Everyone called him ‘Master’. I never quite understood why. There were other men of similar profession from the same village, same town, almost all richer and seemingly more successful than my father but he was the one they called ‘Master’.
As a child, it actually baffled me until a few years later when I joined the school where he taught English and Social Studies in the upper echelons of Ugandan Primary School education at Uganda Martyrs Primary School in Mbarara, Western Uganda. I was eleven.
The first time I sat in a class my father was going to teach, I was in Primary Five. It was a surreal experience. I didn’t know what to expect. Would he pretend he didn’t know me? A wink maybe? No. Not a chance! What was I even supposed to call him? Master? Dad (or more accurately, “Taata” like my siblings and I endearingly called him at home?)? Teacher Mulinde? Sir? Either way, I knew I was doomed! I was so scared I could’ve peed my pants. Thankfully, I didn’t.
When he finally waltzed into the classroom, having calmly settled himself in and said his salutations, he did the most outrageous thing. The man beamingly introduced me to the whole class as his son. That wasn’t among the scenarios I’d worked around and it caught me completely off-guard. I stood up, I was smiling sheepishly, I attempted a wave. Lame. Speech? Definitely not. Outside, I was a reckless case of nerves but inside, I was literally glowing. The revered Master had just made a public declaration before these rowdy pre-teens that I was his boy. Beat that. In my mind, this was equivalent to God saying of Jesus in Matthew 3:17;
“This is my Beloved Son, in whom I’m well pleased.”
While the almighty goes on to add, “Listen to him.”, my father could just as well have added, “Don’t bully him.”, “Touch him and you’ll have me to deal with.”, “Put some respect on his name.”
He didn’t, but with one stroke of considerable ingenuity, he’d allayed all my fears and insecurities, earned my adoration and earned me my peers’ respect and them mine, all while maintaining his reputation as the beloved teacher who enjoyed ‘favourite’ status among most of his students.
In that moment, it dawned on me that the man was indeed a Master, an enlightened teacher who simply understood the way of life beyond the walls of the classrooms where he delivered intelligent lessons in language and history with devastating guile and ageless humor.
Indeed, what followed, at least for me, were three amazing years of my Primary School life in which I literally topped every class my father taught. He shaped my understanding and interpretation of life. He taught me integrity. At no point as my teacher did he ever feel the need to give me an unfair advantage over my classmates either by exposing examinations to me prior to our sitting them or showing any form of leniency while grading my exams. In fact, I always felt he adopted a stricter approach to my grades than for the rest of my classmates.
One very profound memory from my childhood was when on my thirteenth birthday, my father, Master called me into his book-crammed office and handed me a sealed khaki envelope. I knew my father was not big on gifts, let alone birthday ones, so I just stared at him blankly until he told me to go and open it. Inside was an original copy of Herman Hesse’s widely acclaimed classic novel, “Narcissus and Goldmund” which tells the narrative of two men, each seeking a higher fulfillment.
I have no idea where he got it from (all the other books in his office were syllabus based), or why he chose that particular moment to gift me that particular book but looking back now, knowing how many times I have since read it cover to cover and related with Hesse’s literary style and seamless ability to juxtapose the two characters that I felt were always trapped inside of me even as a budding thirteen year-old, I appreciate even further the grand-mastery that my schoolteacher father possessed.
He was a nurturer, a motivator, a resolver of conflict who more often than not chose peace over violence, often to other teachers’ disapproval at school and my mother’s at home. He proved that love could be just as powerful and effective a teaching tool as the more preferred ‘fear method’ that most of his peers seemed to employ and enjoy. Even when he did mete out a beating, the strokes were always measured, to teach more than just inflict needless pain or relieve his anger or frustration, often accompanied with an even more emotionally painful yet insightful lecture as they landed.
A teacher who touched many a mind and refined grammar skills with joyful passion, he prided himself in knowing the ins and outs of the English language, often referring to himself as a “walking dictionary” because he seemed to know the meaning of every English word anyone could think of (at the time). Whether that speaks to the vastness of his comprehension of the Queen’s (God rest her soul) language or the shallowness of the vocabulary of those who sought his help is a discussion for another day.
One day, I remember, as we pondered where I should go for my Advanced Level (A’level) studies, I jokingly pointed out the prestigious Ntare School. Now, while we never lacked as children growing up, we were also acutely aware of the strain my parents were under to get my siblings and I through school and until that point, we’d kept our school choices within the ‘affordable’. By mentioning the crème del a crème of the high-enders, automatically, I expected an outright rejection of the suggestion. Protocol breach. Hello.
Quite the opposite. Excitement. I was taken aback. How? How was he not bothered that the tuition itself was at least three times his monthly primary school teacher’s salary (must be more now)? For some strange reason, school tuition always seems to be going up, I just wonder how it miraculously leaves teacher’s salaries lagging so far behind. Must be some form of misconstrued friendship, I guess. Or maybe teachers are supposed to tutor their children from the ‘comfort’ of their homes. Physician, heal thyself.
Back to the story. Ntare School. Sorry, I digress a lot. With the most excited look in his eyes, my father then dared me; If I could pass my Ordinary Level (O’level) exams well enough to get into Ntare School for the next level, he’d figure out a way to meet the costs involved. What? He was joking. That’s it. The man joked a lot. Some of his jokes were clearly not funny, like this one. In his defense, I was studying at the less-than-glamorous school having unceremoniously brought my time at the Muntuyera High School, Kitunga (definitely no Ntare School but close, and more affordable) to an abrupt end.
Fast forward, almost twenty years since we had that conversation, I play for Kajogo FC in the Ntare Lions League, a football league for Old Boys of the great lion’s den. Oh yeah, Ntare means Lion and the school is the den. One of the most prestigious schools in the sub-Saharan region and I’m proudly associated, because of a visionary teacher who understood the sacrifice that a parent must make for their child to attain a quality education.
Nine years ago, as I watched the great Master breathe his last, it was the most fitting exit by a man who had lived on his terms and was signing out like any great teacher should. Quietly. He’d spent his life talking. He must have felt he’d talked enough. As I held him in my lap while he passed into the next life, I could see the tranquil satisfaction that can only be achieved by one whose purpose is fulfilled. No violence. No pain. No suffering.
Just a still quietness that took with it his mortality. And as the village shook with news of Master’s sudden passing on the last day of the school term (the irony) that warm August evening, I knew that it was simply not possible for a teacher to die.
Like wisdom, teachers are eternal. Living on through the knowledge they so selflessly give to both young and old, shaping futures, opinions and influencing lifestyles forever. Hardly ever sufficiently rewarded for their monumental efforts towards the betterment of humanity, of society, but never tiring. They are kings.
They are Masters. They are also beggars.
A tragic irony. Happy World Teacher’s Day!
