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The news of discovery of gold in the town of Bifunna was greeted by almost everyone with drumming and clapping. Long after the coffee boom days when Bifunna boasted of the highest number of Mercedes Benz owners in the Central region of the country, courtesy of coffee sales, she had faced hard times as global coffee prices went south. Suddenly Bifunna looked like an abandoned ghost town as traders disappeared, with folks in the district giving up on their ageless coffee planting, which they now called Tebiffunna, in search of a new cash cow.

Unemployed, now, Bifunna was a dusty ghost town where villagers came and sat most of the days on vacant verandah, looking at once thriving but empty stores. Many would cling to lonely bottles in the few open bars around where they shared wistful memories of gone days when folks had their pockets ever bulging with cash, from coffee sales and, could order a spree of drinks. “We were the talk of everyone,” reminisced Mpewo, an old bald headed man, whose once thriving coffee farm was now desolate with a bush full of thorns and thistle.

But this was not the case with Lengela, one man who decided not to abandon coffee growing, a crop which he had grown up with, and pretty knew about everything. “I can’t learn new tricks late in life,” he would push off those who urged him to give up on coffee growing because of bad prices. Indeed he kept at it, though the earnings were far much less, something which made some of his neighbors pour scorn at him. “Look at this fool still pouring money in coffee growing! Cant he use his head to attempt on new promising cash crops like say plant eucalyptus trees or maybe ginger.”

Lengela listened to the criticism but he was not moved. He sought out the help of Agricultural extension workers. They confirmed that the Bifunna soils and weather patterns were best suited to coffee plants, unlike the new exotic crops, some from temperate climates, quick to whither and fall prey to local pest attacks. “Just stay on with what you know,” advised an extension worker. “Instead of getting scattered into new unknown areas.”

As a result of modernizing coffee growing Legela started realizing higher yields from an acreage.  However, he was just making enough to survive as the situation on the global market remained grim and his earnings were uncertain. Sometimes he thought of converting his farmland to something else as many around him had done, like planting eucalyptus trees too. But he held on to the crop he loved.

Then suddenly, when Bifunna had all but been deserted; someone discovered gold here. All of a sudden gold hunting hordes descended upon the nearly vacant town and quickly went about in the villages looking for land to purchase, lease or rent, and start scooping out gold.

“Lease to us your land,” one of the gold hunters came up and approached Lengela. “We hear there is gold down there.” Lengela waved him off. “I have better plans for my land.”

The gold diggers were not short of those willing to sell them land. Prices were low as most of the land had been rendered into disuse after folks had given up on coffee farming. The gold hunters would offer ridiculous low prices to the natives, who after happily selling, quickly set off on to a jolly ride from their land sale bonanza.

“The good days are back again,” said Mpewo, the old bald headed man after dispensing off a square mile. “I can now marry a third wife and purchase a Boxer motorcycle. I am hot!”

When he heard of the sales going on, Lengela, paused with a mixture of bemusement and inescapable indignation. He shook his head as his neighbors all around gave up on their land, which had been passed on to them for generations. Once the gold hunters took possession of the land they quickly curved it into plots and started digging underneath where every now and then gold muds would be found. You could hear ululations of joy once a digging party hit a gold mud. Pails came flying from underneath full of gold to the owners jubilation.

However, no one had taken trouble to first research on the extent of the gold. So, after a year of gold rush the yields from most of the pits that now littered all over Bifunna, had all but dried up. The gold had been exhausted. Those that had sold out their land where now empty handed.

“I want my land back,” Mpewo walked up to a gold digger. He was a land speculator, he had sold to his square mile for a third of its current market price.

“If you come up with this money,” said the land speculator giving him a mind boggling price, “you can get back the land title.” Mpewo had spent all the money from his sale on booze and merry making. He walked away sullen.

And it is then that the coffee prices started gradually recovering. There was a shortage of supply on the global market. Suddenly Lengela who had never given up on coffee was back in business. He was now the largest landowner around Bifunna as he had never given in to the gold hunters. Lorries started driving up to his farm, park and stay overnight, waiting to be loaded with coffee sacks.

Once loaded, having paid off Lengela at premium prices,  the Tata lorries cruised off, leaving behind a happy man. “If I had given up on coffee growing,” he mused. “ I would now be like those villagers who are now squatters on their land.”

As long as there is life there will never be short of quick to get rich schemes. For those in farming cyclical changes in the economy might mean that once their favorite cash crops are no longer as profitable as before. But should they then abandon them and rush to embrace the latest fancy crop!

The challenge with this path is that enduring success is often after years of skills that one has horned and stands to lose all that generational knowledge in favor of the latest gold wand. Here, in this story, success smiled to Lengela because he had the staying power and kept plowing at his age old trade even against all new gold bagging schemes. He didn’t fall prey to them. For he knew he already had the gold.

“What’s wrong with you sending Atuuse to camp for play when he has school homework!” wondered Manyi,”“I have told my Ayite to forget attending those time-wasting camps when he has tests coming up!”

“But I told you I believe children learn more out of classroom than behind those walls,” Mutufu, crisply explained. Manyi and Mutufu were childhood friends. But after school, having married, once they started raising families, soon discovered they would never see eye to eye on how to raise children. Manyi expected her son Ayite to walk in her footsteps. She always recalled how she had made it to Engineering school through hard work. “If I had loused around in clueless games like those other failures where would I be!”

Meanwhile Mutufu held an opposing view. When she started looking for a school for her son Atuuse, one aspect she kept looking for was if the school had a huge play field, covering all sorts of games.

“What games do kids here play?” she pressed a principal in one famous school, she approached.

“Here children are always in class studying to pass exams and this is why we are ranked the best school,” reported the principal.  Almost immediately Mutufu got up and started looking elsewhere. However, when Manyi called on the same school and the principal showed her how many first grades they had in the last national exams, she was immediately sold on. “I want my son Ayite to end up at the top with his name mentioned in the newspaper.”

Ayite was promptly admitted. Being the youngest in class, he was cheeky, though, eager to spend time out playing in the field. At the end of the year he was graded at the bottom of class.

“You are not going to shame me boy!” Manyi screamed, once she got hold of his report card. “You will now be getting up at 4 am in the morning to cram letters and numbers!” Under this regime, Ayite, with the belt ever looming on top of his head, had his grades improved. Soon he was topping his class to Manyi’s joy. And when he reached P6, Manyi asked if the school could have him sit P7. “My boy is a genius and has no time to waste.”

Some of Ayite’s teachers thought it wouldn’t do him good to skip a class. “Yes, we have no doubt he will pass,” his maths teacher pleaded. “I fear he will lose his friends.”

“You want my child to stick behind with looser friends!” roared back Manyi, in disgust. “I will take him to another school.” She threatened. The private school feared losing kids because it would affect its profit margins. Ayite sat and excelled. Manyi took a picture with her son which she sent to the newspapers to plant on front page with a caption, “We made it!”

Thereafter Ayite joined one of the best secondary school in the country. Whenever he got back home Manyi would ask one question, “I want to see your grades, don’t tell me anything about games and stuff!” If Ayite had a poor showing, then she would explode. “It is because you were out playing and yet these poor grades will take you nowhere!”

Meanwhile, after Mutufu rejected a school without a playing field she came across one which impressed her. “Here every child must enroll in a club of some interest,” the principal reported. “For every lesson we arrange kids to go out in the field so that they can pick up real life lessons. We place strong emphasis on games because they help kids pick up social skills. We encourage kids to use their local languages since they will need them to get around the country. Every child is appointed to lead something. On weekday we hold debates and quizzes so as to help kids overcome shyness and learn articulate themselves before crowds. Ours are not traditional kids because they spend more time outside class, visiting zoos, parliament, plantations, factories, etc, to supplement their book knowledge.”

“This is exactly what I have been looking for,” Mutufu brightened, and immediately enrolled Atuuse. Almost with every single opportunity she was at school cheering Atuuse, through his many games. Once, Atuuse happened to be lumbering behind in a 200M dash, she cheered him to race faster. Encouraged, he speeded up and won. “Atuuse now I want you to go and lift up all those you raced with,” Mutufu counseled.

Maybe because he was so busy into games, for his P7 Atuuse didn’t score a first grade. A concerned friend approached Mutufu. “If you get me some money I know someone important to get him admitted to an elite school.”

Mutufu rejected the idea right away. “If my boy wants to get to that school let him repeat P7, work hard and earn his way up there,” she said. “Is he going to cheat his way through life whenever he comes across a road bloc?”

Having had him repeat, Atuuse suspended some of his game activities, worked hard and this time passed with flying colors. He ended up in the same school with Ayite. The two rarely crossed paths. Ayite was always locked up in the library cramming to pass exams. But Ayite was out playing or participating in a club activity.

For his hard work, Ayite excelled and made it to Engineering school, which Manyi had chosen for him. Atuuse also joined the same university but with average grades. He was offered to do a social sciences course that because it was less academically demanding had been baptized as “General happiness”. However, Atuuse enjoyed it thoroughly for it gave him as much time to meet people from all over the country whom he made fast friends. He really enjoyed his time at university for he was always up and about in some interesting activity, like going for cross country runs and acting in plays.

In fact, Atuuse merely scrapped through to get a Lower honors degree.  Soon after one of those friends he had met during cross country runs tapped on him that there was a vacancy for young graduates in a new telecommunications company. Atuuse promptly showed up for the interview. He found that he had already met a number of those interviewing him during his multiple games and extracurricular activities. “This is the kind of person we need here who can help our business expand contacts,” said the CEO, whom Atuuse already knew as a Rotarian, having once invited him to give his Rotaract club a talk, where he was then President.

Once he joined Atuuse was involved in most company activities, which he found exciting. Before long, he had been promoted to head an influential business expansion unit. Early one day he was invited to chair an interview panel. After interviewing several candidates, then whom does he see entering? In walked Ayite. He suddenly recalled that while at university Ayite had dropped out, preferring to pass hours fraternizing campus bars, where he would push off any who dared pull him back to class, insisting, “I am sick and tired of this school business. Let me chill.”

When Manyi called him, with a sudden alcohol-fueled boldness, he told her to give him a break. Eventually, after losing a couple of years, he came around, got back to university. But this time switched to a business degree course. And so here was looking for a job.

Throughout the interview, Atuuse pretended he had never met Ayite. But he gave him near perfect scores on all questions, strongly recommending his appointment. The committee agreed.

On day, soon after Ayite had reported to work, Atuuse, met him at the company cafeteria. “My old friend,” he pulled him aside. “I know back in school you were hardly out on the games field playing with us. But if you want to get ahead here my tip is get involved and make as many friends. You will need them all the way. Good luck!”

“Why not take the children to any of the old traditional schools!” my mother expressed concern, once she heard I had different ideas. I did not commit but offered I would think about it. As my kids reached school going age, I started thinking of a school which had children not just from Uganda, but from all over the world, a sort of global village. But this was not something easy to explain to my mother who considered Catholic boarding schools as the ultimate choice. A longtime ago at an early age my folks had gathered me through a number of parochial schools, where morning chapel was compulsory and the stick was amply used to wire us into super pupils with astonishing grades. Well, I had since outgrown all that, and looked at life with a wider span.

Upon graduation with a Masters degree in one leading US state university, I started going around looking for a job. I happened to be attending a church with a number of influential people: state representatives in the Senate, leading business personalities, attorneys, physicians, academicians and senior managers. So, I approached one old gentleman who ran a successful financial firm. Immediately, he took up my case. “I see you have just graduated from my university,” he smiled, warmly. He called up a number of his old mates, and I could hear him chuckle, “I have a chap here just graduated from our old school!”

Easily, I found that in this state, one ticket a person needed was the university you attended. They were two prominent universities famous as rivals, particularly when it came to basketball and football games. Both boasted of a roaring passionate alumni who would buy yearlong tickets for any of those games. But that passion extended beyond university campus gates. Graduates shared a camaraderie, like kindred souls. Their cars and trucks bore mascots of their old schools. And, in fact, there was almost an immediate obligation to help out an old schoolmate, once one chanced upon any.

This was my first real experience how the school you go to matters. Here, in this state, it was not just the degree certificate that mattered, which of course counted, but also what school you went to. It was like once you came out then you were brothers ( or sisters). Yes, it has been years since I left that university and state, but tell you what even as of now whenever I bump into someone who went there and we discover a common origin, our eyes light up. “So, you too, are a Sooners!”

Once, in one of my graduate classes, a professor of public administration introduced to our class a book authored by Thomas R Dye, “Who is Running America?” I still have it on the shelf even after moving through different addresses. Once in a while I thumb through its pages. Why I found it so intriguing, to this day, was its central argument that power in the world’s most powerful nation was concentrated in a network of individuals who all but went to particular Ivy League schools. Yes, it looked like they all took out of their universities more than a conventional degree. Out of school they also came with friends who would go on to support each other through life, including ascending to the most important office in the world. How else do you start explaining how a son of an African student gets into White House? Well, among others, he happened to have gone to Harvard university!

Years ago I called up a retired Permanent Secretary, F D Gureme, who in his sunset years had taken to scribbling a popular column, “Old Man of the Town” He had just written something about his classmate while at King’s College Budo, Professor Senteza- Kajubi, the former Vice Chancellor of Makerere and Nkumba universities. He was a bit lonely as in his “Trojan –class” which had included a former Prime Minister, Eng Abraham Waligo, he was apparently the only one now living. “There was a time when we used to run this country,” he mused. “Everywhere you went you found an old schoolmate running the office. You could get any door open for you!”

I think schools give us more than certificates or degrees. They also gift us with friendship that open doors, once out of school gates. There was once a case in which I happen to be involved that made this so obvious to me. I had been hired as a Consultant to help one organization locate a CEO. We failed to find the right fit through normal processes. So I was tasked with head hunting. Now, one day, soon after, almost out of nowhere I came across an old boy, who just happened to be looking for his next post. Immediately I connected him to the Board. All I remember was unanimous assent. “After all he is from our school.”

So you can see why I didn’t know how to explain to my mother that my children were going to live in a globalized world, and if they could pick up friends from different nationalities, sooner but not later, it was all the better for them. In her world it was still grades that counted after faith. In my case I thought it was friends you made that counted more. Of course they could pick them from any of the old schools, as I had, but I thought theirs was going to be a less localized world than mine.

Well, in Uganda, national exams have just returned and I see a lot of anxiety about grades. Not much talk about networks the kids have built in their school journey and must continue. What I know and want to share a person can have a powerful degree with stars, but if they do not know someone to pass it along to the right decision maker, it might well end up with just a lot of dust. It is one of those things you get to know how the world works, along the way.

“What has he come to do here?” Mr Mulimu asked his Secretary, on hearing that Mr Yaliwo, the former Managing Director (MD) of Bulya Cooperative Bank (BCB), was out waiting in the lobby. In the early 1990s, BCB, as part of agreement with IMF/ World Bank, had put been put up for restructuring. This was all to help stalled African economies revive by lending them money on certain conditions. BCB was one of many state enterprise consequently restructured which had led to Mr Yaliwo being laid off. Mr Mulimu, then a middle level manager, was one of the few survivors of a skeletal staff left behind. He was promoted as the new MD.

Soon after he received his terminal benefits, Mr Yaliwo, quickly noticed an error. He recalled back in the early 1970s shortly after joining BCB he was notified by the Head of personnel that 10% of his pay would be deducted automatically to contribute to a pension scheme based in the UK.  BCB would also add 5%; which made considerable savings for his retirement. However, in the mid-seventies, with the economy in doldrums, the bank started defaulting to remit money to the pension fund. Yet, in spite of that, the BCB continued to deduct staff pay and the money was used to cover operational expenses.

Once he got his pay slip, seeing the gap, Mr Yaliwo, immediately raised the matter with the new MD. “Some of us used to contribute to a UK pension based pension scheme yet you have not remitted us those funds,” he called on Mr Mulimu. “I know we kept deducting that money, as I was then a junior officer in the Accounts section.”

“That can’t be true!” Mr Mulimu did not take kindly to this claim. Soon after he had became MD he took quick offense if any person wanted to draw money from BCB accounts, which he almost viewed as personal. Not only would he have requisition papers sit for weeks, if not months, in his in-baskets, waiting for clearance, he would always find a way to reject claims, which often he claimed were fictitious.

Suppliers were habitually sent back empty handed, him accusing them of falsified delivery. Sometimes he watched them from his window apparently enjoying making them walk off BCB campus disgruntled. On occasion, upon receiving staff conference attending lists for workshops, asking for reimbursements, he would personally visit hotels, up country, to ascertain if the event took place. One day upon finding one workshop had not taken place, his vigilance rose to another pitch. Every claim that came to his desk had now to be routinely sent back for more proofs. “I need to see the photographs as proof of the workshop!”

Eventually, some staff decided to baptize him the nick name “Aswan Dam.” But on learning so, he took pride. “Yes, I am the dam against all those thieves hiding and wanting to steal money for no work.”

Not everyone was convinced though about Mr Mulimu’s motives. On one hand while he was slow and reluctant to entertain colleague request for advances, whenever he himself needed money, it would take just a few hours to force the whole Accounts machinery to release money to cater for his expenses. He would harass Accounts Assistants with repeated calls bordering on threats, noting the emergency of the matter, while easily shunning off any required proof, as not necessary. “This is urgent BCB business for the MD and please don’t frustrate company work or you will get yourself in trouble.”

So, when the former MD came back claiming that BCB still owed him money, his battle instincts rose. “I need proof of all those deductions Mr Mulimu hastily went on with objection, shunning off his former colleague.  When Mr Yaliwo, who now lived up country, left and traveled back with his pay slips, which he had meticulously kept, still Mr Mulimu demurred. “We have no money and what we gave you is enough.”

“But if BCB lacks the money,” Mr Yaliwo advised, “then take it to Finance Ministry since she is the one overseeing you. The debt can be passed on to the government and besides I also left some money in some reserves.”

“I will look into that,” he promised. But he didn’t.

After tiring of traveling back and forth, and being made to wait till late to see the MD, Mr Yaliwo, finally decided to team up with other laid off workers, denied of their full terminal benefits too and file a case in the High Court. But once he got summons Mr Mulimu, shrieking with anger, took the case to an old law firm of BCB, led  by a grey haired Senior Counsel, Mr Magezi.

“We must fight off these spurious claims by thieves!” Mr Mulimu urged the old seasoned lawyer. However, upon going over the files from BCB, Mr Magezi advised BCB that hers was a poor case. “Pay these old staff of yours,” he called BCB. “After all they used to work for you and are responsible for the BCB you found.”

“We paid them already and enough!” Mr Mulimu cut off the old lawyer. He then started shopping around for a firm that would help BCB win the case against these “ungrateful thieves”. He found one but at a stiff price. However, when it lost the case, Mr Mulimu remained still unfazed. “There is no way I am going to see BCB give out free money to those people!” He declared and appealed. “I was given this job to protect BCB against thieves.”

And that is when tables turned.

As part of the restructuring exercise, Parliament had passed a law that Accounting Officers like Mr Mulimu could only serve two five year- nonrenewable terms. In the heat of all his battles with ex staff Mr Mulimu had forgotten that his tenure was of a limited duration. Seeing his end coming, he called for a special meeting of the Board to sit and extend his term. It was at a resort where as usual he forced Accounts to release a huge envelope for each Board member in record time.

Now, on the Board was a young Christian lawyer who noted that  the Board had no powers to override an Act of Parliament. “Members we need to be careful not to pass rulings in violation of the law!”  Observing that this was being noted in the minute, the rest of the members cowed and agreed, in spite of helping themselves to the envelope. Mr Mulimu’s contract was not extended.

Out of a job, Mr Mulimu, received his terminal benefit and quickly noticed all the money he had once remitted for the pension fund, was not passed on to him. Without wasting time, Mr Mulimu, got into his car, and drove fast to BCB.

At the entrance the old MD was shocked when security delayed allowing him to proceed inside BCB campus. “Do you have an appointment?” A new gruff security man asked him.

“How can you ask when I was the former MD here!” Mr Mulimu growled.

“Next time, it is better to first call!” Security warned him.

Once Accounts staff heard “Aswan Dam” was back to lodge a financial claim, they deliberately decided to make him taste some of his old medicine. “There is no need to talk to anyone here,” said an intern staff who was sent to talk to the former boss, as he stood waiting in the corridor. “Your matter is being handled and you would be informed in due time!”

Flushing with anger, Mr Milumu stormed back to his car. He could not understand why the organization he had in the past vehemently fought for, was now treating him so coldly. “People are so ungrateful!” he raged. He decided to call up the new MD called Mupya. “I have all this money owed to me,” he shared, heatedly.

“I will get back to you after making inquiries,” said Mupya, who had been hired from outside and knew little of her past operations.

When Mupya passed on the concerns of the former MD to the rest of Management he noticed they seemed all bemused. They took their time responding but finally gave him word for Mr Mulimu. “There is a court case on this matter under appeal and we need to wait for the outcome.”

It is at this point, that, Mr Mulimu decided to look up Mr Yaliwo. He desperately needed this cash payout as he was deep in debt and close to losing a commercial building he had mortgaged. Used to an extravagant life and realizing that he was now without a steady income, he had to find a quick way to make ends meet. “I think we should sit down and talk to see how to get our money back,” Mr Mulimu, lightly asked the man he had once seen as a nuisance. “I am now on your side.” He giggled, nervously.

“Is that so!” said Mr Yaliwo, quite surprised to hear from him, at last, as he had never called him before. It had been close to a decade when he had been made to suffer for lodging this very claim only to be resisted by the very man who was now at the end of the line. In the course of time, some of the old staff  he had started this struggle with had even passed on, while dying in poverty.

“Welcome to our side of the line,” Mr Yaliwo, finally told once his old tormentor. Having hung up, he sat, shaking his head.

In his mind Suubi always dreamt that after school, once he got a good job, married a beautiful girl, all would be well. The hard life he had endured while growing up would all come to an end.

Suubi had narrowly survived the harsh guerrilla war that brought the new military government in power. It had all come at such a huge personal cost. Suubi had lost both his parents, grannies and four siblings. Fate befell him when the family home was bombed after some neighbour alleged they had been sheltering guerrillas. Suubi had not been home at the time of attack, for he was down at the well, but when he got back he found once his home all leveled, with dismembered bodies, everywhere, of people he loved.

He fled. For days and nights, surviving on cassava he stole from gardens and drinking water from stagnant wells, he eluded government soldiers searching for rebels, as he made his way through the bush to the city. When he got to the city it was now a question who would take him up. He saw lots of kids milling around the streets and he considered starting life there too. But then he recalled he had an Uncle, Nkalyanzekka, a younger brother of his murdered Dad, who was a big shot in the city.

But he hesitated going there. Suubi knew that Uncle Nkalyanzekka had long cut himself from his family, which he despised. He had last seen him almost a decade ago when he came for a funeral of an aunt, in a big car, and quickly left once the funeral was over.

“That brother of mine is a very proud man,” Suubi had often heard his father complain. “He forgets he went to school only because we sacrificed and let all the school fees be used for him. But since he got up he thinks we are too small for him.”

That was part of the truth. Having got up in society Mr Nkalyanzekka had formed all sorts of negative views about the relatives he had left behind. He chided them for not being developmental like him. “Look,” he would hiss back in his palatial home of five bedrooms, “those people are so lazy. With all that land they still ask me money. All they do is drink and spend all their earnings in witchcraft chasing fantasies.”

So, how could he now go to Uncle Nkalyanzekka and ask for shelter when he had this low opinion of his family. But then he had no choice. Indeed, once he got to the house, tucked in a leafy suburb, before even greeting him, Uncle Nkalyanzekka on realizing who he was, cried through the window, “What has brought you here, boy, all rumpled up like this!”

“Everyone in the village was killed,” Suubi broke the sad news. Uncle Nkalyanzekka took in the news, without much of an expression. “Come in,” he finally allowed him in.” Suubi gingerly stepped on to the carpet.

“But I hear those people were supporting guerrillas,” his Uncle snapped, after taking in all the news. “So, what can I do for you!” He started pressing him.

“I need somewhere to stay,” Suubi pleaded.

“We have only a small place here,” the Uncle, who had two children, mostly away in a boarding school, wavered. It was only when his wife later showed up and hearing Suubi’s story of what had happened in the village urged her reluctant husband to take his nephew in. “He can also help us with chores, anyway.”

This is how Suubi had ended up being raised as a Shamba boy in his Uncle’s palatial home. He was housed in a boy’s quarter. Life was restless as the deal was to do odd jobs around the house as a way to earn money to pay for his school fees. Through hard work Suubi had finally made it to the university, and soon got a job in a government agency. Finally secure, he felt it was now time to live the life of his dreams, just like his pinchy Uncle.

But then he was in for a rude shock. Soon after leaving university Suubi saw one of his best friend die of a mysterious disease that had drained him into a poor skeletal frame. By then there were people dying all over, taken by a new strange disease. Finally someone gave it a name- Slim. After a lot of research, it was discovered, it was largely caused through sexual activity with an infected person. Young people like Suubi were urged to marry and stick to their partners, if they were ever to avoid it.

So, when Suubi married a girl called Mary, he knew his troubles were over. After all he had now a good job, a wife, a house and soon a car, all to himself. He would now be like Uncle Nkalyanzekka, a wealthy man living in the city, enjoying life to himself.

One of the things that had drawn Suubi to Mary was that she had grown up in a hard up family, far away from the village, much like his.  But Suubi and Mary had hardly settled in their new life of tranquility when in quick succession she lost four of her elder brothers to Slim. Her parents back in the village decided to send two of her remaining sisters, still in school, to her to raise. “With our grief, we can only manage to look after one child.”

Suubi’s first reaction was to send them back. “Why are your people coming here to enter our quiet life!” he wondered aloud. Mary did not answer. But later, as he reflected back on his life, Suubi recalled he had survived because someone had let him in, albeit reluctantly. Otherwise he would have ended up on the streets. Maybe by letting in these two girls, they too would survive, just as he had scrapped through the bush war, and go on to become something.

Those are the stories of Slim days. Although looked at as a very wicked period, and certainly it was, there is also a lot of good that came out of that dark period. In 1988 at its worst, a musician by the names of Phily Lutaaya, gave a feared disease a human face, by boldly presenting himself, and going a long way to reduce the stigma that had left many to suffer in morbid silence.

Earlier in 1987 after losing her husband to HIV/ AIDS, a young widow called Noreen Kaleeba, decided to turn  a tragedy into an opportunity, by linking up with others who had experienced as much fate, with a simple mission, to lift up each other and find a way  for life  to go on.  Eventually, from this band of widows, would grow one of the most respected global health organization called TASO, which has gone a long way to end this disease.

Times of tragedy can also birth the most heroic feats, as the days of HIV/AIDS revealed. On the other hand there are those who can become withdrawn and perhaps callous. Throughout history even in dark times, often in the midst of falling bodies, there are those who see this as their best opportunity to collect sacks of money they always longed for and build mountains of castles for their enjoyment. That’s how life goes.

But still,  there are those who choose to rise above the waters, forget about themselves, even if for a while, and become bigger, as we saw back then.

The Covid- 19 pandemic is no less, of times of upheaval seen through history. In spite of all the misery, it is a gift as well, to mankind, because it helps us draw back to find the very essence and meaning of life. At the end of it some will come out narrower in life; as other will have risen to become larger in life.

Something puzzling caught the attention of the young doctor. After observing carefully he noticed a sudden rise in number of patients, dying from a condition all the books he had read back in medical school did not properly describe. Once bright and up on their feet, stricken patients soon after admission would wither away slowly into skeletal frames, of much pity, before drawing their last breath. The young doctor applied all kinds of standard treatment to bring relief and recovery but to no avail.

Finally, he approached the head of his department, Professor Nkumbi. “I am puzzled,” he sighed. “We are losing so many people and none of the standard treatment is working. I suspect we are faced with a new dangerous disease.”

Professor Nkumbi had also been noticing through his regular rounds of supervision and his concern was growing. Over the years he had seen batches of new viruses break out to cause new strange diseases. But even with scarce knowledge there seemed always a way out to manage any. Many times he would use his vast experience to apply a combination of different medicine and administer their properties in different amounts to help heal the sick.

The Professor was a lazy writer but on occasion once certain of his treatment he would author a paper packed with statistics which he had assiduously gathered as proof of the efficacy of his treatment regime. His findings were reviewed and published in leading medical journals. It is only after the scientific community had reached consensus that he would accept invitation locally and globally to promote his medicine. The Professor was now recognized as an expert in managing tropical diseases and some of his medicines had been patented by leading pharmacies.

“Perhaps we should get out blood samples and anything we consider useful to a partner laboratory in the US,” Professor Nkumbi advised the young doctor. The two agreed, and quickly sent samples out by DHL. However, after a week anxious for feedback, came a terse reply. “There is nothing we found giving us clue to this new disease.”

“If they can’t figure it out,” said the Professor. “Then we need to figure it by ourselves. They have their problems and we have ours. Sometimes we need to take the lead.”

In his long career of handling epidemic crises Professor Nkumbi had taken an interest in studying human behavior under odd circumstances. Although at an individual level there were observable differences, there were also commonalities. First, human beings in the absence of assured treatment, many started panicking. This would be accentuated as the diseases became viral. In this case, Professor Nkumbi saw it happen when sometime later, the young doctor who had taken it upon himself to immerse himself in treating the afflicted, fell ill. Then, as were others, he wilted away, and in no time lost his life.

The death of the young doctor made all the health workers pause. Putting in long hours, working under strained circumstances with poor equipment, tempers rose. “No one knows what this disease is,” said a young worried medic. “This disease will wipe us away before anybody knows.”

The Professor knew that one of the first things he needed in the midst of an epidemic was to bring reassurance and calmness. The day after the young doctor was buried he called on all staff for a meeting. “I know many of you are scared stiff and for good reasons,” he said to the hushed room. “But I want to assure you that if we stay calm and work together on this thing we shall find a cure. Let us keep our hands joined together otherwise if we left fear take over us, we shall all lose out. I say, the only thing to fear is fear itself!”

“But how can we work under these conditions,” a staff raised concern. “We are short on beds and gloves. Patients are sleeping on floors. Our pay comes in late. We are hungry. Don’t sell us on this hope stuff.”

“I do hear you,” the Professor said calmly. “How I wish I was the one managing the health sector. But for now our complaints won’t help much. We are at the frontline. Everyone is looking up to us. Let us do all we can!”

The next day about a third of the health care workers did not show up. Professor Nkumbi had seen it all. But he knew a certain critical staff would stick on. It is those few he embarked on a journey of finding a discovery to this unknown disease.

The Professor decided to close off one of his wards where he would carry out rigorous research. As he studied the disease he noticed that a majority of patients fell in the 15- 25 age bracket. He would ask them all sorts of questions about their lifestyle. Yet he couldn’t figure out why this new disease was more virulent in attacking this rather athletic age group. He wrote to the Ministry of Health asking for funds to research more on this age group but he was quickly rebuffed. “Maybe you should write to the donors,” the Permanent Secretary wrote back. “The funds available are for buying cars for political leaders to sensitize the population about His Excellency programs.”

In the meantime, without much research going on, all sorts of speculation started going around town, explaining this disease. There were those who quickly pointed the finger to witchcraft. “This thing was brought by those witch doctors from our neighbors,” seemed to be the chorus in local pubs. As many were convinced, they rushed to local shrines to fight off evil spirits causing this unknown disease. There, almost all would not survive, including some of the shrine ministers, which left as many perturbed.

“God is punishing us for our sins,” a number of Pastors claiming to be in constant contact with God now took center stage. “If you come here and we pray for you then you will be healed.” Added to this, there were those who claimed that racist White doctors had planted the disease in Africa to wipe out the population and recolonize the continent! Promoters of this conspiracy were drawn largely from the more educated class.

All this Professor Nkumbi had seen. “Human beings will always grapple for answers from all sorts of angles in the face of the unknown,” he had once written a paper. “In situations of anxiety, it is expected for opportunistic groups to thrive.”

As all was going on, one-day Professor Nkumbi discovered that a young man on his research team had pieced some of his data to put together a concoction claiming it as a cure for the new disease. This medicine was marketed across the country, especially at bus stops and popular drinking joints, where a number would always come up with testimonies of “being cured” by gulping it. No one would take time to probe their testimonies. Marketed intensely, the new “cure” soon ran out of stock. When Professor Nkumbi learned that the chap behind all was on his research team, he promptly fired him. “I have nothing to do with anyone who takes advantage of poor people’s ignorance promoting unproved gimmicks.”

Poorly funded, Professor Nkumbi pressed on with the few staff left on his team. After many months of gathering evidence, his data started coming together. He discovered the young people who were most affected tended to exhibit an aggressive sexual lifestyle. He found that in the absence infection rates tended to be minimal. With this in mind, the Professor now realized that lifestyle change was one line of attack to reduce infection. He started advocating sexual abstinence as one line of attack. He also found that by using condoms where one’s status was unknown, infections fell to almost zero. He became a serious advocate of condom use.

Not everyone was pleased with the Professor’s findings. For those who were marketing “cure” concoctions, using some of their profits, they started waging a campaign against the Professor. “This man shall put us out of business,” they seethed. Meanwhile, certain government officials displeased that reports of lower infection rates meant the country was earmarked for less aid, also started attacking the Professor. They knew less aid would mean less funds to maintain their expensive lifestyle which they dared not forsake, even in the midst of a ravaging epidemic…

It is now nearly four decades away since Uganda was at the center of the devastating HIV/AIDS epidemic, whose origins was initially a cause of so much speculation. However, after the rigorous work of dedicated research scientists in Uganda, it was discovered there was a link between the spread of the HIV-causing virus and unprotected sexual activity. Armed with this knowledge the doctors then started advocating abstinence, faithfulness and condom (ABC) use as a line of defense.

But as we all know the simple message of lifestyle behavioral changes, was not good news to everyone. All sorts of power centers rose up attacking ABC, without much else to show, but the power of charged emotions.

And so it is with Covid-19. A lot about managing this virus has simply to do with limiting its spread by observing simple behavioral practices – physical distancing, sanitization, mask-wearing, isolation of the sick, etc. More so, there are various tested vaccines fortunately now available which serious governments have quickly and without waste bought and ensured the majority of the population take immediate benefit of. Never mind all that. There are those places where things just never change.