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(She taught while her child was sent home 
in the tongue of olden sorrow)

She stood before the class—
chalk in hand,
heart in shards,
yet her voice did not waver.

The sun poured through cracked windows,
spilling golden lies across the floor,
as if the world outside cared.

But behind her calm,
behind the grace stitched in her wrapper,
a storm raged—
not of thunder,
but of a mother’s ache.

Just an hour before,
her own child had been turned away—
sent home,
not for wrong,
but for unpaid fees
stacked like forgotten letters
on a dusty desk of debt.

This—
this woman who taught with fire,
who stayed behind to mark
papers soaked in red ink and dreams,
who gave sleep to lesson plans,
who whispered hope into stubborn minds—
She could not afford
the very thing she gave.

Imagine that:
Teaching other people’s children
while your own child
sits at home,
eyes on a closed school gate,
learning the weight of unfairness
before learning fractions.

It broke me!

I had seen many things,
but not a smile
trying to outshine sorrow.
Not hands that held chalk
when they should have held her child.

So I did what I could—
offered half my pay,
hoping it could buy back her child’s seat
in a classroom she helped build.

She cried.
Not the soft kind.
Not the quiet drip of rain on rooftops.
But a flood.
The kind that carries pain away
and leaves gratitude in its place.

But this is not about me!

This is about a country
where teachers are expected
to feed minds,
while starving silently.

Where those who plant the future
can’t harvest from it.
Where educators are treated like dust—
everywhere,
yet invisible.

Nigeria, hear us—
We are not machines.
We carry nations in our voices.
We write tomorrow in chalk and sweat.

When will teachers stop being
the sacrifice on the altar of broken systems?
When will we be seen
not as tools,
but as treasures?
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