I was recently shocked to learn that a friend’s daughter had been beaten black and blue by her teachers in a secondary school for being found in possession of a love letter to a boyfriend! How have things changed so drastically in our schools, where an innocent act of letter writing has been criminalised? I read the letter. The imagery was vivid, the command of language superb. As a teacher of English, I would score it ninety-eight per cent. What, then, is not happening in our schools?
As a student at Chavakali High School in the 1980s, I witnessed the golden age of handwritten letters. Those fragile sheets of paper carried more than just ink; they bore emotion, humour, wisdom, longing, and sometimes heartbreak. Letter writing was deeply embedded in our school culture. It nurtured not only communication but also patience, creativity, and human connection.
Fridays were sacred at Chavakali. That was the day we congregated to await the distribution of letters. The prefect in charge would climb atop an elevated table and read out the names of the lucky recipients. If your name was called regularly, you became an instant celebrity. You walked with a certain gait, classmates watching you with admiration, some envious, others curious. Was it a girl from Bunyore? Lugulu? Butere Girls School?
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Not everyone was lucky. I remember one classmate whose name was never read out. Not once. Every week, his face betrayed the same quiet longing. Then one Friday, something changed. His name rang out across the crowd, and we erupted in applause. It felt like he had won a medal. But curiosity got the better of us. Who had written to him? We speculated wildly. Was it a secret admirer, a budding romance, or a girl from far away? The truth stunned us.
He had written the letter to himself, sneaked out of school, and posted it. Desperate to belong, he orchestrated his own moment of glory. We, the senior students, were initially furious. This was blasphemy! But in the end, we found it clever and amusing. We demanded compensation: three loaves of bread. He obliged. We kept his secret from the Form Ones, who would have mocked him mercilessly.
That comical episode speaks volumes about the place of letters in our emotional and intellectual growth. Letter writing was more than an activity. It was a rite of passage. Through it, we honed grammar and mastered sentence structure.. We learned to be articulate, to reflect, and to be human. Today, that culture has been deliberately buried by teachers and parents alike.
In many schools, students are not allowed to write letters to one another. Teachers, fearing moral decline or distraction, have banned what was once a healthy and educational exercise. The result? A generation of students who may know how to type but struggle to express themselves thoughtfully and beautifully.
We must bring back letter writing in our schools, not as a nostalgic indulgence, but as a deliberate pedagogical strategy. Writing letters sharpens grammar and vocabulary. It encourages critical thinking and emotional intelligence and teaches structure, clarity, and empathy. And yes, it is deeply enjoyable.
More than that, letter writing is a creative form of expression. Literature is replete with epistolary works. Mariama Bâ’s So Long a Letter is a seminal text, exploring the layered emotions of womanhood, loss, and friendship through correspondence. In Kenya, Barack Wandera’s Dear Anita offers a similar intimacy. From the West, Alice Walker’s The Colour Purple is another striking example. These are not just letters; they are literature.
Through such writing, students can begin to see the letter not merely as a message, but as a creative form. There is also an economic opportunity hiding in plain sight. If letter writing were revived in schools, the Postal Corporation of Kenya could rise from its slumber. Imagine a scenario where schools across the country encouraged weekly or monthly exchanges of letters. Imagine inter-school pen pals, national competitions, and creative writing workshops. Imagine schools working with post offices to send and receive these letters, complete with stamps, postmarks, and delivery schedules.
This would reignite interest in writing. It would also revive a struggling parastatal. The Postal Corporation could rebrand itself as an educational partner and create school-friendly letter-writing kits, provide stationery, and reward the best letters at the county and national levels.
But that would require vision. It would require a partnership between the Ministry of Education and the Postal Corporation. Sadly, these two institutions operate in silos. The tragedy is not that we lack resources. It is that we lack imagination.
We spend billions on infrastructure and technology, yet overlook the simplest and most effective tools for learning. In our race toward digital supremacy, we have discarded practices that ground us in thought, discipline, and authenticity. A handwritten letter slows you down. It forces you to think and demands clarity. And yes, it leaves a mark, not just on paper, but on the soul.
I suggest we bring back letter writing in our language programme. Schools should designate specific days for letter writing and encourage students to correspond under guided supervision, with clear boundaries. Teachers need to learn how to mentor, not police. Future generations will thank us.
In an age of instant messaging, TikTok videos, and fleeting trends, the handwritten letter may seem quaint, like a relic. But it is precisely this “slowness” that makes it powerful. It is criminal to deny our children the chance to write again and learn the language of thought, reflection, and human connection.
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By Prof Egara Kabaji