Branches and Chalk Dust

The sun glinted down through the treetops as the small motorcycle rumbled to a stop in front of Tokoin College & Lyceé, a public middle and high school in Lomé. I carefully unhinged myself from the backseat of the moto, and adjusted a bag strap as my friend, a teacher at the school, found a place to park and hung up his helmet. We were here to visit some English classes. I was excited—I was finally to see how English is currently being taught in Togo. I had heard about the many challenges currently facing teachers here—including class sizes of 100 upwards—and I was looking forward to seeing for myself.

The scene immediately spoke to a liveliness of atmosphere that only a school can provide. Young people in white collared shirts and khaki skirts or pants milled about everywhere. Groups of three or four stood in the shade of green trees and chatted to each other, while others sat on the stoops of the six classroom buildings that made up the small campus. Those buildings faced each other across a open courtyard-like space, three on one side and three on the other. As we walked, I noticed that the buildings were made of cement blocks, but those blocks were arranged in such a way that the sides of each presented an attractive geometric pattern, such as latticework or small crosses. In between the blocks the breeze flowed freely. Due to this, I began to notice groups of dark eyes raising up into the slats, and many bright white smiles beginning to face in our direction. Then, two young boys appeared in a nearby open classroom door, waving wildly. When I waved back and smiled, they shrieked with glee and disappeared back inside the classroom.

At the far end of that central courtyard lay the main headquarters of the school, where the principal had her office. My friend and I were greeted warmly with many Bonjours and Comment allez-vouss by a secretary as we entered, and were ushered into the principal’s adjoining office. Relying greatly on my teacher-friend-turned-translator but also using my short repertoire of French phrases, I greeted the lady and explained my reason for visiting. I described how I was spending my first few months in Togo ‘gathering research’ about English teaching in Togo by visiting many schools in the area. She responded with the phrase that I have heard so much in Togo: You are welcome.

Then, another teacher-friend appeared in the doorway. It was to be his classes that we would visit today. We followed him back out into the blinding sunshine and across the courtyard to one of the classrooms. This first group was to be a middle-school age class of intermediate English students. The teacher told me to prepare myself for how large the class would be. As we approached, I noticed giggling students scrambling to return to their seats. I followed the teacher up the steps to the building, and into the shadowed classroom. And then I completely lost all my sense of hearing.

Just kidding. It was just that as we stepped into the classroom, we were immediately greeted by the sound of 130 eleven-year-olds squealing, shrieking and SCREAMING with wide open eyes and smiles the width of all outdoors. They also had their arms raised, jumping up and down with abandon. The teacher laughed (not that I heard it), and let them go wild for a moment, taking in the site of this strange person with blonde hair and skin the color of Casper. Once he had regained control, he motioned for us to find a seat in the back row of benches in the classroom. We turned sideways to walk down between the rows of students, each one seeming to reach out their hand to grab mine as we passed. I said Thank you! to the five students who had to move to make room for us, which set off another round of squealing and leaping. But finally, the teacher began the class, and I successfully interested the students in watching the teacher instead of staring back at me.

While my friend, an experienced and skilled instructor, led the class in their study for the next fifty minutes, I sat back and took in the entire scene. With my back up against the cement block wall, I first counted the students. The room was set up with four long rows of benches that each extended from very close to the chalkboard at the front to the very back wall, where we were watching from now. Each bench was built onto a narrow desktop that extended to the row behind, old-school style. Most benches held two students, who sat shoulder to shoulder with each other. Some benches held three students, in which case those students would turn their bodies slightly aside so as to enable all of them to touch some of the desk. In between each row of desks there was a small aisle, each about the width of an adult turned sideways. All in the all, the small classroom was full to the brim with the bodies of its pupils.

I watched as the teacher still maintained control of the entire group, maneuvering between rows where possible and keeping his voice loud throughout. The students were directed to the blackboard, where the teacher explained some uses of those English phrases Would rather, Had better, and Should. The teacher asked questions of the students throughout, and was always greeted with scores of raised arms. Once in a while one of those flailing arms would nearly knock out another enthusiastic volunteer from the desk behind. The teacher also had the students spend some time carefully copying questions from the blackboard to be answered on their own paper. The students set to work, sometimes chatting to their neighbors but more often hunching over their work in extreme concentration.

Indeed, the level of concentration that was on display in this class was nothing short of remarkable. On a daily basis, I am told these teachers and students must put up with a huge assortment of distractions from both inside and outside their classrooms. Today was no different. As the teacher was making an important point about Would rather, a dump truck rolled by just outside the open-walled classroom, emitting the full extent of its dump truck capacity for noise making. It continued to pass by the classroom three or four more times. Also, students dressed in brightly colored T-shirts and shorts trudged by en masse, apparently headed for their PE class. At one point, a pigeon flew into the classroom and landed on the upper rafters, peering down at us and seeming to decide if it had found a good spot for elimination. As the morning wore on, the heat and humidity continued to grow. And still, the students continued to work on their questions and raise hands in response to their teacher’s promptings.

Then it came time for the class to end, and the students to head to their next lesson. I weaved back to the front of the classroom, where I thanked the students for letting me watch them. Squealing and jumping begins. I told them to listen to their teacher because he would help them get very strong in English. Giggling. Then I admonished them to keep working on their English, waved and we were off. As I turned around, I noticed the wall-openings were again filled with gleeful faces.

Such was my first experience of a Togolese English classroom. We visited another group before the students headed home for lunch. This one included a similar number of students, but was focused on upper-high-school aged students. (No jumping up and down). Still, we were greeted and waved goodbye to with smiling faces, and I observed the same kind of concentration on display in the face of the myriad of distractions.

The sun was high in the sky as we found the moto again and headed back to the center of town. My friend explained to me that in Togo, students usually attend classes from early in the morning until about noon. At this time, they either walk home for lunch or they find a roadside stand where they can grab a bowl of rice, yams, spaghetti, or whatever is on offer from the motherly woman serving the dishes, who invariably carries a howling infant wrapped onto her back. Then, depending on the school, the students will either return to classes until about five o’clock or they do not go back in the afternoon at all. Some reasons for the variance are staffing, building logistics (space), or funding from the school and parents. Though there are designations between public and private schools here, all families pay something for their children’s schooling.

Currently in Togo, students begin learning English at the middle school level, which is roughly called college (kol-LEDGE), up until the end of high school, or lyceé (lee-SAY). Many teachers are trying to get English offered in elementary schools but I am told the plans are tied up at the national level. Many of the current issues relate to class sizes and lack of materials. (Most classes do not use textbooks or prepared materials, though teachers can take it upon themselves to make copies if they possess a textbook. Many don’t.) I have learned that some teachers in Lomé are just beginning to realize they need to have an email address. The TETO (Togo English Teachers’ Association) that I am currently working with is trying to emphasize this necessity. (But still, funding is an issue. Internet connectivity is expensive here. I’ve just learned that all students at my university must pay to use the campus internet connection, and that connection is available in just two or three buildings on the campus. There’s no free Wifi).

All in all, in my short time in Togo, I have already been overwhelmingly impressed by the grit of the English teachers here—how they persist in doing their best for their students in the face of these lacks and difficulties. We’d do well in America to remember that the conditions we’re used to are not the same the world over. As both American teachers and students (I’m looking at you—you complainers about homework!) we have much to learn from these Togolese English educators and learners. Strong concentration skills and a desire to learn are mighty players even in the face of such seeming challenges.