Transport and tribal markings

Alex's reception class is currently working on a 'transport' theme and we had great fun on the way to school this morning as, taking backseat driving to an entirely new level, he pointed out all the signs he recognised: "don't go faster than 50 kilometres an hour, Mummy"; "oh, look, Mummy, a crossroads is coming up"; "be careful at the zebra crossing". (There seems, as yet, to have been no discussion in class about the mechanics of Nigerian society that means that absolutely nobody obeys any of these road signs). He also told me that 'H' meant hospital and that 'P with a line through it' meant 'No Packing'. I tried to explain that perhaps he mean 'No parking' but he was adamant that his teacher had pronounced the word 'packing' very clearly. Given that he told me yesterday that he wants to stay in Nigeria for all of Year One and probably all of Year Two, I suspect he may be sending me subliminal messages about extending the length of our posting.

 

We attended parents' meetings at Alex and Freya's school last week to discuss their progress with their class teachers. According the reports we'd received just before Christmas, Alex is doing generally very well, making excellent effort in class, has settled down a lot more socially and now has a good circle of friends. It seems he still needs to ensure his writing sits on a line, that there are finger spaces between the words and that there is a full stop at the end of each sentence (presumably if he achieves that goal, he will be severely overly-equipped for a world dominated by Twitter, but I still find it a laudable aim). He can find the missing numbers in a set and has learnt to complete a simple computer program by using the mouse. Good work Alex.

Freya's report made for rather more interesting reading. There is, after all, only a certain amount one can say about a child who has just turned 3. Hence: "Freya works confidently. She is okay with the concept of number 1" and "She is beginning to hold a book the correct way up." Progress indeed. What was rather more amusing were the statements just begging for further interpretation: "Freya now needs to remember to pack up after eating her snacks"; "When asked she is able to express herself and will continue as long as she is allowed" - and the giveaway "Freya is a very independent girl and loves doing things for herself" (which I interpreted to mean "Freya can be extremely stubborn at times and will happily hold out for an hour rather than capitulate in a battle of wills").

Nevertheless, it was quite a relief to know that both children are settled and happy at school and doing ok. The education-related concerns faced by many of our diplomatic friends with older children seem a long way off for us right now; I imagine worries about schools closing for extended periods because of Ebola or the forthcoming elections are considerably heightened if one's child is about to take GCSEs or A-levels, whereas my most important school-related anxieties at present revolve around trying to remember whether it is Alex or Freya that has PE on Monday. 

Although continuity of education can be an issue as we traipse around the world dragging our offspring with us, one of the joys of diplomatic life is the chance it affords children to grow up in different countries and experience cultures other than their own in a substantive way. This half-term, the school is offering an extra-curricular 'Nigerian Studies Programme' twice a week. (This is the same programme in which Alex learnt how to prostrate himself before me last year). On Monday, the first session comprised 'Tales by Moonlight', a gentle exploration of Nigerian folk tales, plus some artwork (a beautifully coloured-in Nigerian Coat of Arms now adorns our fridge, splendidly juxtaposed between a headless Jess-the-cat, a fish magnet from the Maldives and the portrait of Queen Amina). I had forgotten the planned theme for today's Nigerian Studies session until, as I arrived at the school, I noticed that most of the children leaving the premises had their faced painted with black lines. As soon as I entered his classroom, Alex grabbed my hand and asked me quietly, "Mummy, what are tribal markings?". The teaching assistant explained that today's theme had been 'Languages and Tribal Marks' and was an introduction to some of the traditions practised in different areas of Nigeria. Apparently Alex had been upset that by seeing some photos of young children having their faces marked and so refused to have his face painted with eye-pencilled tribal lines. He told the (Nigerian) teacher that we don't have tribal marks in England. (As she wisely commented, British people do have tribal marks - they are called tattoos).

We talked through the fact that tribal markings can help to tell people where you are from (I studiously avoided any mention of the debate about whether this tradition should be legally discontinued) and

reminded Alex that some of our friends in Tanzania also had tribal markings (the Wahehe have distinct scars next to their eyes in the shape of the pointed oval shields they traditionally used in battle) which pacified him somewhat. Once I had promised him that I would never let anyone scar his face, he perked up considerably and ran off to find out what Freya had learnt in her Nigerian class in playgroup, which turned out to be 'Moulding and Making'. What she has actually moulded and made remains a little unclear to me, but I am sure that she had a wonderful time doing it in her own independent way.