The frogs are still croaking when the first cars arrive on the first Monday of the new school year.
It’s 6am, and the roads near SMK Penrissen No. 1 are barely awake. A light drizzle falls through darkness that hasn’t yet surrendered to dawn. Crickets are ringing in the pre-morning chorus. But along the road fronting the school, headlights are already carving through the gloom.
On both sides of the street, vehicles begin to stack up as the first wave of what will become an hour-long procession of drop-offs, farewells, and the peculiar chaos that marks the start of every school day.
By quarter past six, the ritual is in full swing.
Traffic inches forward in front of the school entrance as brake lights flashing in rhythmic sequence. Security guards in reflective vests have taken their positions, conducting the morning symphony with sharp whistles and economical hand gestures. One arm waves students through the gate while the other signals cars to pause, proceed, and keep moving.
They do this without breaking stride and wasted motion, almost like a choreography perfected through repetition, even on this first day back to school.
The students arrive in layers. Some are deposited early, left to wait outside the gates in small clusters. They’re in no hurry, waiting for their friends who haven’t arrived yet. The school day hasn’t technically begun. There’s time to talk, to joke, to ease into the morning, and perhaps to swap stories about the holidays just ended. Some drift to roadside stalls where vendors are already doing brisk business, serving breakfast to the hungry.
Others walk the final stretch alone. Their parents have pulled over earlier, a bit down the road, and driven off as they rush to workplaces that start early. The children don’t seem to mind as they walk with the easy confidence of routine.
By half past six, the influx peaks.
Vans and school buses arrive in succession, releasing students in groups. The entrance becomes a funnel, dozens of uniformed children streaming through. Traffic slows to a crawl but never quite stops. The real bottleneck isn’t here at the school frontage. It’s at the nearby intersection where cars trying to turn create brief standstills.
Through it all, motorcycles weave between vehicles. Some carry students, teenagers riding without helmets, their safety an afterthought in the morning rush. The guards don’t stop them. There are too many other things to manage.
At quarter to seven, the sun finally breaks the horizon.
Daylight spreads across wet pavement, illuminating the scene in full: the lines of waiting vehicles, students in their school T-shirts, and guards navigating the traffic. Groups of students walk together now, larger and more animated. They’re feeling jolly, clearly excited for the new school year ahead.
Among them is a new face. A transfer student in crisp, unfamiliar uniform, accompanied by his guardian, moving with the cautious awareness of someone navigating their first day at a new school.
Students in costumes appear near the entrance, greeters appointed to usher their schoolmates into the compound. It’s a festive touch for this opening day of 2026, a way to mark the fresh beginning.
Not long after, the announcement system crackles to life. A metallic voice echoes across the compound. It’s the signal everyone has been waiting for, the unofficial marker that the drop-off window is closing.
The exodus begins almost immediately.
Parents who’ve completed their deliveries pull away. The stream of arriving vehicles slows to a trickle, then stops. Within a short while, the congestion that built over an hour dissolves. By 7am sharp, the road in front of the school stands clear.
The morning rush has passed.
Inside the compound, students gather for the first school assembly of 2026. Outside, the street returns to something approaching quiet, just the distant hum of traffic, the fading chorus of frogs, the day fully arrived.
The frogs will be there tomorrow morning at 6am. So will the parents. And for the rest of the year, this daily dance will continue, five days a week, until the year draws to a close.
