THE TEACHER SAID, “STOP USING AI.” THEN SHE OPENED CHATGPT.

Her students were outsourcing their thinking to artificial intelligence. Uncle Rwamiti became curious about who had prepared the lesson.

Mrs Namusoke was worried about artificial intelligence.

Very worried.

She taught English to teenagers, and lately something strange had happened to their homework.

It had become excellent.

Suspiciously excellent.

Students who previously considered punctuation an unnecessary colonial inconvenience were suddenly submitting essays containing phrases such as “the multifaceted implications of technological dependency.”

Mrs Namusoke knew her children. Something was wrong.

On Tuesday morning, she entered Senior Four carrying a pile of assignments.

“Class, we need to talk.”

Forty faces looked up.

“Some of you are using artificial intelligence to do your work.”

Nobody moved.

There are moments when an entire classroom suddenly develops innocence. This was one of them.

“AI is making you lazy,” she continued. “You are allowing machines to think for you.”

A boy at the back coughed.

She looked at him. He stopped coughing.

“What will happen when you enter the real world and there is no ChatGPT to answer for you?”

Silence.

“Thinking is a skill. If you don’t practise it, you lose it.”

Now even Uncle Rwamiti would have agreed.

Unfortunately for Mrs Namusoke, Uncle Rwamiti was sitting at the back of the classroom. He had been invited to observe a careers session later that morning.

This was her first mistake.

Her second was leaving her laptop open.

After the lesson, the students filed out. Mrs Namusoke remained behind.

Rwamiti approached her desk.

“You gave them a serious beating.”

She smiled. “Somebody has to tell them.”

“Absolutely.”

“These children copy everything from AI.”

“Terrible.”

“They don’t think anymore.”

“Very worrying.”

Mrs Namusoke looked pleased.

It is always comforting when Uncle Rwamiti appears to agree with you.

It rarely lasts.

“What was today’s lesson about?” he asked.

“Argumentative writing.”

“Interesting.”

“I wanted them to learn how to develop an argument rather than just ask AI to produce one.”

“Excellent.”

Her laptop made a sound.

She glanced at it.

Rwamiti glanced too.

On the screen was ChatGPT.

Mrs Namusoke quickly touched the keyboard.

Rwamiti said nothing.

This is another dangerous thing about him. Sometimes his silence asks the question before his mouth does.

Mrs Namusoke smiled.

“I use it occasionally.”

“Of course.”

“For preparation.”

“Very sensible.”

“It saves time.”

“Excellent.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“You don’t approve?”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“That Rwamiti look.”

He pulled up a chair.

“What do you use it for?”

“Nothing serious. Ideas mostly.”

“For today’s lesson?”

“A little.”

“How little?”

She hesitated.

“I asked it to suggest a lesson structure.”

“Ah.”

“But I modified it.”

“Of course.”

“And some examples.”

“Excellent.”

“And the exercise.”

Rwamiti nodded.

“The exercise the students completed?”

“Yes.”

“The one you just warned them not to use AI to complete?”

Mrs Namusoke frowned.

“That is completely different.”

Rwamiti’s eyes brightened.

He loved those three words.

Completely different.

They had rescued parents, politicians, pastors, teachers and husbands for generations.

“How?”

“I am the teacher.”

“I had noticed.”

“I already understand the subject.”

“Good.”

“I use AI to make my work more efficient.”

Rwamiti nodded.

“And the students?”

“They are using it to avoid thinking.”

“Possibly.”

“Not possibly. They are.”

“Then we agree.”

Mrs Namusoke relaxed.

Again, prematurely.

Rwamiti pointed at the laptop.

“May I ask what else it helped with?”

She sighed.

“The marking rubric.”

“Anything else?”

“Some feedback comments.”

“On their essays?”

“Yes, but I review everything.”

“Of course.”

She folded her arms.

“Rwamiti, what exactly are you suggesting?”

“Nothing yet. I am collecting evidence.”

She laughed despite herself.

“You are impossible.”

“So I have been told.”

He picked up one of the students’ essays.

“Did this student use AI?”

“I suspect so.”

“How can you tell?”

“The language isn’t his.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Not yet.”

“Suppose he tells you he used AI for ideas, then rewrote everything himself?”

“That would depend on how much help he received.”

Rwamiti nodded slowly.

Mrs Namusoke stopped.

She could see it coming.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Say whatever you’re about to say.”

“I haven’t prepared it yet.”

“Very funny.”

Rwamiti leaned back.

“So perhaps the interesting question isn’t whether students should use AI.”

“What is it?”

“Where exactly is the line between using AI to help you think and using AI so that you don’t have to think?”

Mrs Namusoke was quiet.

“And who decides where that line is?”

“The teacher.”

“Reasonable.”

“And does the same line apply to the teacher?”

Silence.

Outside, a bell rang. Students began moving between classrooms.

Mrs Namusoke looked at her laptop.

“I still think what they’re doing is wrong.”

“So do I.”

She looked surprised.

“You do?”

“Of course. If a student submits thinking that isn’t theirs and pretends it is, we have a problem.”

“Exactly!”

“But perhaps we have another problem.”

“What?”

“We adults are introducing young people to extraordinarily powerful tools while making rules we haven’t quite worked out for ourselves.”

She said nothing.

Rwamiti continued.

“A parent tells a child to put away the phone while answering WhatsApp at dinner.”

Mrs Namusoke smiled.

“A teacher tells students not to outsource thinking while asking AI to prepare the exercise.”

Her smile disappeared.

“A school bans AI in one classroom and advertises itself as technologically innovative in the next.”

Mrs Namusoke laughed.

“That one is true.”

“Then perhaps the children are not the only confused people in the room.”

She closed the laptop.

“So what should teachers do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Very useful habit.”

She laughed.

Rwamiti stood.

“Perhaps begin by telling them the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That you use it too.”

Mrs Namusoke looked horrified.

“Tell the students?”

“Yes.”

“They will use that against me!”

“Excellent.”

“Excellent?”

“Now you have a real lesson.”

She stared at him.

“What lesson?”

Rwamiti picked up one of the essays.

“Show them exactly how you used AI to prepare today’s class. Show them what you accepted, what you rejected, what you changed and what you checked.”

He put the essay down.

“Then ask them to show you how they used it.”

Mrs Namusoke was silent.

“Instead of pretending the machine isn’t in the classroom,” he said, “perhaps teach them what responsible thinking looks like when it is.”

She nodded slowly.

Then frowned.

“But some will still cheat.”

“Certainly.”

“So we still need rules.”

“Absolutely.”

“And consequences.”

“Yes.”

She looked relieved.

“So you aren’t defending them?”

Rwamiti smiled.

“No.”

He walked toward the door.

“I am simply adding another desk.”

Mrs Namusoke laughed.

At the doorway, Rwamiti stopped.

“Madam?”

“Yes?”

“You asked your students an excellent question this morning.”

“Which one?”

“What happens when you enter the real world and there is no ChatGPT to answer for you?”

“Yes.”

Rwamiti nodded.

“Keep that question.”

Then he smiled.

“But perhaps ask the staffroom too.”

And that is the trouble with Uncle Rwamiti.

You invite him to help teenagers use technology responsibly.

He agrees.

You tell him the children must stop outsourcing their thinking.

He agrees again.

Then, just when you are beginning to enjoy yourself, the old man looks at your laptop.

Because teenagers certainly need adults who teach them how to live with powerful new technologies.

It helps enormously if the adults are willing to take the same lesson.

Uncle Rwamiti
The uncle your parents should probably not have introduced you to!
Making sense of change through ethical storytelling