Enioriyo High School, resting in the ancient land founded by Lagelu, is a school that prides itself loudly on excellence, even though the evidence of such excellence rarely appears in our classrooms.
The compound gate, which creaks like an old storyteller every morning, welcomes students into an institution where young people quickly learn that discipline is prized, obedience is compulsory, but actual learning is a privilege.
Our Principal, Mr. Apase, never stops reminding us, “Don’t think of what Enioriyo High School will do for you, think of what you will do for Enioriyo High School.” It is a powerful message, though one suspects that what he really means is “don’t think of benefits. Think of sacrifices.”
At Enioriyo, sacrifice is our unofficial school anthem. On the first day of every session, long before timetables arrive, students are issued a list of “essential materials”; hoe, cutlass, broom, rake, everything except the chairs and tables we actually need to learn.
While other schools speak about digital learning and smart classrooms, we, too, speak of “smartness”, but only in the sense of how fast you can dodge the Principal’s gaze when weeds grow taller than students behind the classrooms. Yet we endure. We always do.
Our Principal, Mr. Apase, is a man who rules with the calm confidence of someone who knows his authority cannot be questioned. His word is law, his silence is also law. For him, discipline is not merely a school value, it is a tool. Students fear him more than they fear failing exams. Teachers sneak glances at him like farmers watching approaching rain clouds, never sure what mood he carries from the staffroom. But what truly reveals his understanding of power is not his strictness. It is his strategic brilliance in choosing the Head Boy.
In many schools, the Head Boy is elected by students, someone who represents the collective voice. But at Enioriyo High School, democracy is a luxury we cannot afford. The Head Boy is chosen solely by the Principal. No consultations. No nomination forms. No campaigns. No debates. Just a quiet announcement during the Monday assembly, and suddenly, someone becomes “the voice of the students”, even though the students never chose him.
Here lies the genius of Principal Apase. He never chooses the bravest student.Never the outspoken one. Never the student who asks, “Why are we cutting grass instead of learning Mathematics?”
The principal always chooses the calm, obedient, smiling head boy, the kind who apologizes even when he is right. The kind whose biggest dream is only to stand beside the Principal during assembly announcements. The kind who sees nothing, hears nothing, and says nothing.
Thus, in Enioriyo High School, our real oppressor is not the Principal, It is the Head Boy. Once chosen, the Head Boy transforms immediately. Before he started leading us, he used to sit with us under the mango tree, complaining about how the school library has more dust than books. But after he becomes Head Boy, he begins to see everything differently.
Suddenly, the lack of chairs is no longer a problem “Let us endure, our elders also sat on the floor,” he says.
The Principal does not need to silence anyone, the Head Boy does it for him. After all, why would students protest when their “own representative” insists that everything is fine?
One particular experience captures the reality of leadership in Enioriyo High School. During Civic Education classes, the class meant to teach us about rights, governance, democracy, and the duties of citizens, the teacher rarely shows up. When this happens, one of us usually suggests going to complain in the staffroom. But who leads us there?The Head Boy. And what does he say?“Let us be patient. The teacher may be busy. Don’t disturb the Principal.”
Civic Education, in a cruel twist, becomes the very class where we learn how institutions actually silence dissent. Not through force, but through friendly leadership. Through the Head Boy, we discover how people in power control students by controlling the student leaders.
Enioriyo High School is not the best. Our roofs leak, our windows rattle, and our classrooms do not boast chairs. Yet many students cannot avoid the school. The communities around us have only one public secondary school, and Enioriyo stands as the only option for hundreds of children. Some call it devotion. Others call it attachment. We call it survival
Maybe one day, when we finally have the chance to choose our own leaders, we will remember how it felt to have leaders chosen for us. Maybe then, Enioriyo High School will truly become excellent. Not because of the Principal. Not because of the Head Boy. But because of the students who learned to think, even in a place where thinking was never encouraged.
