MyMother –My First Teacher inMy First Classroom My first memory in life is of my mother taking me along with her to a place where there were many other kids who always sang, clapped, and jumped around—much to my admiration, though it disturbed my little naps. I scribbled on paper and played along. I was too young to understand that the place was her workplace, but I enjoyed every bit of the attention. The children adored her and shared what I thought was my space—Mumwas then a teacher at the University of Science and Technology Nursery School. When the children were expected to be quiet, I would be too. I would sit quietly in the corner by her, attempting to trace letters in the air while she drew perfect lines of ‘A’ and ‘B’ on the blackboard to teach her pupils. Sometimes she’d glance over her shoulder and smile at me—a small, proud smile that said, you’re learning too. Inside that classroom, her voice was clear, gentle, and confident, filled with the kind of patience only teachers and mothers seem to master. She was steadily shaping lives, one word at a time, as a nursery school teacher. That classroomwas my first world, and my mother was the center of it all. Watching her teach was my first lesson in purpose—people development and impact in little ways. Even at that time, my mother was shaping many gentle little minds and, unknowingly, making a lasting impact on mine too. Before I learned to write my name, I learned to love the learning environment. My mother was my first teacher and my first teaching tutorial. Today, as a professor in higher education institutions, I stand in front of academics and global public health leaders to profess knowledge and research that impacts the lives of many children in Africa and across the world. When I do so, I am guided by what I learned frommy first teacher— gentleness, confidence, and tolerance. My first teacher, my mother, was strict—but that was hardly surprising for a teacher and a mother of boys. At home, her standards didn’t change. She demanded neat handwriting, polished shoes, proper greetings, tidy rooms, and hard work. Her usual phrase resonates in my mind: “If it must be done, it must be done well.” Sometimes, it felt as though our home was just an extension of UST Nursery School, even when we were older kids. When I came home from school, my work was inspected with the same precision she used to mark her pupils’ work. A red pen, a raised eyebrow, a slow nod of approval—these were her languages of affection. Reading after school went on until 4 p.m., and only then were we allowed to go out and play—but never beyond 6 p.m. Wristwatches were uncommon, and there were no electronic gadgets to tell the time. Six p.m. meant one of two things: either the sun was slipping below the trees, or the technician at the nearby powerhouse had come to turn on the streetlights. And you dared not come home after those lights flickered on! One particular evening, I had been out on Ridge Road, playing football with the neighborhood boys. The games were always lively—full of shouting, teasing, laughter, and the kind of small fights that made them even “sweeter.” In one of those scuffles, my shirt got ripped, and before I realized it, the streetlights were already glowing bright. Yeiii—I was late! And worse, my shirt was dirty and torn—not in the stylish way Gen Zs do today, but clearly fromfighting. (Ma – Gen Zs are, in your own words: “nkwalaa aba nan sein die33, dressing basaaa basaaaa!”) I knew I was in trouble. So I tried the only magic I knew—the story of luck. I picked up a small, smooth stone from the roadside and placed it gently on a patch of green grass that bent slightly under its weight. I whispered a wish for mercy. For a moment, I thought it worked. When I finally reached home, my mother gave me that look—the kind that spoke without words. It said, You’re late, and you know you are not supposed to be late. My luck lasted just a minute—until her eyes fell on the ripped shirt. Then I knew: no stone on grass 66 The Birthday Journal
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