ALMOST everyone I have interacted with has a pending grudge with their Maths Teacher. Making this a subject of great interest. BUT, that’s not my area of interest, for today. Hear me out. Mine's a different story, or rather about my English Teacher. FYI, my Maths Teachers throughout primary school were cool if not coolest, except the heavy beating that we were subjected to.

Stay with me, till the end, maybe then I'll be able to justify my HATE for English teachers and my ironic LOVE for the English language.

Foremost, some background info, to establish context. Joining upper primary was a thrill that every student in my class looked forward to. Grade 4, marked the transition from lower primary to upper primary. The transition, a hallmark in our young and eager lives. We looked forward to advancing through the academic ladder. This phase was marked by little yet significant changes, for instance, we were now going to use ink pens, away with the pencils, we’d also be using A4s, away with the A5s and we’d go back home at 6 p.m with the rest of the upper class students. The most dreaded thing was that we were not to necessarily end up in the same classes with our long serving friends as we were reshuffled into four streams. Heartbreaks. Friendships broken. We were to courageously hop into the unknown with or without our friends, and tread the newer paths into our academic destinies.

I remember being assigned to Grade 4 Green, but since most of my friends were in Red, I sailed along with the gang. A little rebellion. The journey commenced. Unlike in lower primary where we had one teacher teaching the rest of the subjects, we now had different teachers teaching different subjects. Of Luo origins, English was definitely my favourite subject, in which I effortlessly excelled. I also developed a liking for Social Studies. Undeniably,Maths was my worst. I detested Maths, I still do, though a little bit now. Science was neither bad nor good, I neither soared high nor flopped low. Kiswahili was a walk in the park. In lower primary I wasn't very much concerned with my grades, core of my concerns was play, leave alone food. I never performed poorly either, as long as I was top ten I was content. Hard work wasn't part of my vocabulary. Hard play was. In grade 4 a wave of academic seriousness swept by, sweeping me off my feet. It took me minutes to recover.

Getting to Grade 4, change was evident, lol, I was growing. Everyone was, only that my growth was at an unfathomable rate. I couldn't keep up. I was no longer a little care free girl ANYMORE. I couldn't help but notice the unwelcomed developments within me. Science classes made the feeling worse by the candid discussions on the changes that we were definitely prone to undergo. Puberty; breasts, pimples, deep voices, wet dreams, periods…I hated science, probably the reason why I performed average, and never cared the least.

These changes were an intrusion on my physique. I wanted my chest flat, my face smooth and no monthly nuances in the name of menses. Sadly, I had no say. Shouldn't we have a say on what changes we're comfortable with and what we're NOT comfortable with? Round balls started poking out from my chest, uninvited. Rude intrusion. This change in particular had a blow on my self esteem, wrapping me in SHAME. I convinced myself that something was definitely wrong with me to be ONLY ONE experiencing such awkward developments amongst my friend group. I was determined to hide my misfortunes, or rather B-R-E-A-S-T-S, spell it out low. That's where my obsession with baggy clothes was conceived. I then changed my walking style, resorting to hunching my back to ensure ZERO visibility of my B-R-E-A-S-T-S. Then my M-E-N-S-E-S crept in, no alerts, no warnings. Someone must have cast a spell on me given all this misfortunes. I wished I was born a boy. Being rendered powerless given my inability to stop the changes, I sought isolation. Maybe this is where my love for indoors was realised, away from societal judgements and critics. At first it was lonely, but I finally grew accustomed.

In class I succumbed into my dullest of self, drowning myself in study. Nonetheless, school never got any better when my English Teacher and class teacher decided to give me a taste of HELL. My first crime was wearing a skirt to school when I should've worn a tunic as dictated by the English Teacher. My second crime was coming to school with cornrows when I should've shaved my hair, as dictated by the English Teacher. My third crime was coming to school with unpolished shoes, when I should've polished them to military standards as dictated by my English Teacher. The list of my crimes was long and endless. You be the judge. My conviction day finally dawned, that chilly Monday morning. I came to school late and that was definitely added to my list of crimes. I wasn't the only latecomer though, yet that couldn't excuse my execution. Myself together with my fellow convicts were summoned to lie prostrate in front of the classroom, on the cold floor. Then came the beatings. “One more, one more,” the Teacher of English yelled, but one more turned into ten more strokes. Then came the lecture, which went on for twenty more minutes. Afterwards we were summoned to have our seats, having been allocated further tasks to complete our punishment. My punishment went a little further, as my English Teacher seemed determined to tear me down, as if settling some grudge she had with me. She motioned me to remain at the front while others took their seats.

I could feel their eyes cutting through meas if I were transparent, stripping me and laying bare my insecurities. The English Teacher surveyed me head to toe, as if I were some object she hoped to buy but immediately lost interest in. My hair was unkempt, my cornrows almost loosening. My hand knitted sweater had reached its expiration date, torn and faded, deserving of retirement from daily wearing and weekly washing. My blouse, torn under the armpits, was finally losing its whiteness due to careless washing from immature and weak hands. My skirt was faded, having served three years of lower primary. My socks were neatly folded, just as I preferred. Obviously, my shoes hadn't felt the touch of shoe polish in long while. I was a perfect example of the Unwanted Code of Conduct. The English Teacher ranted about how I was an embarrassment, given my untidiness on a beautiful Monday morning. Though bitter, I swallowed the humiliation in, holding back stinging tears. My self esteem drowned in the muddy swamp ofshame and humiliation. That day was the longest day in my life as I buried my existence into the grave of shame and worthlessness.

The constant petty humiliation continued for the longest time, as far as my memory recalls. School was hell, whose blazing fires tormented the whole of me. Despite the torment,I shifted my focus to studying. Study. Study. Study. The exams came. Passed. Then the results. Position 5. I never saw that coming. The English Teacher came to class and asked who's L.O. I raised my hand up, keeping my head low, fearing another episode of the Humiliation Series. I couldn't tell whether it was unbelief or surprise written all over her face. “Congratulations, you performed well in the mid term exam,” she declared.All eyes turned to me, I also looked around just to make sure I was the ONE. I had grown so used to negative comments, that being praised for something positive felt strange and awkward. Nonetheless, the academic milestone gave me a ticket from the hall of shame to the wall of fame. Yet, despite the promotion, I was still wounded. My self esteem was damaged,my confidence tarnished, my self worth drained, my image stained.

I wore my academic accolades, yet beneath them lay the scars of worthlessness. I refused to give up that identity, as it felt home, the only identity construct I had come to know. I was addicted to the victimhood.

Over the years, I climbed up the academic ladder oscillating between position 1 and 2. The humiliations ended, though. Identity shift. I was now viewed from a different perspective. Fortunately or unfortunately, I was now worthy of respect and honor, as dictated by my academic performance.I struggled to fit in this identity, afraid that it could be stripped away from me at any time. My identity was shaped by how society viewed me, and each and every time they changed their point of view, I was forced to readjust and adapt to the identity construct they had of me. I am still stripping myself off the lie that my worth is dependent on academic performances, and embracing the fact that I am a worthy human being.

Hope you finally understand why I HATE English teachers and LOVE the English language.

What's YOUR side of the story?

TAP the comment section and free yourself of the TRAUMA!

Comments (5)

• Dennis Ngigi

  January 30, 2026

  Be the better version of yourself since at the end of the day u will still have your own personal struggle and you deal with them alone

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• Jebby

  January 30, 2026

  Beautiful writing. I can relate 😭💔

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• Dr. Adunga

  January 30, 2026

  Begs the question how I am so good in writing English literature but I never had a chance to score more than 30 out of the possibile 40 throughout primary and highschool. It all started with Mr. Opuru😭 in the year 2011.

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• Lokumu

  January 30, 2026

  No one ever told us what to do incase the Bully was a teacher, so we learnt to bottle everything in, and ignite the survival mode...yet decades later the wounds still bleed

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• Celli ml

  January 30, 2026

  I love love this piece of writing ❤️. I get the reason why someone still wears baggy clothes. But teachers most times love to be messy and picky daiyuum. Kwanza wa maths and sciences wueeeeh 👀👀

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