(A poem in praise of KICD’S cur­ricu­lum re­form)

The East African - - OPINION -

It’s just me, half a pen­cil and mul­ti­ple choice. The metal roof is groan­ing in the sun­light, which does not reach me. The black­board looms

in front of me, as empty as my desk, the world be­fore me and my mem­ory: the square of the hy­potenuse is equal to the sum of ei­ther ra­dius,

or some­thing of the sort. The old in­vig­i­la­tor hov­ers. I can al­most hear him tut­ting at my an­swers. If you guess, they say – mark A, B, C or D

in ran­dom or­der – you can still gain eighty marks, or was it more? I can’t re­mem­ber. D. Some bird is at the win­dow. B. The clock says

FIVE MORE MIN­UTES. C. The clever boy has fin­ished: A, of course. I do not want to be a doc­tor. Mum’s a farmer, dad drives some­one else’s Skygo.

Still I love them. ‘Chil­dren, TIME! Please put your pen­cils down and stand.’ I won’t, not yet. In­stead I scrib­ble over ev­ery­thing: I’LL PLAY FOR MAN UNITED. Stephen Part­ing­ton stepart­ing­ton@ya­hoo.co.uk

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