There are places in this country where children do not run from the rain because they are late for school, but because the rain follows them into the classroom.
Mbobo Village, in Ward 1 of Sterkspruit under the Senqu Municipality in the Joe Gqabi District, is one of those places. And what I witnessed at Mbobo Junior Secondary School is something no child, no teacher, and no community should ever have to endure.
This is not a story about a school that needs minor repairs. This is a story about a school that has been left behind for years. A school that has been weathered by storm after storm, not only by nature, but by neglect.
On the 23rd of April 2025, heavy rains damaged the school. A classroom block collapsed the following day, forcing children to be sent home—not because learning had ended, but because safety had. On the 9th of June, another storm came and weakened what was already broken.
Then on the 21st of October, hail tore through what little remained intact, shattering more than 50 windows, ripping through gutters, and cutting off electricity. And still, the school stands—not as a place of learning, but as a reminder of how long children have been expected to survive instead of thrive.
Today, 284 learners are expected to learn in these conditions, supported by 10 state-employed teachers and 2 SGB-paid teachers, all trying to hold together a system that is failing them.
Classrooms have no windows, no proper doors, no warmth. The cold does not ask for permission. It enters freely. It settles into their bones. It distracts, it numbs, it exhausts. And while we speak about improving education outcomes, these children are simply trying to feel their hands again.
But beyond the children, there is another silent suffering that we do not speak about enough—the teachers.
I met a principal who is holding together more than a school. He is holding together hope. I saw educators trying to teach in conditions that strip away dignity, not only from learners, but from them as professionals.
How do you teach a child to dream when the ceiling above them is cracked, when the wind interrupts your lesson, when the rain dictates your timetable? How do you maintain strength when every day you walk into a space that reminds you that your work, your commitment, your sacrifice, is not being matched by the system meant to support you?
We speak of burnout in offices and boardrooms, but we must begin to speak of burnout in broken classrooms. We must speak of the mental toll on teachers who are expected to deliver excellence in environments that are collapsing around them.
We must speak of the quiet frustration, the emotional fatigue, the feeling of being forgotten.
And then there are the childrenchildren who now attend school in shifts, not because it is innovative, but because there is simply no space. Children who miss days of learning. Children whose futures are being shaped not by their potential, but by the conditions they are forced to endure.
This is not just about infrastructure. This is about dignity. This is about equality. This is about whether we truly believe that a child in Mbobo Village deserves the same quality of education as a child anywhere else in South Africa.
Because the truth is simple and painful: they do.
This is why education must never be treated as a secondary issue. The Inkatha Freedom Party has long held that education is the foundation of dignity, opportunity, and national development. It is not enough to enrol children in schools; we must ensure that those schools are safe, functional, and capable of delivering quality education.
No learner should be subjected to unsafe infrastructure, and no teacher should be expected to perform under conditions that undermine their ability to teach.
The IFP’s approach to education is rooted in accountability and service delivery. It calls for proper maintenance of school infrastructure, urgent intervention in failing schools, and a system that supports both learners and educators. It recognises that rural communities must not be left behind, and that equitable resource allocation is essential if we are to close the gap between urban and rural education.
What is happening in Mbobo Village stands in direct contrast to these principles.
Promises were made. Four mobile classrooms were promised. Today, only two are being spoken about, and even those have not arrived. Dates have passed. Rain has fallen again. The cold has settled in. And still, nothing.
We cannot normalise this. We cannot explain it away. We cannot accept it.
The Constitution guarantees every child the right to basic education—not partial education, not education in unsafe conditions, not education interrupted by weather and neglect. What is happening in Mbobo Village is not just a failure of infrastructure. It is a failure of leadership.
And so this is not just a story. This is a call.
A call for immediate intervention. A call for the delivery of what has already been promised. A call for heaters in classrooms where children are freezing. A call for a new school that reflects the value of the lives inside it.
Because when the rain falls in Mbobo, it should fall on roofs that protect, not on children who are trying to learn.
And until that changes, we cannot be silent.
