“If you want to master something, teach it.” – Richard Feynman. I only truly understood this when I found myself in Samburu, armed with a whiteboard marker, shaky Wi-Fi notes from the night before, and exactly zero formal teaching experience. Somehow, I was expected to explain Calculus to Form Four students with the confidence of someone who hadn’t just Googled “what is a derivative?” They looked at me with so much hope and expectation in their eyes, as if I actually knew what I was doing. I didn’t.

Nothing prepares you for standing in front of a classroom with nothing but a whiteboard marker, borrowed confidence, and half a grasp of the topic you are supposed to teach. Frankly, most of the time, I was only half-sure of what I was doing, half-sure of the topic, half-sure of the pronunciation, half-sure of whether I was even making sense. But what I learned is that you don’t need to have it all figured out to show up for someone. Being half-sure doesn’t mean you’re not ready. It means you’re human, and human is exactly what those kids needed me to be.

What they didn’t know was that they were teaching me more than I could ever teach them. Every day, I saw more trust in their eyes and somehow, more belief. But what truly shook me, what I still haven’t recovered from, were the conversations. There was a kid, fully serious, who asked me to explain how far Elon Musk’s Mars plan had progressed and whether I thought it was realistic. I had just recovered from explaining a Calculus concept, so I gave a vague answer and let him run with his own take. He then casually transitioned to Genghis Khan, a topic I embarrassingly knew nothing about. As I was about to leave, another boy walked up to me and asked about the projects I’m working on as an Electrical Engineering student. And just when I thought I finally had something to offer, he proceeded to casually help me solve a problem in a project that had been bugging me for weeks.

I just blinked slowly, thinking, “Wait… am I the teacher or the intern here?” It shocked me, humbled me, and ignited something in me. I came to teach, and instead, I got mentored. Schooled. Inspired. I was completely out-geeked. It changed the way I saw every student after that. They weren’t just students, they were walking libraries, full of knowledge, dreams, and low-key genius. I realized how easy it is to look at people and only see the surface — the uniform, the age, the background — without recognizing that there’s a whole library inside. These students weren’t just learning; they were living proof that brilliance isn’t bound by postcode. These interactions rewired how I think about people. I’ve become emotionally incapable of seeing someone as just a person. Now, I look at someone and think: What chapter of their story haven’t I read yet? Hmm… What genre are you? Thriller? Comedy? Unfinished draft with great potential?

You know what made it even better? They started teaching me their language. By the end of week three, I could greet people, say thank you, and say goodbye in Samburu. I felt unstoppable — until I realized I was probably getting a few things wrong. They would then grab a pen and paper and write down the correct words for me. Suddenly, I was the student, and they were the teachers. It was more than just a language for us, it was a connection. Every word. Every syllable. Every mistake. The more I spoke their language, the less I felt like an outsider. Their words became bridges, and before I knew it, I wasn’t just visiting their world — I was slowly becoming part of it.

As week six approached, I wasn’t just ‘Madam’ anymore, they gave me a name: Naserian. Like they were saying, “You didn’t just come here to teach. You came here and became one of us.” And it’s true. Neema came from Nairobi, slightly unsure, clinging to her notes and her comfort zone. But Naserian left a little dustier, a little softer, and a lot more alive. What took me off guard the most wasn’t how quickly they accepted me. Me?! The lastborn who still texts her siblings to ask how long to boil an egg! left carrying the weight of being someone’s inspiration and that’s a kind of responsibility I’ll never forget. Ah, the singing… oh, the singing! You haven’t lived until you’ve heard a full classroom-turned-choir lifting their voices in a way that feels like a prayer, a poem, and a performance all at once.

At this point, I was confident that I had successfully faced all the tough parts of my Service-Based Learning. I really wish someone had warned me about what would turn out to be the hardest part of all. But I guess some things are better discovered on your own. Leaving them? Saying goodbye? Brutal. That was rough. It wasn’t just leaving students. I was leaving behind connections, friends, future scientists, musicians, engineers, thinkers, and maybe even the future Martian colony planner. I remember looking at their faces during my last class and thinking, “How do I go back to Nairobi life after this?” But at least I left with handwritten notes, a part of me I never knew existed, and a Samburu nickname that I still can’t quite pronounce.

When the last day came, and the last song was sung, and the final “Madam” floated through the air, I realized this wasn’t just a teaching experience. It was a transformation. I came to Samburu to serve. But in the end, I was the one who changed.

At first, teaching for me meant standing in front of a class, explaining topics I had Googled the night before and hoping nobody asked about something I hadn’t revised. And now? I understand teachers on a whole new level — the patience, the preparation, the emotional investment. They carry the emotional weight of an entire classroom while juggling so many different personalities. I used to think teaching was just a duty. Now, I believe it’s an art. And for that, I have immense respect for every teacher out there.

Community Service isn’t just charity. It’s a connection. It’s laughter over shared jokes, singing until your throat hurts, and quiet moments when you stop and think, “Wow. I didn’t know my heart had space for this much.” I didn’t leave Samburu the same person I arrived as. I left with a full heart, a new nickname, and the kind of growth that doesn’t show up in a report — but changes how you walk through the world. I went to Samburu thinking I was the one with the lesson plans. Turns out, I was a student all along.

This wasn’t just about completing my SBL hours, it was about growth, commitment, confusion, and completely stepping out of my comfort zone. Go somewhere you don’t know. Teach something you’re not fully sure about. Let kids nickname you. Let the world humble you. It’ll be the best thing you didn’t plan for.

Written by Neema Nuru, 2nd year Electrical Engineering student