You all know Saphire. And if you don’t, then you clearly don’t know Mwisho wa Lami. Saphire is a teacher at our school—though to be honest, he is better known for what he does outside the classroom than inside. In fact, it is rare to find him in school, and even rarer to see him inside a classroom.
Saphire was two years ahead of me in Teacher Training College. While I went to the prestigious Kilimambogo TTC, he went to Kaimosi TTC. Since Kaimosi is near his home and within walking distance, we always said that he never really took his studies seriously—just as he never takes teaching seriously. To be fair, Saphire was a very bright boy.
In primary school, he scored high marks and secured a place at the great Kakamega High School, famously called the African Government School, Kakamega. There is school, and then there is African Government School, Kakamega. There, he excelled academically and consistently ranked among the top 10.
But things changed in Form Three. That’s when Saphire discovered the bottle—or rather fell in love with anything in a glass, tin, or plastic, as long as it contained something potent. Strangely, his grades did not collapse immediately. He still managed to get decent marks, but his focus shifted. During school holidays, while other students were attending tuition, Saphire would be found at Hitlers—and he wasn’t visiting to sing, or read the Bible.
KCSE became his downfall. A day before exams, he and a group sneaked out of school and returned just hours before the papers started. He would do so several times during the KSCE exam period.
As a result, several of his scripts were submitted blank, bearing only his name and index number. Even so, Saphire still managed a C plain—slightly better than my own very strong C–. He had dreams of being a lawyer, but with a bad English score and an average overall grade, university was out of reach.
After a year of loitering in the village, his uncle, who was a senior education officer, helped him join Kaimosi TTC. As always, he passed his classes without much effort but excelled even more in drinking. That same uncle later secured him a TSC posting, and he was sent to Mwisho wa Lami Primary, where he has remained to date.
Outside school, Saphire still lives in his father’s compound, in a small semi-permanent house he built with his first TSC boom. He never married, has never been seen in any serious relationship - except for his love for the bottle- and spends most of his life rotating between his house and Hitlers. Attempts to transfer him have always failed. Luckily, he has a good mother who ensures he eats and is cared for whenever he staggers home — which is every day.
You may remember a few years ago when Saphire was found lying by the roadside, unresponsive. Villagers declared him dead and even started mourning. It was only on the way to the mortuary that someone noticed he still had a pulse.
When forced to drink porridge, he suddenly came back to life—to the disappointment of some. When he does appear in school, Saphire rarely goes to class. But when he does, students love him. He is a walking dictionary in history and languages, and he never needs lesson plans or schemes of work. He teaches “from the heart.” His classes are funny, engaging, and—best of all for pupils—he never gives homework.
The problem is his irregularity. His pattern is predictable: once he gets paid, he disappears for weeks. He is never around at the start of the term and is also missing when schools close. He delays exam marking, sometimes so much that pupils’ scripts end up scattered all over the village. Needless to say, Saphire has been interdicted more times than I have visited Nairobi – and I have visited Nairobi many times.
Yet somehow, he always gets reinstated. He knows TSC rules and labour laws better than anyone, and with his uncle pulling strings in from behind, he always bounces back. Head teachers who tried to be tough on him often found themselves transferred or demoted.
Maina, who was a Headmaster here many years ago, was demoted when he interdicted Saphire for the third time. Bensouda was given a show-cause letter when she delayed accepting Saphire back when he was reinstated, asking that he be posted to another school.
But last year, Saphire’s uncle, his Godfather at TSC, retired. Despite this, Saphire continued his carefree ways, coming to school when he pleased and refusing to be accountable. I warned him, and many others warned him. He never changed. When his mother saw things were bad, she came to me, crying: “You will kill my son if you dismiss him. I can even hire another teacher to teach in his place!” I told her to talk to her son. She said she had tried everything, had tried payers, and had even visited witch doctors. “It is Satan’s work…” was how she concluded it.
Saphire got worse. After a long battle with TSC—sub county, county, and national offices—a decision was made. Saphire’s last working day was Friday, 31st August 2025. Twelve years before his retirement age, and with nothing to show for the years he worked.
I am not even sure he knows it yet. He has no phone, and every time I meet him, he is drunk. It makes me sad, but also relieved. At least Mwisho wa Lami will now get a teacher who is responsible and present. Join me in wishing Saphire success in this new phase of his life—whatever that will be.
