It’s a rainy afternoon when we arrive at Nkomo Primary School, in Mnqobokazi, a small village within Hluhluwe town in northern KwaZulu-Natal, a province in South Africa.
The school’s 51-year-old principal, Nomusa Zikhali, approaches us with a smile and a gentle handshake as she welcomes us to her office in a school she first started for a handful of students under four hulking trees.
Zikhali was born and bred in this dry corner of Mnqobokazi. Teaching was always her passion.
“When I was young, I used to play school with my friends and I was always the headmaster. I used to love being a teacher or I’d be a social worker because I loved working with people,” she says.
Zikhali had it tough growing up. She ran away from home, as her father wanted to marry her off at the age of 16.
“I left school in standard eight because my father believed I was old enough to get married. He wanted 11 cows, so I was supposed to get married to a man with five wives,” she says.
Her older brother suggested she relocate to big city: Johannesburg.
“He also didn’t like the idea of me being married at a young age, so he wanted me to go and stay with him and his girlfriend, who worked as a domestic worker in Johannesburg,” says Zikhali.
“I was scared and confused; I didn’t think I would survive. I didn’t even have an ID or passport, so I had to hide at the house where my brother’s girlfriend worked. I sometimes felt lonely and intimidated by the huge buildings, big city lights and busy lifestyle.”
Even here, life was not easy but she managed to survive for two years.
Zikhali and her brother’s girlfriend sold street food – fat cakes and polony – in Ellis Park, commuting by train every morning. Her R500 ($37) profit bought her a ticket to return home. It also brought her face-to-face with her future husband. He benevolently offered to pay for the 11 cows her father wanted.
“On my way home I met my future husband on the bus; when I told him about my story, he offered to pay for the cows.”
At 18, she got married but personal tragedy was in store. Tears well up in her eyes as she relates the story of her two-year-old son’s death in 1994.
“He was burning, I went to the clinic and the nurses told me that they only treated emergencies on weekends. I was turned away and at night he got worse, he had a fit and died on a Monday morning before I could return to the clinic. I couldn’t accept his death, I almost went crazy,” she says.
She channelled the pain into completing matric. She couldn’t go to university because she had to take care of her mother-in-law who had had a stroke.
Because of her love for mathematics, she volunteered at a school as a teacher for seven years without pay.
“I decided to register part-time at the Rand Afrikaans University for a teaching course through correspondence,” she says.
She noticed that the nearest school was 20 kilometers by foot, so she wanted to build a school nearer, and approached the education department, which approved her proposal, but didn’t have enough money to fund it.
“I started the school alone in a hard-to-reach area where I was supposed to walk and cross a flooded river with a handmade boat with 35 children every day.”
She had to move to a rondavel [an African-style hut] on the other side of the bank for two months.
This made teaching difficult as nature continued to conspire against her.
The floods worsened, and the number of students in her school shrank from 60 to 25.
Zikhali was forced to look for a better, safer location. The site she finally settled on only had trees but no brick-and-mortar infrastructure, whatsoever. But under those four majestic trees, she set tables, wooden mats and a stove where she cooked meals for the children.
“I decided to make one of the trees my office; whenever you came to the school you would wait for me in my office; and I used the others for grade 1, 2 and 3. I was the only teacher and had to teach the different grades at the same time,” she says.
Zikhali asked the Africa Foundation, an independent non-profit organization, for classrooms; they built two.
Sixteen years later, the school has 20 classrooms, 860 children and 26 teachers. Zikhali also opened a center for orphaned and vulnerable children.
“I decided to do some home visits after school and saw that the situations at their homes were not alright. There are some children who have bad mannerisms; I don’t push them away, because it’s their way of crying out for help, there’s usually a story behind a child’s behavior.”
Khumbulani Ngwane, a 30-year-old plumber and electrician who was taught by Zikhali, recalls how learning under the trees taught him perseverance.
“The situation was difficult, especially on rainy days; sometimes we’d bring planks and used them as chairs and others would sit on dirt. But that whole experience taught us to never give up in life. As much as we were learning from text books, we were also trained on how to handle life problems.”
Ngwane’s parents died when he was young; his mother was shot by robbers and his father passed away following an illness. Zikhali took him as her own.
“She’s an amazing person,” says Ngwane. “She basically raised me and opened so many doors for me and others in the community without expecting anything in return.”
Zikhali plans to retire in 2020 and continue with her community projects.
Hopefully by then, her rain cloud will have a silver lining and her children a roof over their heads.

Nomusa-Zikhali-130

Classes  Under Rain  Clouds And Trees

It’s curious, and almost incongruous, to see Juste Chisenga, the Grade 1B teacher at the Kasisi Primary School, give a lesson in a neat black suit and checkered tie in the Zambian language of Bemba.
It’s hot and sweaty under a rusted tin ceiling that has been around since 1924. The classroom walls are full of cracks and its light blue paint is peeling. Dozens of curling educational posters hang, yellowed with age.
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The children look as worn out as the building they are in. Some have walked as far as 14 kilometers to get here. Their uniforms are mismatched and layered in red dust.
This is the last place you would expect to see a teacher wearing a suit. Chisenga looks like a man from another time.
It’s also the last place you would expect to see children staring at a slideshow on a solar powered projector instead of a blackboard.
It’s even more bizarre seeing the same seven-year-olds sitting on uneven wooden desks and pulling out several smart tablets from a cardboard box to continue their lesson.
This is the brainchild of entrepreneur Mark Bennett. His idea is to help educate young Zambians by making a tablet part of their school curriculum for their villages.
“We decided to do something about the way teaching is done in Zambia&#8230; These days everyone has access to a cell phone. What’s more, in the rural areas they know how to work it; without being able to read. So we designed something that could be translated into several different languages&#8230; We’ve spent around $6 million developing the software with the help of 250 designers from around the world animating it. So far, we have had 2.3 million words translated into local languages and a quarter of a million sounds,” he says.
Bennett first came to Zambia in 1985 on a two-year contract to work at a computer center at the University of Zambia. He left the job twelve years later after the university figured out he was still on its payroll, he jokes. From there, he spent years bringing the internet to Zambia. He became a household name when he sold his Zambian internet service provider, AfriConnect, to Vodacom in 2005.
Wondering what to do next, Bennett’s idea for iSchool came seven years ago while sitting next to Clare Stead on a plane.
“We started by asking what would we do in education differently in the bush. What would you do to teach better,” says Stead, who is now the E-Learning project director for iSchool.
“The internet is a great learning tool but not for Africa. It’s not contextual. We found that children in rural areas didn’t understand why Elmo from Sesame Street would need to hang washing up between two skyscrapers in Seattle. Our first step was designing an education program suited for the rural people of Africa,” she says.
With overwhelming class numbers of between 60 to 100 children at a time, teachers in Africa are overworked, underpaid and lack organization, says Stead.
“With the ZEduPad, children can engage with the tablet and find answers faster than a teacher asking the same question 60 times over. We were also able to devise a curriculum plan for teachers to help them set goals for the week, for the month and for the whole year.”
It’s not always been smooth sailing. The team has encountered a number of hurdles including the Zambian government that passed a law to allow children to be taught in their mother tongue. It meant Bennett’s team had to write out whole new languages, including the first dictionaries for a number of dialects.
Regardless of the difficulties, Bennett remains resolute. Now in its second year, the project has distributed 7,000 tablets across Zambia.
The tablets are solar charged meaning they can go pretty much anywhere in the county, says Bennett. The children find them fun to use and, thanks to the language changes, easily understood. It makes learning easier than staring at a blackboard and far more interactive, says Stead.
The results according to teacher Chisenga have been amazing. His grin is as wide as the tablet he helps his grade ones complete their basic maths with. A man in a suit that looks as out of place in the classroom as the tablets.

Tablets  that ease the learning headache

Vision. That is how it started.
At the dawn of Namibia’s independence from South Africa in 1990, David Namwandi, a teacher, and his wife, Virginia, noticed a skills gap. They knew that education was Namibia’s future.
“IUM [International University of Management] was founded on a one-on-one basis: one student, one lecturer, one employee, one lecture room, one blackboard and a few hundred Namibian dollars,” says Namwandi.
“My husband was the first lecturer and I was the administrator, registrar, everything.”
This was in 1994, at their rented house on 12 Sauer Street, in Windhoek. Soon, the Namwandis had four students, which later grew to 10—so many that they could no longer be taught at their home. This led to the establishment of the first private university in Namibia.
“The gap was much larger than we had even imagined. People were so hungry for what we had to offer. It became increasingly obvious that we needed to give a qualification to the programs we were offering,” she says.
The driven duo gained accreditation and offered programs from numerous international academic institutions. Twelve years later, in 2002, the founding president of Namibia, Sam Nujoma, unveiled IUM at the Safari Hotel, in Windhoek.
“We receive good support from the Namibian government… without them we would not be where we are today,” says Namwandi.
Namibians didn’t think that a private university was necessary, since there was a public university and the polytechnic.
“At the beginning there was a lot of discouragement, especially when we had financial issues, which is common to any growing institution when you are starting. People discouraged us and said: ‘Just give it up, it will never work, it can’t work, not here,’” she says.
Criticism taught her that “you can do anything. If you set your mind to do something, you can achieve it”.
“When I look at myself, where I was 10 to 15 years ago, if you had told me that I would be doing what I am doing now, I would have not believed you. But the truth, is sometimes in life, we underestimate what we can do. So, it’s only when you are thrown into the deep end that you realize what you are capable of doing,” she says.
For the only private university in Namibia, this was unchartered territory.
“It has not been easy to access the funding. Public institutions are subsidized by government, so they are able to offer good remuneration, have the infrastructure and government, from time to time, will be able to come to their aid. But for ourselves, we have to fund ourselves,” she says.
In 2010, David, by then a PhD candidate, stepped aside as the university’s first vice-chancellor, after he was appointed the deputy minister of education. Earlier this year he was appointed the minister. It was only natural that his wife, who had shared his vision, would assume the role of vice-chancellor.
Thousands of graduation caps and five campuses across the country are a testament.
“When we moved to our present location in Dorado [Windhoek], the current president, his excellency [Hifikepunye] Pohamba, inaugurated the building. President [Sam] Nujoma was also present. It was an honor to have both the current and founding presidents there in 2010,” says Namwandi.
Nujoma also celebrated alongside the couple at the university’s 10th anniversary last year.
The newly-appointed minister is known for his stern stance against corruption and mismanagement, yet after 23 years of independence, the Namibian education sector still struggles.
“At the beginning of every year, it’s the same cry, the institutions cannot accommodate a lot of the students.”
IUM will expand to the southern and eastern parts of the country next year. These campuses will focus on non-degree programs such as tourism, hospitality and events management. The country’s landscape makes it a prime destination for international tourists. Namibia welcomes 1.2 million visitors each year—which is around half of Namibia’s population—and tourism contributes N$16.6 million ($1.6 million) to the GDP, just over 20%.
The university has four faculties: business information systems; tourism and hospitality; defense management; and a one-of-a-kind faculty of HIV/AIDS management.
“We felt the time had come for us to offer programs that were relevant to Namibians,” she says.
The students studying at the HIV/AIDS management faculty come from Namibia and the South African Development Community (SADC) region, specifically Botswana. Its graduates work at the United Nations, NGOs and faith-based organizations.
“The lady who is in charge of the HIV/AIDS program in the defense force is our alumni,” says Namwandi, with pride.
She continues to fight Namibia’s skills shortage with lecture rooms that create employment.
“We are still heavily economically dependent on South Africa and others. It’s a situation that I would like to see change. It’s important that as much as Namibia took the reins, in terms of its political independence, this should be the time that we focus on making ourselves economically independent.”
This, she believes, is possible through empowerment by means of education.
“Education is the key; it will be one of the main enablers to reach 2030, which is the national vision for the country. I have hope, I see some of the decisions that are being made currently, that are going to enable that to make it happen,” she says.
Namwandi is open-minded—she looks beyond conventional qualifications and the university offers non-degree qualifications too.
“When you need a bulb changed or a plumber, you don’t need to go to someone with a degree. We need to also upgrade the concept of vocational training because for the longest time people looked at it as a lower qualification but the idea is to give it that place, to lift the status that will equip us well for the future.”
IUM is building hostels to cater for international students, who hail from 14 countries.
“They are all my children, in fact I always say that the most emotional experiences for me is a graduation ceremony… I love being around young people. They keep one young and youthful,” says Namwandi.
The academic staff are also an international mix.
“We have an IT lecturer from Cuba. We have an IT lecturer from India. We have [many lecturers] from the SADC region, especially Zimbabwe, and at management level we have someone from Sri Lanka, our registrar is Scottish.”
Her mantra for entrepreneurial success is: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.”
“We need to step out of the box; we’ve been boxed and it’s time to get out of these boxes and say: ‘No I can do it, if this person can do it, so can I.’ There is a big change in Namibia now because if you look at women soon after independence and now, women are coming out and filling those top positions and its good for us.”
So speaks the only female vice-chancellor in Namibia.

They Said It Wouldn’t Work

The year was 1994. South Africa’s political climate was changing; a new president promised democracy and opportunities for all. For Romeo Makhubela life was just beginning. After years of teaching, he decided to register at business school. He put down the chalk and left the classroom, and today he is the CEO of a 100 percent black-owned investment company, a world away from high school teaching.
This epiphany turned him into one of the country’s emerging financial services providers. The reason Makhubela was in the classroom in the first place was no surprise. For most black South Africans at the time, that was the highest you could reach. You could either be a policeman, nurse or teacher.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like teaching. He had studied for a Bachelor of Commerce degree and topped it with a teaching diploma, which led him to become a commerce teacher for final year students, in the North West province of South Africa.
“The most exciting part as a teacher, especially a high school teacher, is when the [matric] results come out, and you realize that the investment that you made [has paid off]. I remember one year ‘I’ had a lot of distinctions and for me that was so fulfilling because you could see people going to university, some are now working and you know that you were part of that product,” says Makhubela.
“I started teaching in 1990… Around 1992 or ’93 I started noticing that a change was coming in South Africa and clearly businesses would start transforming and there would be huge opportunities, especially for people who had a Bachelor of Commerce qualifications,” says Makhubela.
It was never easy, amid the political turmoil of his country. During his university studies, Makhubela was also politically active.
“I matriculated in 1983. Things were quite tough at that stage; I think the upheavals were starting… It was terrible in those days and I had [to take] a break in ’84, then in ’85 I started doing my Bachelor of Commerce degree ’till around ’88. There was one year where we didn’t write exams because of the [political] problems.”
“Politics then was something that you just couldn’t avoid because there were a lot of injustices in this country… Especially at [university] because you started seeing the world and seeing that certain things weren’t correct… The way some lecturers conducted themselves, I can tell you one example; [In our first year] the one [lecturer]… just came and said ‘Look this is such a big class, I’m not used to teaching [so many people] and I can assure you that in third year 80 to 90% [of you] will be gone’. And you sit down and say ‘How could you make such a statement?’.”
Today, he is no longer in politics; he sits at the head of Vunani Limited. The eight-year-old company was launched in 2004 following a management buyout from African Harvest. In 2007, the company listed on the JSE AltX Exchange raising R175 million ($21.4 million). They currently have offices in Johannesburg and Cape Town, in South Africa and Harare, Zimbabwe.
He worked his way to the top, starting out at an insurance company as a graduate trainee, then he became a financial analyst for an asset management company and after around six years in the asset management field, he was recruited as chief investment officer for a life insurance company. And now he is heading Vunani Limited, an emerging company that wants to leave its mark as South Africa’s leading black-owned financial services provider. Vunani Limited is listed on the JSEAltX; it is currently listed 19th in the financial services sector, with R204.5 million ($24.96 million) of market capitalization. The company has a diverse portfolio, which consists of Vunani Fund Managers; Vunani Capital; Vunani Technology Ventures; Vunani Securities; Vunani Capital Markets and Vunani Properties. Now it is going up against the best in the financial services industry and is forging its own way. One challenge they, like many other companies, are facing is growing the industry.
Makhubela’s focus now is on getting his countrymen to start putting away more for a rainy day.
“One of the biggest gripes about South Africa is that if you look at our saving ratio, it’s quite low and clearly that tells to the culture or the environment from which people [come from]. My sense is that, maybe in the white culture it’s much better because at least that kind of information was instilled but in the broader black community… the kind of savings that you generally see within [them] would be pension funds, which is forced, because when you work you get your pension fund automatically.”
Last year, South Africa’s minister of finance, Pravin Gordhan, said that South Africa’s savings rate was low and that it “needed to increase its saving rate if it were to become the ‘China of Africa’”.
Makhubela agrees.
“Savings are critical… look at the Chinese for example. The savings rate there is extremely high—but you could argue that it’s influenced by a number of facts because they don’t have a proper social system… But that helps because if you look at the global crisis we are experiencing now… the Chinese have played an important role in terms of lessening the impact of the global crisis because of their savings.”
According to The South African Savings Institute (SASI), South Africa is the lowest ranking member of BRICS when it comes to saving.
“The International Monetary Fund (IMF) statistics show that since 2001, compared with its BRICS counterparts, SA’s rate of national savings has remained flat… In China, gross savings are over 50% of GDP, in Russia 30% and Brazil over 18%. In South Africa that figure is about 16.5%… It’s 72nd in the world behind Algeria (3rd), Morocco (25th), Nigeria (27th), Zambia (32nd), Namibia (34th), Botswana (42nd) and Lesotho (62nd)”.
The poor argue that saving is the last thing on your mind when you are living from hand-to-mouth, while the middle class chooses to splash out, so where does that leave the future of the fund management industry?
Makhubela says that when the rate of unemployment decreases, and more people start earning and being forced to save, then the tide will change. But while there is no growth in savings right now, Makhubela and his team are looking beyond borders, with Zimbabwe under their belt, they are also currently setting up in Namibia.
From marking exam papers to signing off millions, Makhubela is trying to teach one of the greatest lessons in life—how to save even when it hurts.

Tag: Teacher

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Classes Under Rain Clouds And Trees

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They Said It Wouldn’t Work

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