Each Wednesday and Friday morning I trek up a large hill to the college (I live half way up the hill, so it's really not that bad) to teach these young women.
They grumble at the early hour (8am!) just like I do. When I get to class we stand together and stretch it out. Honestly, I'm not sure what "it" is, but it works for everyone. I'm a little more awake and they're a little more talkative.
We learn about phonics, we sing songs and play games. We use the squeaky ball to convince some of the shyer ladies to speak up. We laugh and we learn together. They teach me some words in Kiswahili and Luganda. I tell them about life in America. We listen to Justin Beiber and Baby Cool and dance to Eddy Kenzo.
When one-third of my students weren't in class on Friday morning, I became a bit suspicious. They're all supposed to be there. College in Uganda isn't like it is in the U.S. In Uganda classes aren't optional. If you're caught skipping class, you're punished. So, it was very strange to missing so many student. Nevertheless, the class must go on.
After a two-hour marathon session about the letters 's', 'd', and 't', syllables, nouns, and capitalization, I headed back down the hill to the primary school. In the field between my house and the college I found the rest of my students.
I was on my way to teach another class, but I stopped for a minute to ask why they were digging and not in my class. It turns out they had skipped prayers the night before and their punishment was to dig all day. Yeah.
I was not happy.
I smile and wave at them, wishing them good luck and walk to the library. I co-taught a lesson with one of the students who was in class that morning and then sent her back to school.
I walked outside to see the kids playing and sliding in the mud outside the library. They were laughing and running around. Chasing each other around the trees and up and down the grassy hill.
I go back in the library, grab a slate and two pieces of chalk, lock up the library, and walk back up the hill.
It's break time at the college so I can easily find the Deputy Principal in the staff room. I sit down, my hands laid out in front of me.
"My class was not full today," I say to him.
He looks back at me in between sips of tea, "they did not go to prayers last night."
"I know," I pause. This is the hard part. "They need to learn. They need to be in class."
"They need to learn not to skip prayers."
Deep breathe. "I want to teach them. I can't do that if they're not in my class."
"You can teach them," he assures me.
That's all I need. I wave good-bye and nod to the other teachers in the room.
I march out the field my students are digging in. They stop digging and watch me.
"Madame Namagembe, what are you doing here?"
"We are going to have class out here," I announce. I pull out the slate and chalk from my bag.
I write "S" on the slate and hold it over my head. "Today, we're going to learn about the letter sound 's'. Let's start with the song first."
