the weight of a chalk

“The Weight of Chalk”​

By Harrison Magige 01/08/25 0706726258

The final bell had rung an hour ago. The corridor was quiet, the desks deserted, but one teacher still lingered in the staffroom—Mr. Kale. He slouched in his chair, marking exercise books with half his usual care, his heart burdened more than his hands.

He’d just come from a confrontation in the hallway. A misunderstanding had spiraled into a conversation he wished had gone differently.

Teacher: “I was so disappointed. Instead of finishing and rushing home, you were just wasting time despite me telling you to go. Now Caro’s mum called me thinking I was lying.”

Student: “I think you should be disappointed with Caro and not me. My aunt has no issue—that's why I was waiting for Mike. I don't see a reason why you should direct your anger at me.”

Teacher: “Your aunt has no problem yet she calls me when you are late. Ok. I was not angry—I was disappointed, that’s all. I think I care too much. Of which I should not.”

Mr. Kale sighed, rubbing his temples. He had spent the past year investing in his students, offering them guidance, encouragement, and second chances. He had stayed late many evenings, covered lessons for absent colleagues, even bought learning materials with his own salary.

And yet, here he was—misunderstood by his students and unsupported by the very system that employed him.

Just then, the deputy principal entered the staffroom. Her tone was brisk.

Deputy Principal: “You must take that duty. Remember, you were unemployed—we gave you a job, but now you refuse assigned duties.”

Teacher: “I am overwhelmed by all these duties.”

There was a long silence. The deputy walked out without replying.

Mr. Kale put down his pen. He looked around the staffroom—once a place of purpose, now a chamber of pressure. He realized that in trying to be everything for everyone, he had forgotten himself.

The betrayal wasn’t just from others. It was from within—expecting gratitude where none was promised.

He stood up slowly, collected his books, and whispered to no one in particular: "Tomorrow, I’ll teach again. But differently."

The End