27/03/2026
🌺🌺🌺💕
MY PRIMARY SCHOOL BEATING TRAUMA
19 years ago, in 2007, when I was at Twafwane Basic School in Chililabombwe. I remember a time when I was badly treated by my class teacher. If I recall well, our teacher was Miss Longa. I believe her name was Miss Longa B, perhaps the “B” stood for Betty but we simply called her Miss Longa.
Twafwane Basic School had three classes for each grade. For example, Grade 6 had A, B, and C. Class A was for boys, Class B for girls, and Class C was a mixed class, which is where I belonged.
Mr. Mbala was the headteacher. He was nicknamed “Sh*tole” by the pupils because he disliked seeing any paper on the ground, whether in class or around the school. Whenever he entered a classroom, he would say, “Sh*tole iyo paper,” meaning, “Pick up that paper from the ground.”
Miss Longa, I believe, was among the newly recruited teachers at the time. She was young, light in complexion, and had a dark birthmark on her face.
She was a good teacher, but she lacked maturity.
I remember on two occasions she introduced her boyfriend to us in class, boastfully. Whenever she wanted to knock off early, she would ask us to leave the classroom one by one, sometimes an hour before the official knock-off time.
She was very jovial and taught us songs that were usually sung in private schools. I really liked that part of her.
Back then, Twafwane Basic School had very beautiful flowers around the administration block, with classrooms surrounding that area.
Miss Longa had a habit of stealing flowers from the school, uprooting them and planting them at her place in X Section.
She involved pupils in this act almost every week and even told us she was doing it to beautify her home.
Many boys in our class did this for her and clearly understood the assignment.
One day, a boy named Innocent managed to steal three flowers for her, yet she still wanted more. That did not sit well with me.
In class, we sat in groups, and I was in Group 1.
I whispered to my groupmates in Bemba, “Temu samwa, bala mikata,” which translates to, “Don’t be too excited, you will be caught.”
Among those I whispered to was a boy named Kwibisa, who repeated my words loudly, drawing the teacher’s attention.
The teacher asked who had said that, and the boy mentioned my name.
Things quickly escalated, and I was chased out of class on a Friday.
Kwibisa was the kind of pupil who always sought favor from teachers by acting overly intelligent, yet in reality, he was just average.
When I returned to school on Monday, I was chased again without any explanation.
The same thing happened on Tuesday and Wednesday. On Thursday, however, I refused to leave the class, and she had no way of forcing me out.
The next day, Friday, she instructed the class monitor to write down the names of noise makers and my name appeared on that list.
She then called Mr. Chileshe, who was known as the most feared teacher at Twafwane Basic School when it came to corporal punishment.
There were only four names on the list, and mine was last.
When it was my turn, she whispered something to Mr. Chileshe. I was beaten differently and severely. Because we wore shorts, I was whipped badly on the upper calves (utusafu). Part of my skin remained on the hosepipe used to beat me, and to this day, I still have the scar.
When I returned to my seat, my leg was shaking uncontrollably. I could barely hold myself up, and Kwibisa seemed pleased to see me in that state.
When I got home, I told my brother the late Peterson Kalanda and his wife with whom I lived. They were both very upset.
My sister-in-law was always busy with work, and my brother was a tech person, as I described him in my previous write-up.
Due to their schedules, they couldn’t es**rt me to school. Instead, they wrote a letter for me to give to the teacher who had beaten me.
I delivered the letter to Mr. Chileshe. He read it in my presence, looked at me, and only said;
“Ask your brother to build a school for you where you will be learning.”
He walked away without any apology even after seeing the wound on my leg.
From that moment, I began to develop bitterness. I didn’t want to see those teachers again. Unfortunately, one of them was my class teacher, and I had to face her every day.
Fortunately, it was Term Three. When schools reopened in January 2008, we had a new teacher, Mrs. Mwamba, who was more like a parent to us. She even made me a class monitor.
To this day, I have never heard from Miss Longa again, nor do I know where she is.
Nine years ago, in 2017, I saw Mr. Chileshe in Chililabombwe. I wanted to approach him, but I didn’t have enough time.
Now, 19 years later, whenever I look at the scar, I feel the need to confront him.
In Bemba, we say, “Aka ku nyelele taka labwa,” meaning it’s impossible to forget someone who stepped on you unfairly.
Truth be told, the boy who was whipped 19 years ago is not the man I am today.
But this is not just my story, it’s a reminder that discipline without humanity leaves scars that last a lifetime.
No child should carry both a physical scar and unanswered pain into adulthood.
I still don’t know whether I am seeking an apology, closure, or simply a chance to express my pain but I know that telling this story matters.
I remain,
Kalanda Vincent
