It is often said that the first teacher never leaves the heart, for they do not merely teach—they shape destinies, open worlds, and plant seeds whose fruits we carry throughout life. For me, that person was Rev. Sister Helen, the woman whose gentle hand guided my own as I wrote 1, 2, 3, and what I proudly believed was ABDC during my first days in school. She was more than a teacher—she was the pathway through which learning entered my life.
My journey to the classroom began in 1983, in a home where school was still a new and fascinating idea. One early morning, my late uncle, Alexander Nobobo, arrived with news that would define a part of my life forever. He told my late mother to prepare my elder brother, Yussif, for school. At that moment I was asleep, lost in childhood dreams, unaware that destiny was already knocking at the door.
But children, unlike adults, do not wait to be invited into opportunity. When I woke up and realised someone was going to school, I washed myself in haste, even before my mother could fetch water. I rubbed shea butter on my skin—the daily pomade of our time—and stationed myself by my uncle’s bicycle, uninvited but completely determined.
They wanted only my brother to go, but the fire in my heart refused to stay behind. When my uncle lifted him onto the bicycle and attempted to leave me, I broke into loud wails—wails only a deeply wounded child could produce. My mother pulled me back, but I clung to the bicycle carrier with the strength of someone whose future depended on it. My uncle insisted I was too young and only my brother could be enrolled that year—but I had already made up my mind.
We rode to the school compound, and what I saw that morning changed me forever. Children stood neatly in lines, dressed in bright colours, singing songs I did not know. Their hands rested solemnly on their chests as they recited words that sounded both powerful and mysterious. The entire scene—the discipline, the music, the order—pulled me into a world I was desperate to join.
After assembly, my brother was eventually taken to an office where he was officially enrolled. The teacher in charge asked for his name and wrote it slowly and carefully into a thick book—a book my imagination believed contained the names of all the wise children in the world. I stood quietly beside them, hoping my own name would follow in the same ink, but fate delayed its moment.
When my uncle finally turned to leave, he thanked the woman in the office and said the words that pierced my heart:
“This one will also come maybe next academic year.”This one was me.
Tears poured freely. My dreams were collapsing right before my eyes. But life had already chosen my path, and help came from the very hands meant to guide me.
Rev. Sister Helen—gentle, observant, and full of compassion—heard the commotion and came outside. She was a light in a white veil, a voice of understanding in a moment of heartbreak. When she listened to what had happened, she requested without hesitation, “Leave him. I will take him.”
She extended her hand and led me into her classroom—the first classroom I ever entered as a pupil. That was the moment my life changed. She asked for my name, and with all childhood innocence I said, “Lengeri.” My uncle corrected it gently by mentioning my Muslim name, my parents gave me at birth, before he left me behind—but by then, I was already where I belonged.
And so began my journey, seated before a chalkboard, watching the woman who would teach me how to draw my first numbers and letters. Under her guidance, I wrote 1, 2, 3, and proudly scribbled ABDC. It was wrong, of course, but it was the beginning—the opening of a lifelong relationship with words, knowledge, and education.
I owe that moment to a woman who believed in me before I could believe in myself.
To be continued…
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