When teachers were feared: Remembering the dark days in Kenyan schools

The ease, familiarity, and openness with which today’s children interact with their teachers is both heart-warming and, to those of us who came of age in the 1980s and 1990s, utterly astounding. It represents a seismic cultural shift—one that replaces the iron-fisted authority of yesteryear with something softer, kinder, and infinitely more human.

Gone are the days when a teacher’s presence triggered dread. In those earlier decades, educators were not so much respected as they were feared. Fear, in fact, was often mistaken for respect. Teachers held unchallenged power — power that was rarely questioned and frequently abused. Their methods of discipline were harsh, their demeanour severe, and their tempers ever-ready to flare.

To encounter a teacher within school was intimidating enough. But to meet one outside of school—perhaps on a village path or in the local market—felt like an intrusion of tyranny into civilian life. We would vanish into hedges, hide behind kiosks, or freeze in place until the coast was clear. To be seen by a teacher outside the school compound was almost taboo.

The dreaded staffroom loomed large in our collective psyche—a chamber of punishment that inspired the kind of fear Guantanamo Bay might evoke in darker imaginations. A summons there did not just mean disciplinary action; it often meant rounds of caning, sometimes by teachers who didn’t even know why you were there. You were simply guilty by virtue of being summoned.

Caning wasn’t an exceptional punishment—it was a daily ritual. Kneeling on dusty floors at the crack of dawn was the opening act for being late. Failing to do homework meant kneeling outside the classroom, an open invitation for every passing teacher to land a stroke on your back or hands. Talking in class could earn you laps around the field—barefoot and in morning dew.

Noise? Cane. Dirty uniform? Home you go. Hair too long? Scissors appeared, carving humiliating crosses or tracks into your scalp before you were sent packing for a “proper” haircut. And that was after the caning.

Inspection days were brutal. Each Monday, we were paraded on the school grounds like soldiers under review. Teachers moved from one child to the next, scrutinising nails, uniform, hair, and hygiene. Shoes, of course, weren’t part of the checklist—most of us didn’t own any. Shoes were reserved for Sundays or funerals.

The punishments themselves often bordered on the absurd. Tilling the school shamba. Running laps while carrying heavy stones. Scrubbing latrines. Washing teachers’ utensils. Every misdemeanour had its consequence, and most of them involved physical pain or public shame.

Worse still, some of these punishments crossed into the dangerous. Pupils suffered injuries—some long-term. A few, tragically, never made it home. The trauma of those years remains etched in our memories, long after the bruises faded.

And yet, in the face of such cruelty, we found resilience. We survived. We laughed in secret. We formed bonds in shared suffering. But perhaps most painfully, we never quite knew what it meant to be nurtured by our teachers.

Today, the classroom is a different world. Pupils and teachers walk together, joke together, even call one another during the holidays. Children share their struggles, their triumphs, and their dreams with their teachers—not out of fear, but out of trust. The modern teacher is no longer an enforcer, but a guide. No longer feared, but admired.

Discipline has not disappeared, but its form has changed. It is now underpinned by dialogue, mutual respect, and emotional intelligence. Teachers are trained to understand, not merely to command. They inspire through connection, not coercion.

This transformation is nothing short of revolutionary. Where once we ducked into bushes to avoid being seen, today’s children run into their teachers’ arms. Where silence once reigned under threat of pain, laughter now rings through the corridors. Teachers are no longer feared overlords. They are mentors, friends, confidants. They laugh with pupils, walk alongside them, even receive calls during the holidays from students saying a casual “hello.”