scrambled over it and disappeared into the bushes, leaving colleagues in shock. Such desperation showhigh-levela ed the climate of terror under which teachers worked.
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But fear can also provoke defiance. In another incident, an inspector, furious at what he considered incompetence, struck a teacher with his fist. This time, however, the teacher refused to cower. He retaliated with a king-size blow that floored the inspector in front of the entire staffroom. It was a scandalous scene, but it revealed just how much resentment had brewed in the hearts of teachers who were constantly belittled rather than supported.
The truth is that most of these inspectors were oppressive, using their authority to instill fear instead of to uplift. Many teachers saw them not as mentors but as tormentors. And ironically, many of these inspectors themselves did not end well. Some retired quietly, forgotten by the very system they once terrorized. Others left with reputations stained by cruelty, remembered not for building education but for breaking spirits. A few even faced disgrace when their heavy-handedness provoked resistance, scandal, or rebellion. Their legacy became a warning: authority built on intimidation is never lasting.
That was the era of inspectors: an age when fear ruled the classroom and compliance was forced, not inspired. Yes, some teachers polished their records, perfected their handwriting, and maintained neat files — but not out of genuine commitment. They did it out of fear of punishment, not love of their work. And fear, as history teaches us, may produce short-term obedience but never long-lasting excellence.
Today, the story is strikingly different. The very word inspector has been replaced by TSC officer or quality assurance officer. The change of title is more than cosmetic; it represents a profound shift in philosophy. Modern officers are trained not to hunt for mistakes but to nurture professionalism. They approach schools as partners, not as police. Instead of instilling fear, they promote dialogue, mentorship, and professional growth.
Teachers no longer scatter at the sound of a motorbike. Officers often arrive in cars, sometimes even after prior notice. Their visits are less about ambushes and more about collaboration. They sit with teachers, review their work together, and suggest improvements. They listen to challenges, acknowledge effort, and encourage capacity building. In place of ridicule, they offer counsel. In place of punishment, they extend mentorship.
Equally important is the transformation of teachers themselves. In the old days, they lived defensively, always shielding themselves from possible attack. They feared asking questions or admitting their weaknesses, lest an inspector pounce on them. Many developed a culture of silence, hiding mistakes rather than seeking help. But with the new spirit of mentorship, teachers have changed. They are more open to professional advice and more willing to admit gaps in their practice. They now see officers not as enemies but as partners. Dialogue has become the new culture. Teachers embrace workshops, continuous professional development, and peer discussions. They are receptive to counsel, knowing that correction no longer comes with humiliation but with encouragement.
Learners, too, have noticed the shift. Instead of watching their teachers being reduced to trembling figures, they now see them holding constructive discussions with officers. The atmosphere is calmer, and pupils sense that their teachers are treated with respect. When teachers are encouraged rather than shamed, children see them stand taller, teach with more confidence, and smile more often. In this way, the change has improved not only the morale of teachers but also the learning environment for students.
Yet, it would be misleading to pretend the old culture has vanished completely. A few of the former inspectors — hardened by years of fault-finding — still thrive within the system. They cling to their old ways, issuing commands with a sharp tongue, dismissing dialogue, and reminding teachers of the darker days gone by. Whenever they appear, the atmosphere grows tense, and teachers are reminded of the old scars. But such individuals are now the exception rather than the rule, their methods outdated in a system that increasingly values respect, dialogue, and collaboration.
One truth, however, has never changed: teachers do not like pushy administrators. Whether in the inspector era or in today’s reformed times, attempts to impose authority harshly only breed resentment. Teachers, like any other professionals, respond best when treated with fairness and dignity. They value guidance but resist bullying. They welcome correction but resent humiliation. This is why today’s TSC officers succeed when they choose dialogue over intimidation, mentorship over command.
Looking back, the stories of teachers vaulting fences or throwing punches at inspectors stand as painful reminders of a system gone wrong. Looking forward, the new culture of mentorship shows us the way to build not only better teachers but also stronger schools.
The lesson is clear: education cannot thrive in fear. It flourishes in respect, trust, and collaboration. Inspectors of the past may have forced compliance, but today’s officers, by embracing dialogue, are planting the seeds of lasting excellence. If this culture is sustained, it will inspire a future where teachers feel supported, learners thrive under motivated instructors, and the education system as a whole grows stronger.
What lies ahead is not about reviving the ghosts of old inspectors but about strengthening the spirit of partnership. Teachers want to be listened to, guided, and celebrated for their effort. Learners, watching closely, want to see their role models respected. And while a few old officers still cling to their outdated ways, their influence is fading, slowly but surely, before the rising tide of mentorship and collaboration.
By Hillary Muhalya
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