By Shem Onderi
All day, you cleaned them—
Wiped their noses, sang their songs.
They sang with joy,
While mother was away—
In the fields, in the office,
Chasing a living.
But the curriculum chose you—
The other mother.
At school, they played.
You composed their songs,
They sang along in scattered tunes.
Some danced, some slept midway,
But all were present—alert, alive.
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They came home dirty, tired—
Yet beaming, humming new melodies
Taught by the teacher.
Homework confused the parents,
They overthought the tasks.
“She cried today,” one said—
Perhaps the play went wrong.
Maybe a quarrel broke out.
The stream is full,
But each child was seen,
Even when the work was heavy
And the pay was light.
She arrived early—
A tin of tea in hand, a snack,
Ready.
The children defecate without warning,
But she—
She is nanny, nurse, caretaker,
And mother to them all.
You know their names,
Their moods, their dreams.
They tell you about home—
The sweets, the fights,
The stories.
One walks like you now.
Your manner, your warmth
Have traveled home.
Teacher—
You must be rich.
Not with gold,
But with children, always by your side.
Maybe the government will hear—
A cry for better pay,
For chalk, for toys, for training.
You might lift placards,
But who will join you?
Not the clerks,
Not the weary parents.
Only your learners—
Too young to march,
But strong enough to keep you going.
So keep singing.
Keep mothering.
Long live, playgroup teacher.
Long live.
