I was just 11 years old. JHS 1.A small boy in one of the best elementary schools in the Eastern Region of Ghana.

It was a sleepy afternoon — the kind where the sun made the classroom feel heavier than usual. Our Agricultural Science teacher, Mr. Amoako, had come in on time as always. He stood at the front, teaching with his usual seriousness.

But honestly, I wasn’t really there.

My body sat in that wooden desk, but my mind had traveled — far ahead — about four years into the future. I was imagining life in Senior High School… finally studying Visual Art, finally doing what I loved. I pictured myself sketching in a big classroom, surrounded by color, form, and passion. I saw my future, and I believed in it.

That dream was so clear to me, I felt I could touch it.

So I picked up a pencil.And a blank sheet of paper.And I started drawing.

Not something random — I began sketching the teacher who was right in front of us. Not from a photo or from memory, but live, in motion. His face, his big round spectacles, his stance — I captured it all in just a few minutes.

When I finished, I looked at it and smiled to myself. “This is it,” I thought. “This is who I am.”

The Quiet Commotion

I showed the sketch to Desmond, my friend behind me. His eyes popped in surprise.

He passed it to Judge Nyarko.

Then to someone else. In no time, most of the class had seen it. No one dared laugh out loud — not in that strict atmosphere — but there were smirks, quiet giggles, hands covering mouths.

That kind of secret joy that fills a room without a sound.

Then suddenly… everything stopped .Mr. Amoako had noticed something wasn’t right.

He demanded to know what was going on.

Someone whispered. Eyes turned.Then he came over and took the paper from my desk.

He looked at it… and then looked at me.And in that moment, I saw something in his eyes — not just anger, but something deeper.

Maybe it was embarrassment. Maybe it was pride swallowed too fast. Whatever it was, I knew I was in trouble.

I was ordered out of class. So were a few of my friends — not because they laughed, but because they had seen the drawing and passed it around. They were guilty by association.

We were taken straight to the headmaster’s office.

But he wasn’t in. So our punishment was left hanging… until the next day.

Despite the tension and fear of what was to come, my classmates gave me a name that stayed with me for years — they nicknamed me “Artist of the Year.”It was their quiet way of honoring what I had done, even if it had landed us in trouble.

That Night

That night, I barely slept.

I didn’t fully understand what I had done wrong.

I hadn’t meant to disrespect anyone. I was just caught up in my dream. In fact, I had felt proud. Alive. Sure of my gift.

But now… my gift had landed me in deep trouble.

All I could think was, “Please, let my parents not find out.”

Something told me to carry paracetamol in my bag.Just in case.

The Caning

The next morning, we were summoned to the staff room.The headmaster still hadn’t dealt with us, so another teacher stepped in to administer punishment.

We stood there — in a straight line.

No questions. No explanations. One by one, we were caned.

My friends each took four sharp lashes.Then it was my turn.

Six. Straight. Lashes.

I cried. Not just from the pain — but from confusion, from fear, from shame.

My back burned. My heart ached.And when it was over, we were sent out to fill potholes along the school’s dusty roads.

We scraped dirt with our bare hands. My shirt was soaked in sweat and tears.

I remember thinking, “Is this what I deserve? For drawing?”

I was just a boy with a pencil.

Two Years Later… Another Blow

Fast forward. I was now in JHS 3.

One morning, I came late to school — and I knew the punishment that awaited.

But I slipped into the group of students who were supervising the lower classes. It was a routine: while the teachers had morning devotions, JHS 3 students would supervise the rest of the school.

I thought I was safe.

Until I was spotted… by him.

The same teacher who had caned me two years before. Now my Science teacher.

He saw me and called me out in front of the whole class.

“You? Supervising juniors?” he asked.“When better students are chosen for that role, you sneak in to feel important?”

I froze. I didn’t speak.

Then came the line I’ll never forget:“As for you, you are so pathetic that one day your sister will be feeding you.”

You see, my sister had graduated years earlier with straight 8 A's. Brilliant, disciplined, admired. And I?

I was the "dreamer." The boy who sketched in class. The boy who had been punished.

In that moment, I felt small. Invisible. Like nothing.

But I Didn’t Give Up

That experience could have broken me. It almost did.

But I thank God I didn’t let go.I didn’t let the pain silence my passion.

I didn’t throw away my pencil.

And more than anything, I thank my Dad — of blessed memory.

He stood by me. He believed in me.When others only saw a distracted student, my father saw an artist in the making.

He encouraged me, supported me, and reminded me that what you love is worth holding onto, no matter the cost.

Because of him… and because of grace…I chose to keep drawing.

Why I Will Always Advocate for Art

People often ask why I’m so passionate about art in education.This is why.

Because I’ve lived in a system that misunderstood creativity.I’ve felt the sting — not just of a cane, but of being unseen.

Art is not a distraction. It’s not a side subject. It’s not a “back-up plan.”

Art is how many of us think, feel, communicate, and heal.

It teaches empathy. It builds discipline. It trains the eye to see beyond the surface.

When we embrace art, we unlock human potential — not just in students like me, but in every child whose brain is wired to dream differently.

To the Ones Who’ve Felt the Same

If you’ve ever been laughed at, punished, or told your dreams are useless — I want you to know: that does not define your future.

You are more than a test score.

More than a teacher’s opinion.More than that one bad day.

Hold on. Keep drawing. Keep believing.

One day, the thing they punished you for… might be the very thing the world will thank you for.

To Teachers Everywhere

Students don’t forget.

They remember the words you spoke — even the ones you thought were small.

They remember the way you treated them.They remember how you made them feel.

And someday… you will meet them again.

Not as children. But as adults. Professionals. Leaders.Or even teachers like I am now.

Let what they remember about you be this:That you saw them. That you spoke life. That you made room for them to grow.

Final Words

To the little boy I was — the one with the sketch in his hand and tears on his face —I’m proud of you. You didn’t stop. You didn’t give up.

And to the teacher who called me pathetic…I hope you know: I became the person you said I’d never be.

Because passion… when protected… becomes purpose.

And purpose… when pursued… becomes destiny.