THE CLOWN

There was a school on the edge of a weary town.

No name engraved in gold,

no banners waving in the breeze

just a rusted gate, a peeling sign,

and a bell that rang slightly off-key.

But it was a good place.

Not perfect—never perfect

but real.

The desks were scarred with names from children long grown.

The library shelves leaned like tired trees,

but they held stories that made small hands dream.

The teachers didn’t earn much.

Most had holes in their shoes,

some lived just down the road,

others took two buses and walked the rest.

But they came back each day.

Not for the money.

Not for recognition.

But for the girl who cried over her first sentence.

For the boy who lit up when he finally solved for “x.”

For the quiet child who said nothing all term—

until one day,

he smiled.

They knew the bruises that weren’t explained.

They slipped food into pockets when stomachs growled too loudly.

They stood between the world and the softest parts of a child.

The school was held together

by tired hands

and love so quiet,

you wouldn’t know it was there

unless you needed it.

Then, one summer, the old principal left.

Retired, they said.

But some say she cried when she handed over the keys.

The new one came with polished shoes and mirrored sunglasses.

He arrived with a team,

spoke of reforms,

spoke of image.

He never mentioned names only numbers.

On the first day, he repainted the walls.

"Too dull," he said.

The library was stripped.

"Too dusty."

He installed screens in every room,

plastered the halls with motivational slogans,

replaced the front sign with a digital board

that flashed: “Success Begins Here.”

The older teachers were watched.

Their methods called outdated.

Too slow. Too emotional.

Too soft.

They began to leave.

Some quietly.

Some with shaking voices in the staffroom,

holding back years of love

dismissed with a shrug.

New teachers came.

Young, sharp, trained to deliver results.

They followed scripts,

spoke in metrics,

smiled only for inspections.

Children were tested weekly.

Those who fell behind were placed in “support modules,”

isolated,

their names quietly erased from awards lists.

Arts were cut.

Music was silenced.

Recess shortened.

“Efficiency,” he said.

But the school grew cold.

One by one, the small signs appeared:

A girl who stopped humming.

A boy who once drew rockets now only stared.

A child with perfect scores

but eyes that blinked too fast when spoken to.

One teacher—Miss Ada—stayed.

She had taught there for 19 years.

She fought quietly.

She kept snacks in her drawer,

books under her desk,

a blanket on her chair for the child who always forgot his sweater.

But she was warned.

Once.

Then twice.

On the third, she was let go.

“Not aligned with the school’s new vision,” they said.

After she left, no one held the crying ones.

No one noticed the silence between the lines of homework.

The school gleamed from the outside—

shiny floors, clean charts,

endless praise.

But it was hollow.

All the warmth

had bled through the cracks.

Timi stopped coming to class.

No one called his home.

No one noticed his desk stayed empty.

And still the new headmaster smiled.

Still the slogans blinked.

Still the numbers climbed.

They said the school was thriving.

But the children stopped dreaming there.

They memorized,

performed,

and forgot.

And the school on the edge of town—

once flawed, once full of light

became a monument to performance

and the silence that follows it.

It didn’t fall because it lacked resources.

It didn’t fall because it was broken.

It fell

because it was handed to someone who did not understand

what made it sacred.

And when something unfit to lead is given power,

the place itself forgets how to be whole.

Because when a clown moves into the palace,

the clown doesn’t become a king

the palace becomes a circus.