I was blessed with parents who valued education. I remember, growing up, my dad was always writing something in his diary. He liked pens, an obsession I must have inherited from him because I instinctively collect pens.
He made two claims which sounded plausible but lacked proof or evidence. One was that he had been a teacher. I say "had been" and that is the basis for plausibility. In the villages a teacher was a title for life. Long after they left the classroom, teachers remained teachers and carried the title "mwalimu" in Swahili. Thus the first President of Tanzania was Mwalimu Julius Nyerere because that was what he was before going into politics and even after retirement from politics, he remained mwalimu until he died.
The question about dad's claim was the school where he taught. We were unable to find independent verification, but he claimed he taught writing – not what we call writing today – but the alphabet for beginners at a parish school. That school was no longer in existence. But he had the obsession with writing, and he was the most literate of his age group. That made his claim plausible.
The second claim was how he helped the establishment of our village parish. In his own words, he claimed, "I brought the parish here!" .
Dad enrolled us in school without discrimination. My oldest sister was the first girl in the village to go to Middle School – boarding schools in those days – and the other three sisters followed suit in time. It was remarkable because girls' education was considered time wasted. Their place in life was marriage. What would they do with the education anyway?
My father often walked us to school and came to walk us home after school. That was very unusual. But there were bullies on the way and that was the reason for the escort. The nearest school from home – about a mile away – was a Roman Catholic school. Our family was Lutheran, so we could not attend that school. We went to a public school about two miles away past the Catholic school. Going past the Catholic school was like crossing a war zone – that was how it felt like.
Parents never allowed their kids to come home whining about trouble on the way. "Fight back an attacker", they urged. "If you lose a fight today, look for a better opportunity tomorrow; but don't come home whining. That is how you learn in life".
Dad was different on that philosophy. He escorted us to and from school, for protection.
He made two claims which sounded plausible but lacked proof or evidence. One was that he had been a teacher. I say "had been" and that is the basis for plausibility. In the villages a teacher was a title for life. Long after they left the classroom, teachers remained teachers and carried the title "mwalimu" in Swahili. Thus the first President of Tanzania was Mwalimu Julius Nyerere because that was what he was before going into politics and even after retirement from politics, he remained mwalimu until he died.
The question about dad's claim was the school where he taught. We were unable to find independent verification, but he claimed he taught writing – not what we call writing today – but the alphabet for beginners at a parish school. That school was no longer in existence. But he had the obsession with writing, and he was the most literate of his age group. That made his claim plausible.
The second claim was how he helped the establishment of our village parish. In his own words, he claimed, "I brought the parish here!" .
Dad enrolled us in school without discrimination. My oldest sister was the first girl in the village to go to Middle School – boarding schools in those days – and the other three sisters followed suit in time. It was remarkable because girls' education was considered time wasted. Their place in life was marriage. What would they do with the education anyway?
My father often walked us to school and came to walk us home after school. That was very unusual. But there were bullies on the way and that was the reason for the escort. The nearest school from home – about a mile away – was a Roman Catholic school. Our family was Lutheran, so we could not attend that school. We went to a public school about two miles away past the Catholic school. Going past the Catholic school was like crossing a war zone – that was how it felt like.
Parents never allowed their kids to come home whining about trouble on the way. "Fight back an attacker", they urged. "If you lose a fight today, look for a better opportunity tomorrow; but don't come home whining. That is how you learn in life".
Dad was different on that philosophy. He escorted us to and from school, for protection.
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