Jessica told me she owned some land near the Nile in Jinja and had built a mud hut school there for vulnerable children. She asked if we would visit it while we were in Uganda. I was more than happy to agree, not just to see her school but because the journey would take us over the Nalubaale Dam, the primary source of electricity generated from the water of the White Nile. I couldn’t believe I was going to get to witness the white plumes of water.
During Idi Amin’s rule the dam was often blocked by human remains—leftovers from the crocodiles. Some say, they were the only ones who benefited under his rule. Today, beautiful white egrets elegantly balance themselves on the water hyacinths. These purple, free-floating plants are the only ones now trapped below the dam.
The Mango Tree School sits in the most beautiful location imaginable. Set back a few hundred yards from the lush, evergreen riverbanks of the Nile; the area surrounding it attracts both a vast array of bird life and a lot of tourists. However, most of the community living near this bank are as poor as they come.
The school is free and so is mainly filled with orphaned and impoverished children. Many are refugees. They are offered one meal a day at The Mango Tree School. Often it is the only meal these kids will receive in a day—hence some walk up to seven kilometers to come here. That and, of course, a free education.
The first time Rony and I visited the school was in 2012. Back then there were sixty children, one notepad and two pencils. We asked them what they needed the most and they all said, “A school uniform—please!” So for Christmas that year—Starchild’s first year as a charity—we set up a Christmas uniform campaign and managed to buy them all uniforms. Can you imagine giving a child in the Western world a school uniform for Christmas? But that was what they wanted and so that is what we gave them, along with the dignity and respect a uniform commands in Uganda. One little girl wrote to me, “Thank you. My uniform makes me shine like gold.”
Since then the school has grown to house over 216 students, and Starchild continues to buy their uniforms, some school materials and sponsors those transitioning from primary to secondary school.
Today we are picking up the new uniforms en route to The Mango Tree School. I have been praying for the rain to hold off; the clouds have been like a womb about to break water for days now. I feel bad praying that the rains hold off as Uganda has just suffered a bit of a drought. However, it is now April, smack dab in the middle of the rainy season and I know from experience that the smattering of rainfall we have experienced this morning could change rapidly into a monsoon.
Despite the recent drought, the land is still looking lush. Beautiful land filled with tea, sugar, and coffee plantations embrace us most of the way. Before Idi Amin expelled the Asian community of Uganda in 1972, Jinja was a thriving city with elegant colonial-style homes and plantations. That legacy is still evident today. However, much has been left to deteriorate and is in need of restoration.
It’s not long before the foreboding clouds seem to hug us as well as the plantations. The skies open up just as we reach the local tailor to collect the uniforms. The scene erupts into a powerful storm that Zeus himself would have been proud to create. The downpour causes the roads to become dangerous. I know it will be impossible for our people carrier to make it through the thick, red murram mud which paves the way to the school. Our only hope is to walk. I happen to have spied a pair of Wellington boots in the back of the vehicle. Although they are three sizes too big for me, I make a dive to grab them first!
This mud is a nightmare to walk in, like trying to walk in butter. The build-up on my boots soon makes me feel ten feet tall, but by then I can’t move and have to be levered out of the mud by a local man with a big stick. Rony opts to roll up his trousers and walk in his bare feet—but he gets stuck too and another friendly local has to help pull him out of the mire.
Usually we are greeted warmly, with children waving flowers and singing. But today the children are huddled inside, peering through the small entrance of their primitive classrooms, waving frantically at us while protecting themselves from the rain. A few brave souls venture out to welcome us, fueled by sheer excitement.
The school is the most ramshackle building you can imagine, but that is its charm. It’s a flagship to this struggling community, one that has built itself a school with the materials they have on hand: murram mud, cow dung, and wooden sticks.
We are taken through each classroom and greeted by the teachers and classes with singing, praise, and letters of thanks. It’s all very moving and at times I feel tearful listening to the precious letters of thanks they have written for us. It’s truly humbling.
Just as on previous visits, we are told by most of the pupils they want to be a doctor, lawyer, teacher, pastor, engineer, or a pilot. All the school children we have visited so far in Uganda have those same high ambitions. I can’t get over the dichotomy—in Scotland if you asked a bunch of school children what they wanted to be many would say a movie star, a musician, or an artist. Creativity doesn’t seem to be encouraged in the schools we visit in Uganda.
I ask a teacher about one of the children who is not doing so well at the school and she says, “Oh, I think he is just stupid.”
I quickly say, “How do you know that child is stupid? How do you know that if you put a paintbrush in his hand, he wouldn’t become the greatest painter in Uganda?”
She tells me she never thought of that before. She then tells me it is a waste of time to think that way as there is no money for pencils, let alone paintbrushes, and it is better not to give the child a false sense of hope.
What chance do these children have when, as far as I can tell, most of the Ugandan education system is only interested in producing academic children? Frankly, who can blame them? For some families, sending a child to school is their only hope—these children are under enormous pressure to succeed. They often become the lifeline to their struggling families. I can understand why there is no money available for paintbrushes, musical instruments and sewing machines, but my heart goes out to the children struggling with the three Rs: reading, writing, and arithmetic. I know that pain myself.
When I was at school in Scotland, back in the seventies, children who were not very academically inclined were often pushed aside. I remember only too well being teased by a teacher for not being able to spell and not being “clever”—yes, dear Mrs. Edminston. The name used to haunt me. I spent many years feeling anger toward her and believing she didn’t deserve to be a teacher. Her teasing was nothing short of cruel.
I empathize deeply with the children who are not faring so well here in Uganda. I was anything but academic at school. I wasn’t good at the three Rs, but put me in a class that included drama, music, art, or sewing and I was not only happy but often excelled. God only knows where my self-esteem would have been without access to the arts.
It is becoming evident that most of the children I meet in Uganda will never get that same opportunity to discover their creative talents.
Giving children Art Packs at
Mango Tree School and Learning Centre
The old feeling of isolation from my schooldays grips me. I was scared to go to school because I mostly felt out of my depth. At exam time I often became sick. Our education system has now changed and recognizes that not all children learn in the same way or at the same pace. And, of course, dyslexia is now widely recognized. But this is not yet the case in Uganda. Neither do they seem to recognize autism, Asperger’s or dyspraxia. In fact, I’m starting to realize that Ugandan children with these conditions are most often hidden away and the families shamed. People here believe it is a curse that has befallen the family—particularly the mother and child.
It sounds like something out of our history books. Even two nieces of the late Queen Mother were hidden away from public view because they had learning difficulties. Thankfully the West has moved on and learned to recognize these conditions
for what they are, and children with these challenges are now given opportunities to express themselves.
I drive away from The Mango Tree School feeling unusually depressed—but not by the immense poverty. It’s closer to home. A nerve has been hit. It’s the old buried emotions of Mrs. Edminston surfacing. I thought I had dealt with them!
I wish the gatekeepers of education in Uganda could open the gates wider and accept the diversity of teaching styles and of students’ needs. I wish they could ensure that all the children have a chance to fulfill their potential, and fully recognize that in every child there is a star.
Finding the Star in Every Child
My plans to build a regular school were morphing into a belief that Starchild should really build a school specifically for the creative arts. Art, in all its forms, is not only educational and entertaining but above all inspirational; it can heal wounds and promote understanding and peace.
The arts is where my passions and talents lie, and those of Rony’s too, as an actor. Most of our friends are artists from all walks of life and I felt sure we could get at least some of them to support us. But it would mean a shift in direction for the charity and I wasn’t sure how our board and our current supporters would feel.
I knew we had to remain open and not be rigidly attached to our ideas, but it suddenly seemed that perhaps I had been leading myself in this direction all my life. Perhaps the season was right for the dream of a school for the creative arts to manifest.
Art class at the Starchild School for Creative Arts
Much to my delight, the Starchild board understood my change of heart and were only too eager to get behind the concept. The Starchild board had also begun to realize that building a school for the creative arts meant we wouldn’t have to embroil ourselves in the unrelenting red tape of the official education system. The subjects we wanted to teach were not in the school curriculum; therefore, Starchild would not be at the mercy and scrutiny of an often-harsh education board.
Soon we were attracting support and interest from artists all over the world. Facebook was a great tool; our artist friends started to share our dream of a school for the creative arts with their networks. They understood the power of the creative arts to communicate, inspire and heal. Much to Starchild’s delight, they not only spread the word about our project but also started to offer us their own art to sell. Rony had one of his brainwaves and came up with the concept of Art for Africa. With the help of the artistic community far and wide, Brian Clements of McTears Auctioneers in Glasgow, and Starchild’s lean, thrifty operational style, we achieved our fundraising target needed in order to start building our school in less than two years. However, we still had to address the issues of where to build and with whom to partner.
A Date to Remember
Uganda
There is something quite thrilling about being led through a no-go area in Uganda. It’s certainly an adrenaline rush. I am forewarned of the dangers of the market by a member of the hotel staff, “Muzungu lady, you are insane to go there—my brother will go for you. Tell me what you want. We will get it for you.”
And I am sure they would, but I want to experience this place myself. Besides, I have my brother David with me and Rony, too. I am also becoming aware that Ugandans often exaggerate the dangers of their own country to muzungus. I haven’t quite figured out why, but some would have you believe that there is danger lurking around every corner. I sometimes think I have more faith in the inherent goodness of their countrymen than they have.
The reason we are here is that we were told we can buy mosquito nets for £1 rather than £4 on the high street. It is a dangerous market—particularly for muzungus—but we reckon it will be worth it if we can indeed buy more nets for the kids with the money we have raised.
David holds my hand tightly as we navigate the labyrinth of narrow streets. They are filled with vendors and shoppers, everyone pulsing along to blaring beats—although the real funk of the market is fouling my nostrils. I feel like a human pinball as I ricochet against hundreds of dark, sweaty bodies, all pushing and pressing up against me. I swear some of the men are deliberately using the tight confinement as an excuse to touch me up. Rony is slightly ahead of us and can’t see this. I’m glad as he would most likely hit someone and then we really would be in trouble.
I watch in wonder as local women tote large baskets of goods on their heads, somehow managing to weave their way gracefully through the skyscrapers of pots and pans. Buckets and basins threaten to fall over like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. My senses are on overload.
David has already been on a scouting mission and promises me he has found the best mosquito nets money can buy—all at the best price. I know David’s previous market scouting missions for me haven’t always worked out exactly as planned—remember the floral arrangement? But let’s face it, just how difficult can it be to pick out a mosquito net?
I am so wrong about this, and more than a little overwhelmed. There are thin ones, thick ones, single ones, double ones, portable ones, romantic ones, square ones, round ones, floral ones, pink ones, blue ones, frilly lacy ones, treated ones, non-treated ones, long lasting, lifetime guaranteed ones!
This Asian vendor thinks he has won the lottery: a muzungu lady is here to buy four hundred mosquito nets! He’s a sweet talker and I get the full bhoona of a sales pitch laid on for me. By the time he finishes explaining the vast differences in mosquito nets, I am exhausted and in need of a cold drink. I only have to say the word and a tray of drinks arrives before me. Of course, I have to pay for it and everyone else’s, including the vendor’s.
In the end the deal is done over a cold Fanta. Four men are employed to carry our large bags of nets to the van parked at the opposite edge of the market. I’m pleased to see that it’s not just women who have mastered the art of head-loading. Our head porters maneuver swiftly through the jam-packed market, carrying an absurd load of mosquito nets on their heads.
Our driver, Lucca, has never been so happy to see us! He tells us he has been waiting nervously for us to return. I love our driver. He has the kindest of natures and is a real gentleman. He is so warm and friendly toward us. He is from Moyo, in the north of Uganda. Moses’ hometown is Moyo and he has known Lucca since he was a boy.
Lucca’s work has been cut out for him, driving us around—we’re all already exhausted. Rony, Moses and I have had two weeks in Uganda this time, with the pressure of finding the right project to partner with. We have already visited three potential projects and delivered numerous amounts of practical materials along the way, but there is still one more project to visit.
My phone rings.
“Michaela, it is Phibi. My dear, I am so sorry we have not been in touch sooner. I cannot believe you have been in Kampala for almost two weeks and we have not yet seen you. Can you visit our school on the twenty-sixth, my dear—that is this Thursday—when Pastor Sam will be here? Can you come then, please?”
The first thing that hits me is the date. February 26 is already indelibly printed in my memory because it is the anniversary of Frankie’s death.
Since I have last seen Phibi and her husband, Pastor Sam, they have built a primary school in Vvumba. I have not yet seen the school but I have been sent regular updates of its progress. I know Phibi and Sam very much hope that Starchild will partner with them—as do all the projects we have visited.
Grace Primary and Nursery School is situated about forty kilometers north of Kampala, in the district of Luweero. It is not far from Gayaza High School where my pilgrimage began. Vvumba is also the place where Frankie’s grandmother still lives.
On the last few miles of our drive to the village, dense plants, and small Bantu huts surround us. This is real village life. A few stray goats and chickens slow us down but no one is in a hurry out here. Basins of washing are balanced on teenage heads while they carry a sister or brother on each hip. They meander slowly
home, barefoot on the dusty red earth.
The welcome party is now in sight. Phibi and Sam are waving from the porch of their home. Their smiles are warm and friendly, as is the dog that has run to greet us.
I peel myself out of the back seat. Today is hot! The murram dust clings to the air and the back of my throat. Phibi and Sam are livelier than I have ever seen them. Our visit has caused great excitement for sure. Children peer through the open doors and windows of the school, giggling and waving at us with obvious delight. We wave back, but a teacher soon dampens their ardor and the children scurry back to their schooling.
Phibi and Sam are keen to show us the progress they have made with their school. Construction is still underway and building materials and workmen are everywhere on the site. There are no windows or doors but the school is already being utilized. Health and safety back home would have shut it down in two minutes, but the rules are different out here.
The fact that the school is still being constructed means we can see very clearly what kind of job is being done. I’m no expert, but it all looks very professional. I also happen to think it looks a tad like Gary’s architectural plans, which I showed them last year. I say nothing. I am happy that some of his ideas might have rubbed off, but I’m also angry at the bureaucracy I faced then, which had cast such a damp shadow on our excitement at the time.
Moses, Rony, and I visit every classroom and talk to the children and their teachers. The children are very well behaved. Most children in Uganda are disciplined, but this is a level of discipline that I haven’t witnessed before and it makes me uncomfortable. I am not enjoying this school as much as I had hoped. I want the children to loosen up and not to treat us so much like school inspectors. I am uncomfortable with the formality.
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