There was a man coughing non-stop in that afternoon train. During such warm weather, a vicious uncomfortable cough, was odd. Had it been those days of Covid and the unseen, illogical fear of – an unknown disease – we would have been genuinely, terrified. Ouff awf awffff! Awful it was , making the man’s miserable face seem like a whole bottle of tomato ketchup had been thrown at him. He used his bare fingers to shield tiny flecks of yellow mucus – what we call makohozi in Kiswahili – flying off his ooouf ouff mouth.
Nearby, another chap bent down his seat strumming a guitar; quietly humming a familiar jazz tune. If you are a connoisseur of mid 20th century classics – you would have recognised, “Fly me to the moon…” made famous by the American singer Frank Sinatra. The guitarist’s mellowness was almost dampened by the other’s persistent rasping and wheezing. Two distinct opposite voices that battled in that afternoon London public safari.
Close-by a young mother sat Mile End, East London. In hopped a woman carrying a large rucksack and something like a plastic blanket. There was no place to sit. Passengers continued starring at their phones. Doodling. Texting. Listening to something, probably the endless snake known as Tik Tok.
Again, mother and son, got busy. Whispering at him, the boy, abruptly, stood up, giving his seat to the lady with lots of gear. “Thanks very much…” She stuttered, smiling. “ You are very kind, boy. I am going out at the next stop.” So the young lad retrieved his seat while the tube (as London’s underground trains so nicknamed) trudged on- rata ta ta ta ratata…
In about five steps, the youngster, quickly walked over- offered the coughing bloke a white tissue. The man said thank you, his reddened face brightening up like a room that has been rejuvenated with new light bulbs. Wiping his mouth, nose, lips and hands, he looked relieved, as he had in the last seconds been using parts of his shirt to mop off the makohozi flecks -shooting out of his punishing lungs. Ouf ouf ouf! Oufff!
Meanwhile, the train stopped at a large station called… Ad interim, the coughing man resumed his ouf ouf oufff-agony. And as we slogged on east wards, mother and son were busy chatting. The boy listened attentively. You wondered if they were old friends or a parent and child. And this simple drama unfolded a huge cinema screen of our times. It almost wiped out a 21st century notion.
That children have no manners. That younger people are selfish. That Generation Z is a generation of narcissism and me-me-me only. That parents can longer manage their children. That some parents remind us of a proverb from Haiti : It is harder to teach than to learn.
Parents and teachers have a tough job in today’s world packed with endless distractions and cruel politics. And the mind wanders off to a clip on Tik Tok. You see a teacher wrestling with a pupil. For ten seconds, HE is in control. However, moments later, the professional educator, literally, yes LITERALLY, flees the class room as other pupils chase and film him on their phones. A reality in Africa and the developed world.
Teachers rushing out of classrooms in tears as students giggle and boo, thinking it is funny. No manners. 50 to 60 years ago (when politics were different) it would have been unthinkable for a grown up professional educator to yield and surrender to rude, unruly children. It would have been the other way around. Back then it was stick, punishment, more sticks, strokes and order. Then the politics of equality, human rights and abuse rushed in waving flags of surrender.
By 2025, a teacher can easily be humiliated by students. A teacher may be sued by parents. Teachers and police have no authority. Yes police do kill in some countries. Yet in some places, even police are soft targets. Add a menacing lawlessness and evil smoke that is creeping around the planet. Of some nations killing en-masse and getting away with murder. This is known as democracy. Yes we are in mid 21st century, paradise. Bless your eyes.
