12/05/2026
*When Cold Hits the Classroom: Winter, Poverty, and Perseverance in Rural Zimbabwe*
By Artwell Chingwara Sithole
12 May, all roads lead to schools.
Second term begins, and with it comes the familiar pressure of opening day. Gates swing open and parents arrive with envelopes, payment slips, and stories. Some pay in full. Others come for installments. Many, despite the ministry’s circular urging fees to be settled during the holidays, arrive on the first morning to negotiate payment plans. That’s the hustle of opening day — part accounting, part pleading, all of it done under the weight of a new term.
This term is winter. And winter is a different kind of teacher.
It’s hectic just getting kids out of bed before sunrise. The cold bites through blankets and makes every minute under them feel like a small rebellion. I remember it well.
In the 1990s at Rimbi Primary, second term had its own reputation. It wasn’t just the cold. It was the cleanliness inspection. The teacher would run a finger along your collar and neck, and if you came up with _chikoko_ — that dark ring of dirt — you were done. Shame didn’t wash off as easily as the grime. Some kids were so mortified they’d rather miss school than face the class with a stained neck.
Winter didn’t forgive the weak-willed. Kids without determined parents at home stayed away. The cold gave them an excuse. And for those who wet the bed at night, winter was brutal. While the rest of us did a quick half-body wash and finished the rest after school when the sun was out, they had to strip and face full-body cold water before class. You learned quickly why mothers nagged about going to the toilet before bed.
Poverty and weather compound each other here. The ministry says kids must come to school in warm clothes, and you see the compromise everywhere. Schools give leeway — any jersey, any sweater, as long as it keeps the shivers off. In winter, uniform gives way to survival.
At Rimbi High in the early 2000s, the cold had a geography. During assembly, the breeze would roll down from Mwangazi through the Murembwe valley and hit us standing to attention. Singing the national anthem while your teeth chattered felt like standing too close to a fire you couldn’t feel.
But winter also taught resourcefulness. Between lessons, when the sun broke through, we’d scatter to the warmest wall and _kugota mushana_ — soak up the sun like lizards. The vernacular name says it all. It was popular, and it was risky. If Mr Ndangana or Mr Dhliwayo caught you, you’d regret ever thinking ten minutes of heat was worth it. Those two had eyes everywhere, and a free period spent in the sun could turn into a very paid-for detention.
I still remember the hand clap Mr Muchezana gave me. May his soul rest. It was one of a kind — sharp, sudden, unforgettable. The kind of discipline that made you stand straighter for the rest of the day.
Opening day is always a scramble. Fees, jerseys, early mornings, inspections. But for those of us who grew up in Rimbi, second term was never just about lessons. It was about enduring the cold, outsmarting _chikoko_, and finding ten minutes of sun before the next bell.
Winter made us tough. And tomorrow, it starts again.
