A SCHOOL WAS DESTROYED

 A SCHOOL WAS DESTROYED BY A HEAVY RAIN FALL 

Last year, during one of those sleepless nights when the rain just wouldn't stop drumming on the roof, I got a call that made my heart sink. “The school’s gone,” my cousin whispered on the other end. I sat up straight, still half-asleep, trying to process what she meant. Gone? Like... missing? Broken into?

“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “Flood. Everything’s underwater.”

Now, I’m not someone who usually gets emotional over buildings—bricks are bricks, right? But this was our school. The one with chipped chalkboards, mismatched desks, and a headmaster who still wrote memos by hand. The place where I learned to read, to argue respectfully (sort of), and to dream a little bigger than my small town usually allowed.

When I finally got there the next morning, it was like stepping into a nightmare. The playground was buried in thick brown water. Desks had floated out of classrooms and were stuck against fences and trees. Textbooks—those precious books some of us used to share in threes—were scattered like soggy trash.

And the smell... ugh. Mold, mud, and something else I couldn’t quite name but probably don’t want to.

What hit me hardest wasn’t just the physical damage. It was the silence. Usually, even on rainy days, you’d hear kids laughing, teachers shouting roll calls, someone always drumming on a desk out of boredom. But that day? Nothing but rain and the soft squish of mud under boots.

I don’t think people realize how much a school isn’t just a place to learn. It’s where you find your people. Where you fall asleep on your notebook after lunch. Where someone secretly passes you a mango during class and you try not to laugh. It's messy, noisy, and full of life.

Losing it… it was like watching a part of the community’s soul get washed away.

What really frustrates me is how preventable some of it was. I mean, this isn’t the first time our area’s flooded. We’ve been dealing with bad drainage and blocked gutters for years. People complain, and authorities nod along politely—but nothing changes. Honestly, it makes you wonder if anyone really cares until it’s too late.

The saddest part? The students. Some of them were supposed to take their final exams in just a few weeks. Now they’re scattered—some staying with relatives, some trying to study out of what’s left of their notes. One girl I spoke to—Ama—said, “I tried drying my textbook with the iron. It just curled up and turned brown.” She laughed when she said it, but it wasn’t the funny kind of laugh.

In my experience, these things don’t make national headlines. Maybe a local paper runs a small piece. Maybe someone does a TikTok with sad music. But then? The world moves on.

But we can’t afford to. Not if we care even a little about what the next generation becomes.

Maybe I’m just venting. Or maybe I’m hoping someone reads this and thinks, “Hey, we should actually do something this time.”

Because no kid should have to wade through floodwater just to reach what’s left of their education.

And no community should be left picking up browseken chalk and dreams alone.