The sun was blazing outside as if having an abstract battle of its own. In a small constricted brick building, which noticeably needed remodeling, was a group of about forty students all cramped up, closely listening to the teacher as he spoke while writing on the blackboard which they took notes upon. Here I was, ten year old me, not capable of paying attention due to the invasion of hungering thoughts in my brain, while my body became captive of fatigue. The blazing sun outside did not give justice towards my troubling situation. “Abigail” a harsh sounding dominant voice called. I quickly stood up while throwing a hasty “yes sir” as to not aggravate his temper. “Describe your school?” he commanded. For some abnormal reason I found this particular question to be the most challenging question I’ve ever been ask in my entire life. It took me a moment to reply, “My school has a rectangular shape made up of eight small grey painted classrooms.” I could see from the disbelief expression plastered on his face, that he wasn’t pleased with my answer. “All I asked was for you to describe the school, and this is all you could come up with?” he angrily hollered. I should have seen it coming; it wasn’t until moments later that I felt a stinging pain on my right cheek. He had slapped me.
Education in Africa is not something taken lightly. The simple fact of being able to attend school could be considered as a blessing, a once in a lifetime chance. Schools in Africa allow teachers to correct a student if he or she is being out of control. However some teachers like to take advantage of this situation as they are sometimes caught to dispersing their anger on the students. Numerous people might disagree with their methods of teaching but can’t deny its effectiveness. An African child would never be seen disrespectfully talking to his teacher on the fear of being corrected. It allows the teacher to have control of his students and easily impose discipline and levels of standards.
The teacher who slapped me