Whispers Between Desks

Today marks Nelson Mandela’s passing in 2013.

We may not leave echoes in history the way he did, but we CAN resonate.

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Prologue

A normal school morning, sunlight warming an already too-warm classroom – but it had the quiet promise that even small moments are reasons.

For those who ask, “Why do this?”

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“Bye, Miss Kwek…no, bye Mummy.” The little 7-year-old girl offered a little hand swap as she bade goodbye and traversed the corridor.

The classroom’s silence wrapped around me as she left. Nothing but scattered papers and desk chairs.

I sighed. I’d have to spend an hour pushing them in and sweeping–the kids had to rush home for lunch.

Miss Kwek the SuperMum.

Or SuperTeach.

And honestly…I didn’t know if the little girls realised that anymore.

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My first teaching assignment. This music and English teacher offered little ditties.

I taught them occupations with Ernie’s “Who Are The People in the Neighbourhood.”

But…their attention waned, as it often did for seven-year-olds after the first half-hour of breathing.

Unmarked worksheets stared at me from a basket, berating me for neglect.

The empty classroom smelled of faded whiteboard markers. Ernie’s face stared at me from a chart on an easel.

Blank.

Wondering if the constant effort to plan lessons was worth the “Mummy”- or if they’d even remembered him after the song.

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As I put marked exercise books on a bookshelf, my hand met a box with a bump.

I hadn’t noticed it before.

An envelope reared an edge from its corner.

Beckoning.

I drew a breath, my fingers lingering over the edge —

And dropped it again.

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I picked the box, letting the exercise books cascade onto the floor with a thump.

A printed letter, the pristine white paper waiting patiently. Its edges were starting to curl, but a few minutes wouldn’t make a difference.

After those minutes were finally over, I pried the envelope open.

Addressed to me.

“Dear Teacher,

“I like Ernie, and Who Are the People In Your Neighbourhood. But I like the way you sing it. You sound like my Grandma. She had a great voice. She died last year. She used to bring me to school.”

A watermark.

I was about to create a few – but not the factory sort.

“Thanks for the song. I watch Sesame Street every afternoon now. My English has improved. Marilyn.”

So it had.

For all time.

I sat at the desk, a quiet smile starting to stretch across my face.

One that needed Face Yoga.

In case of premature sagging.

There was a reason for Mummy after all.

Despite how dog-tired she was.

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“Mummy” dropped the letter back into the box cautiously –

Its pulse was quickening.

The classroom still had a distinct marker odour – but it teased my nostrils.

It didn’t punch.

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I swept the floor, erased the whiteboard –

And lifted the easel.

Ernie.

And his neighbourhood.

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Mummy had a place in it.

Though her legs were a little tired from walking around.

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