There’s a special kind of hush that falls over a school on report card day. Not the peaceful sort, mind you—the kind that hangs heavy, like the moment before thunder. Children, usually bold as brass, suddenly walk like they’re in a library, whispering wild theories about who failed Maths while peaking from behind their parents.
Anxiety blooms in small hearts—was that one missed assignment that important to my grade? Is a 48 in Geography the end of life as I know it? They rehearse explanations with the conviction of defence attorneys: “But me neva have the book, the teacher nah come ah school, it’s in my bag, I did that one!!!”
Then come the parents, marching into the school like seasoned prosecutors. Eyes sharp, brows raised, some ready to applaud, others poised to question the entire education system. There are the optimists—“He’s trying his best!”—and the enforcers—“If this is trying, he’ll be trying it again next year.”
Meanwhile, the teachers—those noble stewards of lesson plans and patience—sit with the calm of a courtroom stenographer. Because, the term is done. The jury has deliberated. The time for sentences is past tense. They simply stare serenely, watching the theatrics unfold like a well-rehearsed play.
The judge has returned to his chambers.
For them, it’s peace at last. Until the next trial..term.



