Preparatory over ‘syto’ schools any day

Philip, my cousin, then, we shared the same place of residence. They, however, lived in just two stretch of windows away from ours, so most of his father’s intone, I could hear them.

In the 2000s I didn’t know that breakfast was essential in boosting a child’s mental prowess, especially the light meals. And tea, per se, wasn’t a favourite.

The amount of money I used to get; I needed to play 1:0:1 formation to see the light of the day. As such all of my chop money went into rice and stew before leaving to school. Lest, I go hungry in the afternoon.

On the other hand, Mr. Tagoe, always ensured that his son would get to take his breakfast on time, latest by 6:15 A.M. Lipton, ideal milk, plus freshly baked tea-bread were the combinations Philip used to enjoy as breakfast.

I would be monitoring him, when he was done bathing, I dressed up quickly. By that time his dad had left and, he had gotten hold of his teacup and be tearing apart his tea bread ravenously gentle.

The scent of his freshly baked bread alone could invite the angels to hold a coffee break with him. I can’t just stand aside and watch, I gatecrashed with effrontery. He had no options than we eat together. Sometimes I’d even take the larger share.

This continued almost everyday, until Philip became used to my pestering towards his breakfast. And luckily, there were days he would eat and had me a back pass, or would inform his father to make a reservation for me.

A beggar, in my case, has a choice. I owned the breakfast! If I go and Philip had finished the tea, or he didn’t take any at all, I never allowed him to breathe.

I disturbed him at the least chance I got, vilifying him jovially. Whenever we are playing football or chatting among ourselves, I’d raise the issue, so to win sympathy votes. Ebenezer Adopleh often had ears for my case.

Philip didn’t let me have my way easily, though. We could trade words against each other for minutes, but the next day I’d be there to enjoy his breakfast with him regardless.

A year or months before all the above incidents would have its inception, Philip was then at his maternal residence, not too far from where we resided. I remember being sent by Mr. Tagoe to go and fetch him to his place. On that errand, I never knew I was going to meet an English boy. What I hate!

I had announced my presence (at their maternal house), and when I mentioned to his (Philip’s) aunt (Biikaa) that I have been asked to bring Philip along. What I could hear from afar was, “Eeee, Philip, they only speak English in school o. . .so tell the boy.” I quivered. What’s all this! So I’d have to squeeze my anus and speak English with Phillip. “Me I can’t.”

Those were the days we (pupils) constructed the sentences in our head(s) before we voice them out. Even when they came out, one would read sentences like: “I didn’t went to school last day”, I didn’t slept on time”, “the reasons why I saw you”, among many other monstrous phrases.

In order not disgrace myself in front of this new cousin of mine, I constructed all the needed sentences I’d be using, first in my head. When I was done I thanked God for opening the way.

Philip appeared, clad in a somewhat hoodie top. I didn’t know how we manage to get home. I wish I could recollect the English I spoke. But for security reasons, I knew I didn’t speak much; Philip did all the informal socialization.

Now that I know my cousin can speak impeccable English my woes with English comprehension and composition were half solved. Philip was then in Maranatha Preparatory School. We were all in class six, second term or so.

To the best of my knowledge, there were only three reigning preparatory schools at La. Holy Star was a top notch. Then we can talk about King’s Palace which, from it, came Maranatha. Perhaps a decoupling took place.

There were other highly rated schools but only few of the people (Toni and his two cousins) in our environ attended Soul Clinic. Majorly of the people could afford the aforementioned three preparatory schools.

That Monday night when my zero mark, or one, or two over six in my English homework had reflected, I thought wise to turn the table over.

We had been given another homework: read the passage and asnwer the questions. I solved the correction in the other question I had scored zero or one, and off I left to Philip’s place. I had come for an English consultation.

Philip was, most often, around that time, reading or watching news. I would have gone to spend all my hours with AC Milan, La (a colts football team).

My cousin didn’t give me any attitude at all. He’d read the passage with me, as if he was a news anchor and proceeded to solve all the questions.

Never did Philip solve an English or maths homework for me and I scored nothing below excellent. If they were six or ten questions, I scored six or ten in all. Though he had been helping me that didn’t sway my pestering of him for his breakfast and calling him names when I didn’t get to enjoy the breakfast.

At the end of the third term I started an extra class at their school, Maranatha Preparatory. There were other excellent students I met there, Evans (now an immigration officer) and Theophilus (I don’t know much about him lately). These pupils were sharks and whales: no question passed by them.

Me, however, I was the shark only when it comes to sports — football, precisely. If it’s anything football I could even close my eyes and produce results.

In form two, Mrs. Obeng, our English and Agriculture teacher, asked the class, while we were reading a passage during an English language lesson — that “what’s the meaning of ‘swerve’?”

Zion, the coach of AC Milan, La, had used the word “swerve” severally for demonstration whenever he was teaching us some techniques of dribbling at training.

So while nobody opted to answer, I remember telling our teacher that I’d love to try. I just demonstrated it (the swerve) exactly how Zion used to teach us.

Mrs. Obeng asked the class to clap for me. And she said to me, quoting her verbatim: “if you take sports seriously, it will take you to places.”

These words of encouragement from her later manifested in my life, even more than I could imagine. And I mentioned it to her when we met again like seven years ago, while she was serving in the capacity as a Headmistress of La Emmaus, the primary school I attended.

She was wowed. That particular moment is indelible in my life.

Now, what I noticed about this preparatory school is that they hardly have problem with the fundamentals. Be it English (speaking or writing), mathematics or science.

There was truly something these pupils had and we, those at the “Syto” (disadvantaged government schools) didn’t have.

The first of it is the expertise and dedication of their teachers. They had time for the pupils. Poor performing students then were given special attention. And their style of teaching differs, if not in all, then slightly from how our teachers used to teach us back.

This isn’t to say that “Syto” school teachers don’t do their best. Please no! I am only recounting what I have witnessed twenty or so years ago in my personal life. I don’t know if the dynamics have taken a paradigm shift now.

Even Ben Carson, the world’s premier neurosurgeon, who was then grappling with academics, in page fifteen of his book (Think Big), recounted one reason he couldn’t learn much in school.

“In Boston we had attended a parochial school, but I hadn’t learned much because of a teacher who seemed more interested in talking to another female teacher than teaching us.”

Therefore, teachers, as a whole, somehow contribute to the poor (not only excellent) performance of pupils (or students in general).

Take, for instance, the Blackstars of Ghana. They’ve sacked a number of coaches (managers) for poor performance of the team. The question is: do the coaches play the game? It’s a yes and no answer. Yes, because it’s the coach’s systems that the players rely on. And no, because they don’t physically partake in the match but their game plan is adhered to.

In senior high school, we had a science teacher who taught us general science as though it was an English subject. Common “diffusion” practicals I didn’t even know if he did take us through. No practicals. He comes to class and talks to the girls. His concentration centered more on how to win the heart of Hajara (my classmate) than any other thing.

Similarly, our English teachers, maybe I was dumb, but I didn’t recall anything they said which stuck in my brain, except one telling us how to use “comma”. She was like we should put it (comma) in a sentence where we would have to pause. Or when reading we should hold our breath when we see a “comma” around.

The next factor could be the size of classroom. In primary, we were slightly above 60 pupils. Unfortunately, as we climb a class ahead then some of our classmates were ending their academic dream. Some stopped schooling at class three, four, or five. We started class one with huge number but we got to class six with like 50 or so pupils.

That said, at Maranatha, they had a sizeable number of pupils in a class. So the teachers could easily monitor the performance of each student and render a special assistance to a poor performing pupil. The pupil, too, because of the sizeable number of the class, each and everyone of them contributed during lessons. At our end, we could just be sitting at the far end and be disturbing the class for nothing.

Again, the school (Maranatha) held a Saturday class, and Philip didn’t miss. Our school never held one, but I don’t know if it’s changed now. Though I still hold the view that unnecessary extra classes impede pupils from dedicating their time to other life skills and family bonding, I feel those days that was what worked for pupils of Maranatha.

Remuneration could have played a big role. I don’t know the salary of our teachers and that of my cousin’s teachers. But I could say they were better off than ours.

I did take notice of a teacher, like in our case, Mr. Mensah, who sold “Abolo” (banana cake) during our days at the primary school. Failure to buy, he’d compel one (pupil) to buy it on credit. If their pay was good enough I doubt he’d have pestered and threatened children to buy from him. The teachers of Maranatha appeared professional to me.

And at home too, we hardly speak English. Maybe that could be a factor. We considered our domicile language as key.

I’m the type who loves Africanism. I’d speak Ga with anyone I meet who could speak Ga than English. Philip also spoke Ga when he was in our midst, but anytime he had to switch to English, he did it seamlessly.

Methinks early approach would be a good way to solve the issue of mastering any language. Encouraging the children to play with the local and English language. Because no mater how much we’d hate the English language it has become key in our day-to-day activities.

In conclusion, instead of regarding private schools as a haven for excellence, public schools need to be given a facelift, in tuition, class size, remuneration, and others.

When these are realized the public schools would go a long way to injecting cognitive abilities in the pupils than never before

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