Korop Nursery

Korop is a small Fula village out in the bush. 4 Kilometers from the road it nestles, for the moment, in head height maize, the straw roofs of the round houses camouflaged by the stalks. The groundnut plants abound with their lemon yellow flowers adorned with multitudes of butterflies, which scatter like rainbowed fairydust as we make our way, Sherpa Tensing style, along the disappearing track.



Our destination is a nursery. I hear it before I maneuver the final twist, cries of ‘welcome, welcome, welcome’ and a song to greet us. Children dressed in blue and white check smile and wave with expectant faces. Will we remember the ball we promised them on our previous visit? Of course. Eager eyes watch, resisting the temptation to help, but willing me to hurry, as I delve into my bag for the ball and pump. Eyes widen as the ball increases in girth and nearly pop out completely to see it followed by two more. Such happiness as they run and play harmoniously, barefoot and grubby, caring arms protecting little ones.


Tida beams with pride as we congratulate her on her delightful children, fifty five 4,5 and 6 year olds. Three years of teaching in term time, studying in the holidays and she has finally gained her teaching certificate.


Accompanied by Omar, the cluster monitor, and Pat, the latest VSO visiting his first African school, Pete and I are to help her ‘do something’ with the nursery. Little do they realize the work in store. Small willing hands help to transport empty boxes, plastic bags, rice bags, string, nails, scrap paper, onion netting, our past 3 weeks ‘rubbish’ precariously attached to every nook and cranny of the motorbikes. It’s past home time but the children remain to watch and help. A large concrete room, six small wooden benches and the inevitable lattice windows is to be transformed.


Rice mats are opened and placed on the dusty floor as matting, letter squares fashioned from cardboard, books (many homemade) and a sign for the reading corner. A discarded blackboard, chalk, charcoal and out of date manuals from the office and the writing area is complete. Pat is dispatched with a gaggle of helpers to find stones for number matching and counters, to add to two and three piece shape jigsaws and number cards. Pete and Omar set to, nailing opened cardboard boxes to the walls as instant display boards and suspend string, like washing line, while Tida and I write unlikely childrens’ names, Manure Essa, Momodu Sulayman Baldeh, on name cards and make posters and labels. A corner is set aside for role play, Tida’s bitik, the piece de resistance, a table, empty boxes and bags and small, seven sided silver dalasi coins cut and painstakingly drawn by Phil in a quiet office moment. People from the village wander up to greet, welcome and investigate bringing smiles and community spirit. The place is buzzing.


Four hours later, 25p spent on nails and drawing pins, hot sweaty people and the room is transformed. My favourite part? Sitting back and watching Tida and Omar playing shops!