Growing up, we thought we knew what it was like to be an adult. We believed going to school, on our own terms, was good enough to earn our place in the adult world.
Personally, I would not go to school if I did not have money, and I would tell my mother.
“There’s no money today,” I would whisper, maybe while she was busy mopping the floor, or working in the kitchen. In response, I would cross my arms and say, “Then I’m not going.”
She would stop and then leave the room, saying nothing.
I would wait.
“Here you go,” she would say upon returning. “Just go to school.”
I would take the money, as though it was some kind of victory, and leave the house.
At that time, money was easy. If you had it, you attended class. If you didn’t, you stayed at home. Simple as that. I had no idea what it took to get money.
All I wanted was the 100 or 500 francs she sometimes had so I could buy fritters or juice.
For some reason, she always managed to find a way. Be it a folded note kept somewhere, or a small coin in a cup above the wardrobe, or money that she had once borrowed from our neighbor, part of a much larger debt.
One Wednesday morning, I was supposed to go to school, but I woke up late. I was not in the mood for school. “Mom, I need 300 francs for school.”
“We don’t have anything.”
Then I lay back down, tired, and ready to go back to sleep.
Soon after, she called me. When I went to her she gave me a 400 franc note. I didn’t know where she got it, and to be honest, I didn’t really care. But I do now.
Those 400 francs could have been used for something needed. Something essential, like food, salt, or perhaps even to settle a debt. I had no idea how heavy the decision to give it to me instead was. I didn’t know if she had a bad night’s sleep or if she was behind on paying any of the bills.
She would go an entire day without eating if it meant I could go to school. I had the illusion I was in control when, in truth, I was the one being carried.
Some kids stayed at home because they didn’t feel like going. Some used to make excuses like saying the teacher didn’t show up. Others, like Christopher, would shrug and say, “It’s just one day. I’ll go tomorrow.” At the time, missing school was just another day off to us.
Not every family had enough. I remember Augustin often wore worn-out shoes and his uniform was torn at the collar. Some students mocked him. They had no idea that his parents had to choose whether to purchase shoes or mealie meal.
Then I remember the day Miriam fainted in class. The teacher hurriedly took her out. In the end, we found out she had not eaten the previous day. We thought it was a funny moment back then, but now I understand the plain cruelty of hunger.
Miriam was back in school the next day.
Many parents didn’t have formal work. They survived and depended on informal jobs, like buying buns and bread from local bakeries and reselling them at a higher price, washing clothes, making mud bricks and reselling them.
Life was hard, but they did their best, spending nearly all they had to send us to school.
Tuition fees were low, but attending school came with daily costs, such as pens, notebooks, or even snacks during break. My mother saved for school by walking to town on foot to avoid the 1000-francs bus fare.
Father didn’t eat before going to work one day so the child would have money for a school lunch.
To us children, those banknotes felt like proof that we were allowed to be at school. We didn’t understand that those banknotes were a small amount of money only in value, not in meaning. We wanted what we wanted.
When I was younger, I thought that going to school was a hassle. I did not see that me attending school was a dream come true for my mother. It was her only hope of escaping the never-ending hustles and unpaid bills. She would say things like, “One day you’ll work in an office, not standing and being hit by the blazing sun, while selling at the market like me.”
When my mother didn’t even have a single coin, she would still insist that I go to school. Not only did she send me to school, but she sent me with hope. As I grew up, I tried in my own way to help my mother, from little things to larger things. I like calling my mother, checking up on her. She always says, “You don’t need to.”
I don’t do it because I feel I owe her, but because I understand now. I witnessed the silent battles that no one spoke about. She went without, so I could have. She could have decided to keep me at home, but she did not. I understand that now. She sent me to school because she wanted me to have an education and think about my future.
Now, when I pass by kids playing in the dirt or skipping school, I stop and talk to them, not as a teacher, but as a kid who has been through the same situation. I tell them, “I know you think school is nothing. One day, you’ll understand that school is everything. Some listen, others may not. However, perhaps they will remember my words, as I remember my mother’s.
I would tell my younger self, “Do not fritter the future away. School was never about the money.”
Sometimes, when we talk about this, my mom laughs.
“I did what I had to do,” she says.
I used to think I was doing her a favor by going to school. Now I know the favor was mine.
I still remember those mornings. The tired look in her eyes. The 400 francs that she would give me. Those days shaped every other kid around our neighborhood. There were learnings we did without knowing. It taught us that love cannot be noisy. Love cannot be noticed because it is not flashy. Love is a folded note, a lack of food, and an entire day under the sun.
Those were the difficult days.
Yet they were the genuine days.
The days that made me who I am.
Now I try to live and survive with the same humility, supporting family, and choosing gratitude.
