“Mr. Okita is here! Mr. Okita is here!”

We would shout as we ran toward the gate to meet our favourite Math teacher.

He constantly walked around with those green polythene bags written PIL on them - remember those? - carrying what looked like a whole library of books inside. We would meet him at the gate, take the bag from him, and proudly help him carry it to class.

He was our absolute favourite.

My favourite.

With Mr. Okita as our teacher, I thrived. I enjoyed Math. I looked forward to his lessons. I do not remember ever scoring less than 70% in his class.

He had a way of teaching that made learning feel alive. He infused his lessons with stories. Sometimes, he would spend the entire lesson telling us stories and not teach much Math at all. But we would hang on to every word he spoke.

Then came Class 7.

When we reported for the first term, I was met with what felt like the most difficult news of my young academic life:

We had a new Math teacher.

The agony.
The horror.
The pain.

I was not ready for this.

Why now?
Why him?
Why us?
And why did Mr. Okita agree to leave us?

The new teacher already had a reputation. He was infamous for having favourites. He was also known for his black box, a small box where he stored his tools for disciplining pupils.

On the days he was planning to “discipline” a class, he would wear his dreaded purple shirt. Once you saw that shirt, you knew someone was going to get into trouble. Yikes!!

And immediately he came to class, his true colours showed.

He had his favourites. There was “daughter,” a student who shared the same name as his actual daughter. Then there were “Tiny” and “Small.” Since his pastor’s son was also in my class, he too became one of the favourites.

The rest of us knew where we stood. Or rather, where we did not stand.

I had been thriving in school. I had believed I was good at Math. I had enjoyed learning. I had felt seen, encouraged, and capable. But in that environment, something changed- I started failing.

Not because I had suddenly become less intelligent. Not because the subject had changed overnight. Not because my brain had stopped working.

The environment changed.

The voice in the room changed.

The emotional safety changed.

The relationship with the teacher changed.

And slowly, my confidence began to change too.

This is something we do not talk about enough when we discuss children, teenagers, learning, and leadership.

A child can thrive in one environment and shrink in another.

A teenager can be brilliant under one leader and completely lose confidence under another.

A young person can appear disciplined, focused, and capable when they feel safe — and then appear careless, rebellious, withdrawn, or “weak” when they are constantly afraid, compared, ignored, or humiliated.

Sometimes, the issue is not ability; sometimes, the issue is atmosphere.

Sometimes, what we call laziness is actually discouragement.

Sometimes, what we call rebellion is a response to unfairness.

Sometimes, what we call lack of focus is fear.

Sometimes, what we call poor performance is a child slowly losing belief in themselves.

And this matters because adults have power.

Teachers have power.

Parents have power.

Coaches have power.

Mentors have power.

Leaders have power.

The way we use that power can either awaken something in a young person or bury it.

Mr. Okita made me feel capable. His classroom made me feel like Math was something I could understand. His presence gave me confidence.

The new teacher made the classroom feel unsafe. His favouritism created distance. His discipline created fear. His presence made me anxious.

Same child.
Same subject.
Different environment.
Different outcome.

That is the ripple effect of leadership.

When a teenager grows in an environment where they feel seen, safe, challenged, and affirmed, they are more likely to participate. They are more likely to try. They are more likely to ask questions. They are more likely to take risks. They are more likely to believe that they can grow.

But when a teenager grows in an environment where they feel afraid, unseen, labelled, compared, or rejected, their behaviour begins to speak.

They may withdraw.

They may stop trying.

They may become defensive.

They may act out.

They may pretend not to care.

They may lose interest in something they once loved.

They may start believing they are not good enough.

They may carry that belief into adulthood.

This is the implication of a teenager’s behaviour in such an environment: behaviour is not always the problem. Sometimes, behaviour is the evidence.

Evidence of fear.

Evidence of shame.

Evidence of discouragement.

Evidence of unmet emotional needs.

Evidence of a young person trying to survive an environment that no longer feels safe.

And the ripple effects can be long-term.

A teenager who is constantly humiliated may stop raising their hand.

A teenager who is constantly compared may stop believing in their own pace.

A teenager who is constantly ignored may start looking for attention in unhealthy ways.

A teenager who is constantly punished without being understood may become resentful.

A teenager who feels unseen may either shrink into silence or grow louder in pain.

That is why the environments we create for teenagers matter deeply.

At Coach Ben Africa, we believe leadership development is not just about teaching young people to speak, lead projects, or stand on stages. It is also about creating spaces where they can feel safe enough to discover who they are, confident enough to try, and supported enough to grow.

Because sometimes, a teenager does not need to be fixed.

They need to be seen.

They need to be guided.

They need to be challenged without being crushed.

They need adults who understand that their behaviour may be telling a deeper story.

The question, then, is not just, “What is wrong with this teenager?”

A better question is:

What kind of environment is shaping this teenager’s behaviour?

And perhaps an even deeper one:

What kind of adult am I becoming in the life of the young people entrusted to me?