27/09/2026
They told me teaching was a noble calling,
So I picked up the chalk
And entered the classroom
With dreams in my pockets
And hope in my heart.
They said,
“Teach the children,
Shape the nation,
Plant the seeds of tomorrow.”
So I planted.
I planted doctors,
Engineers,
Lawyers,
Professors,
Politicians,
Businessmen,
And leaders.
But somehow,
As a farmer of these minds
I'm still struggling to feed myself
The chalk has become my cross.
Every morning,
I enter the classroom smiling,
While my heart negotiates
With unpaid bills.
I teach Chemistry While calculating, reasoning and preparing my own Survival
I teach mathematics
While calculating my own survival.
I teach economics
While my pocket is in recession.
I teach social studies
While society looks down on me.
I teach children to dream,
While my own dreams
Are slowly dy!ng.
And they tell me—
“Teacher, don't worry.
Your reward is in heaven.”
Heaven?
What happens before i go to heaven?
Must I die a pauper
Before my work becomes valuable?
Must my children inherit
My empty pockets
And my unpaid sacrifices?
Must I suffer today
Because someone promises me
A reward tomorrow?
No!
I want to live.
I want to eat good food
Without counting every coin.
I want to wear decent clothes
Without borrowing.
I want to build a house
While I still have strength
To sit in its doorway.
I want to travel.
I want to laugh.
I want to enjoy life.
I want my labour
To speak to me
Before my grave does.
Because I am a teacher,
Not a martyr.
Do not romanticise my poverty
And call it dedication.
Do not glorify my suffering
And call it sacrifice.
Do not use the word vocation
To hide exploitation.
The world has changed.
Teaching is no longer attractive
To many of the brightest minds.
The classroom is losing its soldiers.
One by one,
They are leaving.
Some have become businessmen.
Some have migrated.
Some have joined other professions.
Some are simply waiting
For the right opportunity
To escape.
And who can blame them?
When the student you taught
Becomes richer than you,
Drives past you in a luxury car,
And cannot understand
Why his teacher
Is still struggling—
Something is wrong.
When society celebrates
The success of the student
But forgets the hands
That shaped that success—
Something is wrong.
When a teacher spends decades
Building the future of a nation
Yet cannot confidently secure
His own future—
Something is tɛrribly wrong.
So I ask:
Who will teach the next generation
When the teachers are gone?
Who will hold the chalk
When the chalk
No longer holds a future?
Who will enter the classroom
When passion alone
Cannot pay the rent?
They call it a noble profession.
Perhaps it is.
But nobility without dignity
Becomes suffering.
Passion without provision
Becomes frustration.
*And sacrifice without* *recognition*
*Eventually* *becomes abandonment.*
So this evening,
I look at this piece of chalk
In my tired hand.
It is small.
White.
Fragile.
Yet it carries
The weight of a nation.
And I whisper:
I love teaching.
But I also love living.
I will educate your children,
But please—
Don't ask me to d!e poor
Just because I taught them
How to become rich.
For the chalk has spoken.
The classroom is crying.
The teachers are tired.
And the nation must listen.
This is not merely a profession anymore.
*The government needs to consider, respect and support teachers, because we play a crucial role in the nation's
