Gone are the days: The schools inspector

There was a man, whom we later came to know as just Mr. Makhalima. He frequented our primary school in Nswazi and each time he was there we noted that the teachers were all so nervous and eager to impress. He drove a mini bus, known as School Bus in those days. At times he would give us a lift to school along the Nswazi turn off - Mathendele gravel road. He'd drop us off at the gate and we would swagger into Assembly, all eyes on us. The rest of the school would look at us enviously - there were not many cars coming that way then, except the buses; Shu-shine, Ajay, Phelandaba, Dubies Magedleni and at rare times Godlwayo Express. Even getting a ride on any of these was something we would talk about till the next lucky ride came along after a day or week or month or year. It was those days when children, told they were going to town the following day, would never sleep!

Mr. Makhalima was an imposing man – humble, soft spoken, smart, and spectacled and had an aura of being learned all around him. It was with the Headmaster that he would have a decent, question and answer session. I remember him asking one day, after sitting in one of our lessons with a student teacher, a Miss Phiri; "Why do you allow sixteen year olds to teach?" Miss Phiri had joined the school from Mtshabezi teachers' college early in the year. That is when we learnt that Mr. Makhalima was a Schools Inspector.

When he came to our school, he'd follow the headmaster almost everywhere for a good part of the morning, inspecting the students at assembly – checking their necks for deposits of dirt, their fingers for long or dirty nails, their uniform for any unsightly spots or stains and shoes for mud and dust, and their hair for any grime. Then the two would leave to the office while the rest of the staff sighed relieved, and continued nervously with assembly. After assembly we'd peer from our windows to get a glimpse of this gentleman. We would see the headmaster walk briskly, with the Inspector on tow, knock at some door or other, speak briefly to the teacher at the door, and leave the poor teacher at the mercy of the gentleman. The bell would ring, the headmaster would already be standing at the door, waiting to collect the gentleman and deliver him at the next classroom as scheduled. Till it was our turn.

He'd come in and we'd all stand up and wait for him to greet us and tell us to take our seats. We'd cough and smile and whisper in our excited little voices. The teacher would direct the inspector to a seat right at the back. The inspector would strut to his seat, looking around at the walls and the floor and writing something in his clip board – bekungela ama laptop those days, lama foni. He would sit down, abhale ufour and listens to the teacher delivering her lesson of the day. He'd take notes as the lesson progressed, showing no emotion at all during the lesson. Occasionally, he would stand up and walk around the room, checking the charts – both those stuck onto or pinned to the walls and those hanging from the rafters, and take notes as well.  At question time, he'd pose a question or two, and explain the responses – both the correct and the wrong. When the teacher gave us some written exercise, the inspector would walk around the classroom, peek from above every pupil's shoulder and make comments about our hand writing or our answers or the state of our exercise books. He would then take this up with the teacher and they'd discuss their own adult, professional, learned affairs away from our earshot.

In the afternoon, the inspector and the headmaster would tour the garden to see how we performed there. He'd still take down some notes. In the afternoon, he would walk to the sports field with the headmaster and also take notes as we either ran or kicked the ball. We never saw him for another month or two but we knew that wherever he was, he was keeping both students and teachers on their toes, regarding their work and extra curricula.

Fast forward to the late eighties when I started teaching, things had changed. We had education officers, either provincial or district, who kept us on our toes. They would come to school unannounced, in their big grey government Nissans and turn the school upside down. Teachers, especially those who records were not up to date would suddenly fall sick or disappear completely. Others would resign themselves to their fate and hope to weather the storm, or pray they would not be observed that day. And these men could spot an unprepared teacher before they'd even alighted from their creepy car. They would swoop on anyone who looked too busy to be disturbed or otatazelayo like they are selling something illegal. They'd follow you right into your next lesson, demand your syllabus, scheme book, plan book, marks lists, a few exercise books – note books, tests books, and daily exercises books, and, after the lesson, the notes from which you taught the lesson of the day.

Your scheme book was a detailed breakdown of the syllabus in terms of lessons, weeks, terms and year for the purpose of orderly and systematic teaching. It detailed how content for each topic is to be covered on a weekly, termly and yearly basis, and had components like these: Week: This is the week of term in which particular topic content is to be taught; Lesson: Specific Lesson in the week in which a particular topic/sub-topic is to be taught; Topic/sub-topic: These are specific areas identified for study.

A sub topic is a sub division of topic for ease of study. Specific Objective: This refers to what the teacher intends to achieve by the end of the lesson. They must be SMART that is S – Specific M – Measurable A – Attainable/achievable R Realistic T – Time bound. It helped the teacher successfully manage his curriculum goals and plan long term.

The plan book itself was a break down of the scheme book content into finer, smaller, specific and teachable material. It concentrated, instead of the weekly or monthly detail, into daily deliverable bits. From this the teacher would derive his notes and extract questions for daily exercises or tests. The Education Officer would inspect all the books in front of him and also take notes onto his chilling clip board. The temptation was always to stop and ask him "what?" when he scribbled while I taught.

And then there was this one who couldn't understand Ndebele – I explained part of the lesson to my class in Ndebele and he took issue. "Start teaching, Mr. Malphosa," he shouted from the back as I prepared to give my students some written work. I froze. My mouth went dry and bitter. My eyes popped out. My stomach made some audible, embarrassing noise. I trembled visibly and almost lost control of my bladder. I smelled trouble right there in the room. The students fidgeted uneasily. He stared at me expecting to start teaching; I was done as far as I was concerned, and my students were happy. He stood up and stomped out of the classroom without an excuse-me. He went to the headmaster to register his displeasure. The report was damning. I got a one out of five.

But I was not surprised; the man was, as many teachers called him, a terrorist. He had his office at mimosa house in Bulawayo. There was always a long queue at his door – teachers waiting to be attended to. And at times the queue formed not because it was a busy day but because the teachers were all scared to go in there! The man was unpredictable and threw tantrums at will, and the poor teachers, most of them temporary, had no where to turn to.

How often do these gentlemen ever visit the schools nowadays? Perhaps never. It's either there is no transport or there is no manpower or there are no allowances or they are attending some party function somewhere instead of the welfare of our schools.

Ngiyabonga mina!
 
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Clerk Ndlovu clerkn35@gmail.com