Last Saturday in Kano, I stood before a sea of teachers—over 2,000 educators, school leaders, and education stakeholders—and felt that familiar stirring of awe that always accompanies good teaching communities. In that moment, I was reminded once again why teaching remains one of the most demanding, most consequential, and most hopeful professions in any society.
They came early. They stayed late. They leaned forward.
Kano itself seemed to conspire with the day. The kekes were plentier than the people, moving through the roads like organic molecules—colliding, separating, reforming—yet somehow always finding a way forward. In the middle of that beautiful chaos, I still managed to leave with a bag full of kilishi, generously supplied by Dr Abubakar Sani—a small but memorable reminder that learning journeys are best accompanied by kindness and protein.
The free training, owned by EDUFORGE and delivered in partnership with MySlates, drew educators from across Kano State, united by a shared commitment to becoming better at the quiet, difficult work of shaping minds. The presence of the education authorities, represented by the Director of Schools, Sagir Umar Danbare, gave the day both weight and warmth. It affirmed that teacher development in Kano is not an afterthought, but a priority.
I was privileged to facilitate the sessions alongside an exceptional team—Godwin Adugba, Maria Oche, Jerry Tialobi, and Sifon Akpan. Together, we encountered something deeply encouraging: teachers who were not passive recipients of information, but active, curious learners. They questioned freely, laughed easily, challenged assumptions without hostility, and leaned into the work with rare openness.
From the outset, I made one thing clear. This training was not about speaking “big English.” It was about reaching every learner.
In every classroom, diversity is not an exception; it is the default. Fast learners sit beside slow learners. Confident children learn alongside shy ones. Some grasp ideas immediately; others need repetition, reassurance, and time. This reality is why Universal Design for Learning matters so deeply to me. UDL confronts us with a difficult but necessary truth: when only some learners understand, the problem is not the child—it is the design. And language is part of that design.
When instructions are vague, some learners are lost before they begin. When questions feel like interrogation, some learners shut down. When feedback sounds like judgment, some learners stop trying. But when language is clear, friendly, and inviting, more learners step forward. I asked participants to imagine a road in Northern Nigeria. If only motorcycles can pass, the road has failed. A good road allows okada, keke, cars, buses—even trailers—to move safely. That, I said, is what good teaching design looks like.
As the conversation deepened, we spoke honestly about the emotional labour of teaching—the part no curriculum outlines, but every teacher knows. Teaching is like carrying a tray of zobo-filled cups inside a crowded BRT in Abuja. Everything around you is in motion. The bus jerks, people push, time is tight. One sudden brake, one careless movement, and everything spills. To succeed, you must stay alert without becoming rigid, calm without becoming careless, focused without losing compassion.
The room responded with knowing laughter. Every teacher understood. Because the classroom is much the same: pressure is constant, patience is tested, and mistakes are costly. Yet the responsibility remains—to arrive safely, without spilling what has been entrusted to you.
Much of our work then turned to everyday classroom English—the small expressions that sound harmless but quietly exclude learners. We examined how language can carry judgment even when we do not intend it. We explored the difference between selfish and self-interest, and how a trader in Sabon Gari who closes early for prayers is not selfish but acting in self-interest. Same action. Different meaning. Precision matters.
Sometimes, the challenge is not morality but clarity. When we say “funny enough, it worked,” English hears comedy. “Funnily enough” communicates surprise. We discussed why English prefers godsend, not godsent; joking apart, not jokes apart; a losing battle, not a lost battle. English, I reminded participants, does not like early burial.
We also examined how English resists over-effort: why we say stuck, not stucked; stray bullet, not strayed bullet; buckle down, not buckle up, to pass exams; and overage, not overaged. These details may seem small, but small confusions accumulate. Small exclusions widen gaps. Small design failures quietly decide who participates and who withdraws.
By the end of the sessions, one truth became clear to everyone in the room. We were not correcting English for English’s sake. We were redesigning teaching—so shy learners are not erased, so struggling learners are not shamed, so confidence is not mistaken for intelligence.
Kano reminded me of what is possible when teachers are treated as thinkers, designers, and learners; when education authorities show up; and when partners like MySlates commit to the quiet work that makes learning spaces possible. When we change how we speak, we change who gets to learn. And that, ultimately, is the work.
*Shaibu, a teacher of teachers is the Lead Facilitator at EduForge
