• Learning is not a race; it is a journey. Grass shall grow at its own pace
When I was the height of a school cupboard, I once overheard two of the oldest teachers in our primary school comforting themselves with the thought that to live long is to be a viewer of much.
From the vantage of advancing age in the same career, I now see that one does not merely witness fleeting moments of joy and sorrow but also the enduring patterns that shape life itself. This is so not just in our everyday life but in the life we lead as teachers of the world.
To live long is to touch many a crease in the fold of time. Like the steady march of shadows, one learns that each experience — every trial and triumph — is a curve of existence. This understanding becomes a habit for those who pause along the way to ponder the lessons that teaching presents throughout their own journey from ignorance.
While unfolding such reflections in the context of my own life, I recalled a tale from one of those teachers. Decades after his retirement, he is now farming both crops and the minds of those who seek his wisdom in his retirement home, a site that remains for us (his former students) yet a place of lifelong learning.
Mwalimu recounted a time and place where there lived an old man named B. He was the sole steward of a group of children, their innocence sharply contrasting with the shadows of their past. A pandemic had claimed the lives of all the adults, leaving these young souls to navigate the world alone.
B, a poet at heart, often reflected on the sun setting over the hills, a daily reminder that even the brightest days must end but that new light would surely rise again. He would tell the children, “Remember, grass shall grow again, even after the darkest of nights.”
Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, B would gather the children around him. They would sit in a ragged circle, eager faces filled with questions. B's heart warmed at their thirst for knowledge. In the absence of traditional education, he understood they must cultivate their understanding of the world in a new way, one as organic as the grass that broke through the hardened black cotton soil.
“Listen, my dear ones,” he would begin, the rays of the sunset spilling across the sky like lines from a poem. “We live in the shadow of what once was, yet we must learn to embrace the light of the present.”
In that part of Kenya, the sun symbolised the new vision for learning that B had envisioned. It was a system allowing each child to learn at their own pace, honing skills that would help them thrive in their world. Just as the sunset marked the end of a day, each child’s learning journey would conclude not with grades but with competencies — actual skills that could be applied in the world.
“There are two paths to learning,” B said, his voice steady against the rustle of tobacco leaves. “The first is the path of exploration, where you dive into the wonders of nature and discover truths for yourselves. The second is the path of collaboration, where you learn from one another, sharing insights and experiences.”
The children’s eyes sparkled with understanding. They often roamed the wastelands, gathering herbs and hope, each discovering the properties of the arid plants. “Grass shall grow,” they would chant whenever they encountered a rarity, like a flower. It became their way of life to hunt for flowers together on the terrain of their collective minds.
As the sun’s glow faded, B would recount stories of the moon, the old ally of night, whose embrace of shadows always made the teacher reflect. “Just as the moon guides the night, so must we reflect on our actions and learning. It is in moments of quiet contemplation that we understand ourselves better,” he would say during our reminiscences.
One day, a girl whose name I now forget approached him, her brow furrowed in thought. “B, what if I cannot learn like others? What if I find it hard to explore or collaborate? What if I was created to hunt solo?”
B smiled, noticing the flicker of concern in her eyes. “Ah, dear daughter, remember the sunset. It teaches us that each day is unique, just as each of you is unique. Learning is not a race; it is a journey, and grass shall grow at its own pace. Trust in your ability to learn in your way, just as the flowers bloom in their own time.”
She nodded, inspired by his wisdom. That evening, the children worked together to build a shelter using branches and leaves, a practical project embodying their learning. B watched as they collaborated, each child contributing their strengths, revealing the essence of competency-based education — applying knowledge in real-world situations.
As days turned into weeks, B noticed how the children flourished. They began to take ownership of their learning, venturing deeper into the wasteland to understand ecosystems of want and their world more fully.
Yet, moments of doubt sometimes crept in, and frustrations bubbled over. B would gather them close, reinforcing the importance of resilience. “Even in shadow, there is growth. Remember, every challenge is but a lesson waiting to unfold.”
One fateful day, as the sun began its descent, a heavy storm rolled unexpectedly through the village. The winds howled and the rain poured. B, gathering the children, reassured them, “This, too, shall pass. When the storm clears, we will see that the grass has grown stronger, nourished by this rain.”
The storm was fierce but fleeting. As dawn broke, the children emerged, awestruck by the sudden greenery surrounding them. They began to understand. Just like nature, their learning had its storms and seasons. Together, they celebrated their growth, reaffirming their commitment to learning from each other and exploring the world around them.