Forty years is longer than many careers last, longer than institutions remain unchanged, and long enough for a person to witness entire generations come and go. That was the span of my brother-in-law’s life in government service — four decades of humility and faithfulness in work.
When people speak of him, they often remember the school he led, but his story began elsewhere.
My brother-in-law had spent most of his life as an engineer: a man trained to measure distances, examine structures, and ensure that what was built would stand firm over time. For nearly a decade, his days were filled with road inspections, building plans, and safety checks. It was work he understood well. The rules were clear. The outcomes were measurable. And in that predictability, he found contentment.
His career was stable. Life was quiet. He had no intention of leaving.
Then one day, an unexpected opportunity appeared: a vacancy for School Administrator at a well-known agricultural school. It was a position outside his field, far removed from engineering drawings and construction sites. At first, it seemed like something meant for someone else.
No one applied, so he tried.
What happened next surprised everyone. Perhaps most of all, him. Close to forty politicians from different provinces endorsed his appointment. The support was overwhelming, almost surreal. What began as a tentative step suddenly felt like a calling he could no longer ignore.
In time, he would understand a quiet truth about that moment: he was not chosen because he pursued the position relentlessly, but because others saw something in him. They believed he could care for the school. They believed he could serve the community with sincerity and commitment.
And so, he began again.
When he first assumed the role, he carried a quiet confidence, maybe even a trace of pride. Compared to engineering, he thought, how difficult could school administration be?
It did not take long for that assumption to soften.
Education, he realized, was not easier. It was simply different, and in many ways, more demanding. Engineering allowed him to build structures that could be inspected and tested. Education asked him to help shape lives that would unfold over decades. The responsibility was less visible, yet profoundly heavier.
Gradually, the school transformed in his eyes. It was no longer just a collection of classrooms and facilities. It became a living community; a place where dreams were nurtured, values were formed, and young people quietly prepared themselves for the future.
The journey was not without hardship. Resources were often limited. There were seasons of uncertainty and decisions that weighed heavily on him. Yet alongside teachers and staff who shared the same commitment, he pressed forward. Together, they strengthened the school’s reputation until it was recognized across neighboring communities and provinces.
Students began arriving from distant places, drawn by something they could not easily name but clearly felt: a promise of quality education that remained within reach.
He guarded that promise carefully.
Fees were kept low because he knew many families struggled to afford schooling. For him, education was never meant to be a business venture. It was an instrument of opportunity, a means of restoring dignity and offering hope.
Through the years, his leadership was anchored in a simple conviction: do what is right, not what is convenient.
He avoided political currents and power struggles that could easily distract from the school’s purpose. Instead, he directed his energy toward students, teachers, and the institution’s long-term growth. His life remained simple. He sought no luxuries. Fulfillment came quietly, in the knowledge that their collective work was opening doors for others.
People noticed that, so trust grew not merely because he held authority, but because his sincerity was unmistakable. Those around him sensed that he cared genuinely, consistently, and without pretense.
Then came the day he had long known would arrive. ☹
Standing before family, colleagues, guests, and members of the community, he delivered his retirement speech. The final countdown had ended. A chapter spanning decades was drawing to a close. He admitted that saying goodbye was not easy.
Yet beneath the emotion was deep gratitude. He thanked teachers for their unwavering dedication, students for giving purpose to their daily efforts, and parents for entrusting the school with their children’s futures. Though he was stepping down from his post, he reassured everyone that his connection to the school would remain.
Retirement, he said, was not a separation, only a transition into a different season of life.
He closed with hope. The agricultural school, he believed, would continue to grow, adapt, and serve generations to come. He encouraged everyone to keep striving, improving, and making a difference long after his departure.
As listeners absorbed his words, a quiet realization settled among them.
Life does not always follow the paths we carefully design. Sometimes the roles we never imagined become the spaces where we leave our deepest imprint.
He began his career building roads and structures meant to endure.
He concluded it having helped build something far less visible, yet infinitely more lasting: lives shaped, futures opened, and a community strengthened through years of steady, faithful leadership.
Some people choose one path — engineer or educator. He was given the rare privilege of becoming both.
