"My mother was a teacher and she died a poor woman" LARRY MADOWO painfully narrates.

Tuesday, 22 September 2015- As the stand-off between teachers and the Government continues, NTV’s anchor, Larry Madowo, has painfully narrated how his mother, who was a  teacher by profession, died a poor woman despite having dedicated her life shaping the destiny of young children.

By then, Larry’s mother used to earn a mere Ksh 400 per month and she went through hard time raising them up.

This is how he painfully narrated his mother's tribulations.

Imagine asking for a pay rise for 18 years and never once coming close to getting it. Most people would quit in the first year or two when it becomes clear that their compensation package would not be improving. Add to that an obstinate employer, some of the poorest working conditions known in formal employment coupled with an oversize workload and you have an implosion waiting to happen. 

Yet thousands of teachers have braved all these extraordinary circumstances for nearly two decades and continue to impart knowledge to the minds of future generations.

My mother, Treazer Anyango Madowo, was a primary school teacher and a divisional Knut official who enthusiastically took part in the 1997 strike. She rallied her colleagues to go out onto the streets and from our little corner in Siaya, hung on every word John Katumanga, Ambrose Adongo Adeya, and the national officials proclaimed. 

They converged at the Kenya National Union of Teachers (Knut) headquarters in town on most days and marched along the dusty roads hoping to get on the national news. Only once did a picture make it to the back pages of a newspaper. They were elated.

MEANINGFUL PROFESSION

In 1997, I was in Standard Five at Karapul Primary School, three kilometres away on the highway to the main town square. My mother taught at Usingo, where I had studied for the first four years of my primary school life. Even though it was closer to our paternal homestead where we have a house, she had moved us out of there to be closer to a “better” school. 

So she rode her bicycle for almost an hour each way from our rented house to her place of work. When my baby sister, Liz, was old enough to start school, she got her a place at Karapul as well, and Mama continued to do her tedious journey to work every day. She rode back and forth for six years and never once complained.

Ever the hard worker, she prepared for, and taught, several classes, including music and drama in the evenings, while still actively organising for Knut. In between her ridiculously busy work schedule, she somehow still found time to run a business or two to supplement her modest income, raise two children single-handedly and generally win at life.

After slightly more than a decade as a teacher, she took home a pitiable amount of money. She budgeted for every cent and impressed upon us the values of frugality and multiple uses for any one item. I didn’t understand it then as a carefree pre-teen but with hindsight, it’s something of a miracle that she still managed to be exceedingly generous with whatever little she had.

After failed negotiations with education minister James Kamotho, President Daniel arap Moi gave in and allowed a pay rise of between 105 and 200 per cent, staggered over several years. It was gazetted as Legal Notice 534 of 1997 and the teachers went back to class. My mother was optimistic that she would finally make something closer to what she was worth.

Selfishly, I was excited about her impending pay rise because we might have a few more nicer things, maybe even move into a house with electricity and get a television. The rent for our tiny, single-bedroom house was Sh400 per month, but we still struggled to pay it on time.

My mother was a P1 teacher who trained at Thogoto Teachers’ Training College. She went there when being a teacher meant something. She was respected in the village where she taught and parents often stopped her on the road to give gifts of maize or groundnuts or whatever else they had. 

INVALUABLE SERVICE

She loved teaching and spoke proudly of many of her former pupils, who had gone on to be more successful than she would ever be. Because of her passion, inspired by the dignity and enthusiasm she brought to the profession, several others in our extended family chose the same path to the classroom. It was an honour to be her son.

My sister and I have both had the privilege of studying for degrees and options for higher education far more advanced than my mother ever had. Even combined, our dedication and sacrifice in our respective occupations cannot match hers. It is inconceivable that teachers still face the same challenges that she did when we were growing up. 

I respect those who give of themselves every day to instruct impressionable young ones, having seen first-hand the patience, grace and fortitude required in that career. They do us an invaluable service in what is largely a thankless job. They deserve better.

My mother died four years after the 1997 agreement. She never got her big payday and we never moved into that house with electricity.