The Plight Of Teachers In Kenya’s Private Academies

By Ochieng’ Maddo

Educatio Secretary Jacob Kaimenyi releasing 2013 KCPE results (photo courtesy of Nation Media Group)

News headlines screamed Tuesday that private academies had beaten public schools in 2013 KCPE examination. Television footages showed celebrations throughout the country. Newspapers had jovial faces of teachers and parents dancing with the top candidates raised shoulder-high. The media gave a breakdown of marks attained per schools, gender and geographical regions. In Mombasa the Governor is undecided on how to share the Sh1 m award between two candidates from the same private school, who tied at position one. The message ultimately imparted on the public is that private academies are better than public schools, and that no meaningful learning takes place in the latter, generally.

This unfortunate culture of celebrating results has become ubiquitous, but there is more to it than meets the eye. The first unanswered question is why we should even make the release of results such eventful. And why should it be a media event? Because it is big business! The media love such events because when they are broadcast during prime news, the cost of commercial ads skyrockets. The same case applies to newspapers which sell massively on the second day. The schools whose candidates shine in the exams benefit immensely from media publicity. To many people, this appears as normal art of news gathering, but there is mega corruption involved here. Once media houses get access prior information about the results from clandestine sources, they promptly dispatch reporters to the relevant schools. By the time the announcement is made, the journalist is already on the ground. The school owners connive with reporters to get elaborate coverage and fair mentioning on air. This is where big moneys exchange hands. Other deals unknown to the top management of the media houses are also crafted.

When schools open on the second week of January, the number of customers who rush to seek admission places in those schools is overwhelming. Basking in the glory of success, the schools’ proprietors take advantage of the huge demand to raise fees by introducing other items of extortion within their fee structure. Such schools eventually realise huge profits which enable more investment and luxurious lifestyles by the proprietors. However, there is a group of unappreciated individuals literally toiling throughout the year to post such attractive results, but whose plights have not been adequately highlighted—the teachers.  

This writer was fortunate to teach in some of the good private schools on one hand and the misfortune of getting employed in a dozen others where teachers get literally sacrificed at the altar of performance, on the other. There was one particular one which stands out for many bad reasons. In that school, we experience brutal human rights abuses. The pressure to perform exerted on us by our employer was not just unbearable but unrealistic, yet the pay was hardly commensurate.

Three quarters of Kenya’s private schools teachers—in both primary and secondary—cannot join Kenya National Union of Private School Teachers (KNUPST) because they risk getting sacked by their employers. Most of the teachers also are not aware of the existence of such union.  All of us in that school also were not its members. The union has as a result, remained dormant since its inception in 2006. In fact, in this era of digital communication technology, the fact that the union’s Facebook group has only attracted 53 members explains the situation better. As such we lacked collective bargaining capacity to push for better pay and improved welfare in general.

Our payslips showed a percentage deducted towards NSSF and NHIF, but which never got remitted to the government. We worked without signing any contracts, which made us susceptible to abuse and arbitrary, unilateral sacking. Later on when the contracts were introduced, the employer still breached them at will. For the few months I endured being there, the teachers turnover rate was about 80%. To sum it up: it was a walk-in-walk-out-situation. Some teachers hardly lasted for a week. I saw a female teacher with a Masters degree tender her resignation letter within two hours of employment. She was unhappy with the system whereby two teachers attended to one lesson in one classroom together, so that while one taught, the other observed. Other teachers were even under instruction to spy on colleagues. And in the course of the lesson, the employer who had been pacing up and down along the corridors suddenly burst into the classroom and proceeded to discipline some students she had seen through the window, dozing off. She then turned the heat on the teachers and accused them in front of the students of being incompetent.

I too remember being denied one hour’s holiday tuition pay for allegedly leaning against the wall and telling stories to students instead of teaching. Indeed, I was narrating a story; outlining the plot of set novel, Utengano.

We worked from Monday to Saturday. Morning lessons began at seven o’clock. Evening ones ended at nine o’clock.  On Saturdays they ended at four o’clock, but usually there were impromptu meetings where the entire management team only gathered to berate us for nonperformance and all manner of misconducts. All the allegations against us were supposed to be true. A teacher was not expected to object to any thing. Any attempt to deny or answer back was disrespect, punishable by sacking. Teachers were picked on one after the other and told off as colleagues listened, waiting for their turn. I was constantly reminded: “Kiswahili ni kitu mbaya sana“, that my teaching subject, Kiswahili, was not a desirable thing.

We could get to the staff-room as early 6.30 AM, but instead of tea or uji, we were served hot water. At ten o’clock we got a cup of tea each. Every day, lunch was a few spoons of githeri mixed with overcooked spinach. In the evening, teachers on duty together with those who had night lessons ate dinner in school. The teachers could easily tell when students ate meat because teachers’ spinach was soaked in meat soup. The school was located far away from the shopping centre, hence impossible for us to go out and purchase food.

Given the limited time we had between the last lesson and the first one on the following day, we were unable to prepare and regularly bring with us packed lunch. Male teachers particularly found that quite daunting. A colleague who was ill suggested that a fraction of our pay be deducted to make for us decent lunch. The employer responded that the deduction would be an eighth of our basic pay. The programme collapsed.  I quit in a huff, triggering a mass exodus of teachers from that school. But our ill colleague, unable to make drastic moves due to his failing health, had to endure the harsh conditions for two more years. He finally passed away last year.