What about the Teso children?

As the sun crowned behind the horizon, the village stirred to cock crows and cattle moos. A new day dawned in Serere. I was eight years old on school holiday, 275 km from bustling Kampala. Each day was filled with adventure; gardening, milking cows, tethering goats, and picking eggs from the chicken coop. Dad stocked the house with a library of world books - knowledge waited to be plucked off the shelves. We balanced life skills with leisure reading and exploration – what privilege!

Over 30 years on, I trace the worn village path, its gullies and sand heaps familiar like the palm lines of my hand. The path to Akony’akinei Catholic church now overgrown with grass that attempts to hide footprints and bicycle trails of faithful’s seeking to commune with God – paths taken to visit neighbors and friends, to tether goats and pick wild berries. Paths decorated with bitter berry shrubs and thorn bushes. A whiff of fresh, green cow dung intertwined with the warm Teso soil hangs in the air - a scent owned by the village. In the distance I see little purple and lavender shirts weaving through the gardens. These barefoot children of the village make their way to school. Curious to my presence, some stop to stare while others hurry along only turning back to make sense of who I am from a safe distance away. My heart tightens. Serere is frozen in time. Serere holds poverty close to her chest. Like Ms. Havisham in Great Expectations, she was a bride jilted at the alter in 1986. Her lover did not show up and now she walks around her cobwebbed mansion wearing only one shoe.

I branch off the main path to greet our immediate neighbor, the Ojiire’s. For over 50 years we have lived side by side. His children just like my dads have grown and had children of their own. Teenage boys who fathered and denied children in our homestead are now grandfathers while others are buried in the backyard. Grudges have cooled like millet porridge in the shed.

I am received with a warm hug as we thank God for journey mercies. We update each other on the well-being of siblings living far away. Mzee Ojiire emerges from his hut, he makes slow calculated moves. He looks the same, gray haired and glassy eyed, the same old man I’ve known since I was a little girl, except now his frame is frail, his words are few, his memory thin, preserved for the gentler things of life - the location of his hut, his wife’s smile and his favorite chair strategically set in the corner of the compound.

It begins to drizzle and Merabu invites me into the house. Merabu is Mzee Ojiire’s first child. On one corner of the wall is a faint 8x10 photo of Merabu’s grandchildren who live with their parents in Soroti town. The sitting area is bare except for four wooden chairs and a table. It looks like they are in the middle of a relocation. Merabu explains that the local health center is carrying out indoor residual spraying against mosquitoes. Today is their scheduled visit so much of the house furniture has been shifted around in preparation. The rain begins to pour with abandon, a typical occurrence in Teso. It lets lose, drumming the tin roof and lifting the soil up into the air leaving the ground wet and muddy. All the harvested soybeans are brought in and stashed in a corner.

Mike, all drenched, rides his bike into the compound and packs it in the shed before he runs into the house. Mike is a primary school teacher at Oburin primary school. He is one of the few teachers with a motor bike, most others use bicycles, walk, or catch a ride on the commercial motorcycles known as boda-bodas.

He tells me because of the rain school will not start until much later. Some children travel over 2 miles on foot to get to school. With the rain, they will stop for shelter and who knows what time they will get to school. I imagine their books rain soaked and illegible if indeed the pages separate without being torn.

Teachers are late, pupils are late.

“Breakfast is not a guarantee for these children”, Mike says. If they have a bite it is rather light – leftovers from last night’s meal, a little cassava here or a potato there. By the time they get to school, their bodies are craving a meal. The school doesn’t provide any meals, even the teachers fend for themselves. How does a young mind grasp math formula or master the countries counties and sub counties on an empty stomach? I wonder.

Teachers are hungry, children are hungry.

Merabu’s sister Rakeri walks in with a tray – two cups of black tea and roasted soybeans. Rakeri is a teacher at Oburin primary school too. This is their breakfast.

A chicken runs in from the rain, she’s cackling, pacing, searching for a warm place to lay her eggs. As they pray and talk about their journey to school, I sit wide eyed. The more things change the more they stay the same.

58 years after independence, 30 years of a stable government and this little-known district still has children walking to school bare foot and hungry. Walking in torn shirts and tattered shorts – one or two buttons fighting hard to keep the whole ensemble together. What kind of development is this? Where is the progress when the countries youngest population can barely survive let alone get a decent education?

“I encourage the children to work hard so that one day they too can ride motorcycles and live in nice houses.” Mike says. He adds with a sigh, “The girls, they try, but when they reach puberty and their parents can’t afford the school fees, I don’t see them anymore, then I get news that they are with child.”

He goes on to say “The boys lose interest in school and go try their hands at business where-ever they can find it. Even those who stick with school do not pass with flying colors, not when one cannot access scholastic materials or textbooks. It’s a challenge even before they start.”

The rain subsides. Merabu gathers some soybean shells and ushers the cackling chicken into a warm corner of another room. Mike and Rachel get ready to ride to school.

Just another ordinary day of doing their best. When the odds are stacked high against one’s efforts, one can only buckle up and deal with each day as it comes, holding on to hope.

I wave, thank Merabu for the hospitality and start my journey home.

It has been two years since I was in Serere and the children of Teso hang like curtains on the door of my mind. When will the value of education and the resources required be ushered like cows into the Teso kraal?

And now the Corona virus looms large, and villagers starve because they must stay put with no opportunities to earn a living. Do not even talk about home schooling, forget about watching teachers on TV or school packages reaching Serere. When this pandemic subsides the education gap will be so much wider. The question remains – what about the children of Teso?