My baby girl got the class prefect’s job

“Moving on.” Two words. But not just any two words. These are words that are hard to accept. My daughter is having a difficult time moving on after some of her classmates transferred to other schools.

Last week while taking her to school, she pointed at a schoolgirl ahead of us.

“Dah-dee?” Pudd’ng said excitedly, “That used to be my classmate, but she transferred.”

“How do you know it’s her?” I asked, and she replied that she could tell from the way she walked.

Pudd’ng forced me to walk faster so that we could catch up with the girl. The pair chatted a little bit, before parting ways. 

“I miss the way she used to walk and do funny things in class,” Pudd’ng reminisced, days later, adding that this gone girl would carry bananas to school, which they ate after lunch.

This year, Pudd’ng’s school decided to do things differently. The pupils were asked to draft application letters for the post of class prefect.

No direct nominations. Pudd’ng’s interest was more than piqued, and she kept talking about it. She wanted me to write her the letter, but I told her to first show me what she could do.

NEW SCHOOL

“Write the letter, the way you know how; then we’ll take it from there,” I advised. 

When she showed me the quarter page letter she had jotted, I gave her two straight As. One for effort. Another one for making me laugh, not in her little face, though…

“I think I should be the prefect. Because I am hardworking and I am always kin in class. I obey my parents and teachers. I am always quit in class. I finish teachers work.”

“Kin” and “quit”? Uh-uh. I didn’t make that up. (Sic).  

The plan of transferring our daughter to another school has been on our minds since we moved to a new neighbourhood.

It would be easier and more convenient, considering the hassles that Pudd’ng and I go through every morning.

My chief concern is not just convenience, but my daughter’s education as well. She has also made friends and memories in this school where she has been since baby class. However, I also realise that a time comes when one has to move on.

Though this moving on may hurt her and severe the friendships she has made, it will also, I believe, make her grow.

Pudd’ng has even told me what she wants in her new school - a helipad.

My baby girl’s a fighter. She has never complained. Always gets out of bed without moi pulling off her blankets, and even when we’re squeezed like sardines in a matatu, she wears a gritty smile. 

The other morning, as private cars whizzed past us, and precious minutes whizzed even faster, she told me – for the 50th morning, that we would help others if God blessed us with a car.

“Dah-dee? I dreamed that you bought a car.” 

“Amen, prophetess,” I concurred.

NO ENTRY

We got this Good Samaritan bug from our Pastor’s wife. She hardly knew us when God led us to this new church, but one morning, as we waited for a bus to church, she stopped her car and gave us a lift.

My daughter and I have decided that, when God blesses us with our ride, we will return the favour to perfect strangers.

Our hearts go out to school kids whom we see suffering in the morning rush hour. Some, who are unaccompanied, are refused entry into matatus or harangued.

Whenever this happens, I always think, “Man, if only you knew who that child is”.

Pudd’ng got the prefect’s job, though not entirely on the strength of her letter. I taught her how an application letter is structured, but told her to use her own words.

I figured she will need this skill in life. I haven’t written an application letter in eons. This was a refresher course of sorts. What’s funny is that it is the apprentice who pointed out to the master where the applicant’s address goes. 

In future, Pudd’ng won’t erroneously write a quit notice, thinking it’s an application letter.

Plus, I hope that whenever moving on happens – swiftly or slowly – it won’t be difficult for her.