Bridges, not Pedestals: Stories that build Classrooms

I am on the phone with my mum. The line is patchy—as usual—but we are managing to fill in the blanks between the static. I have won something, and she is proud of me, she says. Bursting, actually. She does not know exactly what I have won or why, but that is beside the point. What matters is that I have done something award-worthy, and her daughter is being celebrated on a stage somewhere far, far away. She launches into one of her stories, laughing as she recalls how she and her friends used to scavenge through the garbage dumps near wealthy neighborhoods, hunting for tossed-out toys. Back then, no one, least of all her, would have guessed that one day, her child would be the one receiving applause on another continent. She demands pictures. The best one is going to be blown up and framed for the living room, no debate.


Of course, I am happy to have made them proud. Their faces light up whenever something good happens to me, and honestly, that glow is its own kind of reward. That sparkle in their eyes whenever I accomplish something—it’s gold. It’s the kind of joy that makes all the late nights and self-doubt feel worth it. And yet, somewhere in the quiet corners of my mind, I sometimes wonder: am I being ungrateful for wanting more? For wishing that their pride came with a bit more curiosity? For wishing that they were actually interested in my work, in my research, in the why and the how and the what-now of it all? I want them to understand what drives me, to be thrilled by the implications of my results, to throw in their own wild ideas. It is not for lack of trying. I have made valiant efforts, launched into animated explanations, complete with examples and metaphors and gestures. Sometimes, I get carried away. But mostly, I am met with silence, followed by the classic check-in: “So… you’re employed, earning a bit of money, doing okay for yourself?” Bless their hearts—they’re trying. Sometimes I can see it, the squint of concentration, the polite nodding. And occasionally, it clicks… until it doesn’t. Still, there is one moment I hold close. We were on the phone, brainstorming Akan Twi sentences for my Master’s thesis stimuli. They were so into it, laughing, debating, contributing. That call, joyful, chaotic, full of linguistic judgment, was a turning point. It made me realize: I had to keep doing this. I wanted to keep researching sentence processing in this language, my father’s language.


Let me be clear: this is not a whine, and it definitely is not a thankless rant. My family has given me so much—more than I can ever repay. And to steer us gently back from my spiraling into sentiment, here’s another (and hopefully final) anecdote that ties everything together. When COVID-19 hit Ghana, I found myself packing home from university a few days after my birthday. The world was folding in, one closure at a time. I didn’t know it then, but it would be the last time I saw some of my friends. I was in the final stretch of my bachelor’s degree; just a few classes left, exams on the horizon, and a thesis already taking shape. Then came the big announcement: everything was moving online. Now, up to that point, not a single class had ever been held online. Exams were old-school: pen, paper, and the icy stare of an invigilator as the clock ticked down. The shift to digital meant an entirely new game, and a new set of tools. On campus, we had patches of WiFi here and there, if you knew where to sit. At home, things were different. I was one of the lucky ones. Despite neither of my parents being tech-savvy, I’d had a computer since I was ten. Not everyone could say that. Some students were logging into lectures on tiny phone screens, trying to write full-blown exams with thumbs and autocorrect working against them. There was an avalanche of new, innovative learning and education tools, to fix the crisis COVID had created. These were designed so students could succeed, so education could thrive. It was all wonderful, the thought, but accessibility was a different issue altogether. It was during this time that I received my first ever internet router, and the first time we had WiFi at home. Before that, I was burning through mobile data like nobody’s business. I had a favorite corner in the house, one of the only places where the signal didn’t play hide-and-seek. Still, in the middle of a Zoom class, everything would just cut. Gone. I would scramble to reload data, hoping I had not missed too much. The frustration? Not going into that. But here’s what mattered: my father. In the middle of a pandemic, with work dried up and money stretched thin, he walked with me into a store and bought the router: expensive, shiny, powerful. He topped it up with enough data to get me through the online semester. That act? That is the kind of support you do not forget. The router now sits quietly at home, collecting dust. For them, its mission was simple: get me through the final leg of my degree. Mission accomplished.


And this is where it all ties together. The part that sits heaviest on my heart, the part that shapes how I show up for students today. When I stood on stage at the Learning Battle, lifted by the strength and stories of those who came before me, I told a simple tale. The story of a girl from another continent, hungry for knowledge, desperate for a foothold in academia, and nearly swept away by the crashing waves of racism, red tape, and a system that too often leaves you to figure things out on your own. I spoke about the moment that changed everything, when a few professors reached out their hands and pulled me from the abyss. They saw what I did not yet know how to show. They handed me tools I did not know I needed. If I had to borrow a cliché, I would say they took a rough stone and polished it into something that could shine. But let’s not get carried away; I do not seek to flatter myself. What I am trying to say is that this is my guiding philosophy: no one gets left behind. That’s the heart of my learning strategy. And for this, I have to give the loudest, most enthusiastic shoutout to the Institute of Linguistics at the University of Stuttgart. Nationally, the university boasts one of the highest numbers of international students, and the institute has taken that fact seriously. They have rolled up their sleeves and gotten to work: confronting unconscious bias, redesigning support systems, and doing everything in their power to level the playing field. They understand that students arrive here from wildly different worlds. So, they offer refresher and toolkit courses, making sure everyone, regardless of where they came from or how polished their academic background is, gets a fair shot. I took one of those courses and it made a huge difference. And as if that is not enough, the institute has a tradition of meeting every new student one-on-one. Not just to tick a box, but to ask the big question: What do you actually want from this journey? And then, they help you find your path.


What makes a teacher a mentor, really? It’s a question I come back to often. In my classroom, learning isn’t some abstract transaction where I dish out information from a syllabus and later test how much students managed to retain. We climb together. We pull each other up. We make sure no one’s left scrambling at the bottom while others race ahead. For if your life has not been altered somewhat, even in the minutest way, have you really learned something new, or are you still the old you, with no new knowledge to show? And outside the classroom, I carry that same spirit forward. As someone who has been through the system and is still navigating it, I proudly represent first-generation students at the University of Stuttgart. That journey began when I volunteered for the POWERst project, and it has been unfolding ever since.


It was electric, that moment when the audience responded with applause that didn’t just echo, it resonated. They understood. They felt it: the urgent need for teachers to be more than lecturers, for classrooms to be more than testing grounds. I like to think that some walked away seeing their students a little differently, listening more closely, leaning in more generously. As for me? Winning the Learning Battle didn’t just give me a trophy. It lit something deep and unshakable: a fire that refuses to go out. It’s the kind of fire that keeps you awake with ideas and gets you out of bed with purpose. I’m not chasing titles. I’m building bridges. I’m digging foundations. I’m choosing the long, patient work of transformation. Because the real victory isn’t standing on a stage—it’s making sure there’s room for more people to stand there with you.

Written for OEB Global 2025 by Candy Adusei, winner of the Learning Battle 2024 and OEB24 30 Under 30 Delegate.

We are thrilled to bring back the Learning Battle this year! Join us from 03-05 December 2025 to watch one of the most interactive session of OEB.