When I enrolled for university education at one of Zimbabwe’s prominent institutions, I expected intellectual rigor, professional solidarity and a shared hunger for growth. What I encountered instead was a sobering lesson on human bias, self-interest and how fear, when left unchecked, can thin a crowd faster than truth ever could.
On the second day, the lecturer announced, quite plainly, that learning would be anchored on a Google Classroom. What followed was pandemonium. Grown men and women; teachers by profession, people who stand before learners every day, scrambled as if their very lifeblood depended on joining that digital space. Phones shook. Voices rose. Anxiety ruled the room. ICT had entered, not as a tool, but as a threat.
By the third day, reality did what it does best: it counted.
Out of a cohort of over 200 students on block release, only 28 were present in that Google Classroom.
Numbers do not gossip. Numbers do not take sides. Numbers do not flatter power or spare ego. They simply tell the truth.
This is where human bias and self-interest quietly expose themselves. Once a few people managed to “get in,” urgency dissolved. The collective spirit evaporated. Those who crossed the digital river forgot about those still stranded on the other side. Survival had been achieved; responsibility had expired.
ICT, I have come to learn, is a dangerous animal; not because it bites, but because it triggers the F3 hormones: fear, fight and flight. Fear of the unknown. Fight against relevance. Flight from embarrassment. And this fear is not limited to students; it lives loudly among teachers too; professionals who teach daily, yet secretly dread being learners.
What troubled me most was not the technical difficulty. Challenges are normal. What disturbed me was the normalization of leaving people behind once personal safety is secured. We have grown comfortable with saying, “I’m in,” without asking, “Who is still out?”
People should normalize making their coming together count. Attendance should not be cosmetic. Participation should not be assumed. Presence must be measured. Number should not be allowed to lie, because when we ignore numbers, we excuse exclusion.
In that class, one that could have been excellent if we chose humanity over convenience; I made an observation and decided to act. I posted the following message:
Good morning guys. Let’s assist those who are facing challenges and be their good memories when they get back to their stations. Mhuka inonzi ICT haifaniri kuvatyisa tiripo. Ngatikakatanei navo kusvika zvaita, vazvifarira. Hazvigoni kuti vadzokere vakadero. Isu navo tine basa. Let our socialisation be fruitful. Let it count. Thank you.
Translated plainly: ICT should not frighten them while we are present. Let us hold their hands until it works and they enjoy it. They cannot go back defeated. We are responsible for one another.
That message was not about technology. It was about ethics. It was about choosing to be a bridge in a world that celebrates ladders climbed alone. It was about resisting the instinct of biased self-interest that whispers, “You’re safe now. Move on.”
Yes, people are quick to forget. Yes, gratitude is not guaranteed. Yes, the world often rewards selfish speed more than collective patience. But leadership; true leadership, has never been about applause. It has always been about impact.
Urge someone today to be a game changer in another person’s life. Not because they will remember you, but because you will know who you chose to be. Help someone cross a line you once feared. Sit with someone struggling while others rush ahead. Make your presence count.
In the end, when the numbers are counted; and they always are, may they testify not just to who succeeded, but to who lifted others while succeeding.
Tichaona is a writer and storyteller since childhood. He can be contacted on +263732231900
