By Shem Onderi
The class is a patchwork of ages,
Stories gathered from every corner.
Some arrive chasing escape—
from poverty, from uncertainty,
Others are here because a parent commanded it.
Some stand tall, loud and bullying,
Others sit small, timid, almost invisible.
A few with swollen bellies,
hunger written in their skin.
Many are barefoot,
their bodies pale, untouched by lotion.
School bags sag, torn at the seams,
Books with pages missing—
and some with no books at all,
borrowing learning from a neighbor’s desk.
Desks scatter in disorder.
Children jostle for front seats,
straining to catch a phrase,
to hold a single point.
Some carry lunch, wrapped from home.
Others walk miles,
dreaming of their mother’s pot.
The rest endure hunger’s silence.
Lessons blur into each other,
teachers pouring out their plans.
Some children drown in new topics,
others in troubles carried from home.
All listen for the lunch bell—
hopeful for the meal programme,
dismayed when it fails to arrive.
The teacher, too, waits—
for the month’s end,
for wages that stretch thin.
Every learner comes with a different dream,
a different burden.
The day ends with some carrying hope,
others weighed down by despair.
Years pass—
destinations diverge.
And all from a single classroom,
where riddles of life first unfold.