Free The Beautiful Tree by James Tooley

off my algebraic knowledge: “11.” Unfortunately, I fell straight into his trap, “That’s what he said, but the answer is 3, because the question is how old are you now !” The story was meant to demonstrate something about common sense and problem solving not necessarily equating with good qualifications. I too had an “impressive BSc in mathematics,” I thought. But the point was well taken—qualifications weren’t everything.
    I asked whether the teachers belonged to a union. “No union here,” he said and laughed pleasurably. “No union, we work as a team, we cherish oneness, we have an end-of-term party, altogether, dancing, eating, and drinking.” I noticed that most of the teachers were women, and mentioned this. “Why? You say why? Because the money that is being paid, the men cannot be here; salary for most men is higher, and most men don’t like teaching, even here they want to be president, politicians, big men, lawyers,” he said, dramatically emphasizing each possible option: “They don’t want to teach, that’s the way it is in this country!”
    Throughout, as I traveled around the slum, it was clear that the school buildings were of poor quality—this criticism that I met so often when talking to the development experts back in England was certainly valid. But they were no worse than the buildings in which people lived. It was true, I saw, they didn’t normally have toilets, but neither did the people’s homes. The children felt at ease in them—the teachers were drawn from the community itself and knew all its problems as well as its vibrancy. The more I visited these schools, the more I realized how organic they were, part of the community they served, quite unlike the public schools outside.
    One afternoon, BSE and I visited a public school. We arrived at 1:40 p.m. The private schools would be in session until 4:00 p.m.; the public schools were already closed, children playing boisterously in the muddy space between the high-rise buildings. I noticed that some were urinating in the corner—these children didn’t appear to have functioning toilets either. The headmistress of one of the three schools was very friendly and welcoming, however, and invited me back the next day.
    I return at 9:20 the next morning, slightly later than promised. Adekinle Anglican Primary School was the largest of the three primary schools closest to the road, taking up the daunting concrete blocks on both sides of the parade ground. (Many of the church schools were nationalized in the 1970s and 1980s, hence the Anglican title. They were classed as public schools, however, and received 100 percent of their funding from the state, although they still had some vestiges of private management, through the church.) The short, plump headmistress began ushering children into classrooms—supposedly the school had been operating since 8:00 a.m., but even so, many children seemed to be milling around. Possibly they were on break. In front of me, without trying to hide it in any way, the headmistress began to chase, then viciously beat with her cane, a small girl. She beat her to the ground and as the girl got up to limp away, she viciously laid into her again; the girl eventually escaped and made her way to the classroom, holding herself, weeping furiously; I’ve never seen anything like this in any of the private schools—yes, the teachers there sometimes had their canes, and I often worried about that, but they seemed playful with them, at most tapping the desks in front of the students to get their attention.
    Shaken, I visited the classes with my host. She carried her cane with her, emphasizing every word she said with it; it was not only the children she made nervous as she thus gesticulated. Some teachers were teaching and appeared committed and pleasant, but in most classes, the children seemed to be doing little. Sometimes, this seemed to be because the teacher had completed the lesson, had written a few