We pulled up to an open-air yellow-plastered building rimmed with reddish mud. The floor was bare dirt. A car wheel hung from a tree. “That’s the school bell,” said Tom.
“I’m confused. It looks abandoned.” I said, scanning the barren structure. Short of a blackboard on one wall and a few battered desks, there was nothing here that would imply this was a school. “There are no kids. No teachers. No books. Are you sure this is the government school, Tom?”
“Yes, this is where we were directed.” Tom assured me.
He walked back to us and explained, “She says the government hasn’t paid the teachers in over six months, so they have quit coming to work. The kids have given up coming, too.”
“Is there another government school around?” I asked bewildered.
“No, Mama Julie. Unfortunately, not, but she said there are two local educational initiatives. She has given me directions to them.” Tom had tried to sound encouraging.
I was thinking: I have $1,980 in my purse from Heidi’s garage sale that raised the exact amount we calculated it would cost to send 33 orphans from this village to a government school for a year. Paying fees at the government school was the whole point of coming out here. How could it not even be operating? That possibility had never even crossed my mind.
We returned to the vehicle, then drove a twisting and turning 15 minutes down narrow dirt paths pulling up in front of a tiny brick structure with one opening for a window and an opening for a door. When we entered, it was so dark I could barely see. After my eyes adjusted, we saw about 25 children kneeling on the dirt floor in front of benches and a chalkboard leaning in the corner. A young woman with a badly deformed foot wrote English words on a chalkboard for the students to copy. She limped over to greet us. Her foot was literally upside down. She walked upon the stub of her ankle.
“Do you think this is a school?” I asked Laurena.
“How could students learn kneeling in the dirt in the dark? Why are the words on the chalkboard in English?” she responded. Her confusion mirrored mine.
Tom emerged after a few minutes to explain that this was a “start-up school to fill the gap since the government school doesn’t have teachers. This lady, Ellen, has had more schooling than most in the area, so she is trying to teach a few of the kids. She has only finished Primary 4.” He shook his head. I realized that Tom was also disturbed.
We climbed back into the pastor’s vehicle again and bumped down a narrower dirt road. Branches screeched on both sides of the van. We passed a pond where women gathered water into five-gallon, yellow plastic jerry cans to carry back home on their heads. The water was a muddy brown with plants floating on top.
We parked at the edge of a large field and were thankful to get out to get some air.
“Why did we stop?” I asked as I scanned the surroundings.
“There is another educational initiative here. Look over there towards the tree. This is the place,” Tom pointed.
“Are you serious?” THIS is the other option the neighbor to the government school told us about? There isn’t even a building!” The tuition money in my purse started to feel heavier...
Tom motioned us toward the tree where I spotted a row of children seated in the grass kneeling before a lone bench. There was a chalkboard leaning against the tree and a woman standing with a baby on her hips.
“Oli otya, Ssebo,” the woman greeted Tom and smiled at Laurena and me indicating she didn’t speak English. I tried out my halting Luganda, “Oli otya, Nyabo,” I smiled back at her as I tried to comprehend this situation.
We saw English words about the environment written on the chalkboard. Big words. The children, about ten of them, were taking turns at the bench copying the words into small, blue paper booklets. The teacher saw our quizzical looks and held up a tattered National Geographic magazine.
Laurena said, “Oh my goodness, she has copied words from the magazine onto the chalkboard, and the kids are just copying the words.”
“But she doesn’t speak English. They would have no idea what the words even mean.” I thought out loud. “I can’t even believe what I am seeing.”
Tom finished talking with the teacher and reported back to us that this teacher had even less education than the last. “I didn’t actually know there were places in my own country that were this bad.”
Tom was 21 years old and grew up in the suburbs of Kampala. I had learned that he had had to struggle to finish school - sometimes selling tea to other students before school to raise funds for his school fees. He had not had an easy life. His dismay spoke volumes.
We headed back toward the van where the others had waited. I said, “I don’t understand. God gave us the exact amount of money to send 33 kids to school. And there is literally no school to send them to...”
I recited from John 10:10 “The thief came to steal, kill, and destroy…” and stopped without finishing the verse. It felt like I was standing in the devil’s playground.
Tom spoke up. He completed the verse with a smile, “but Jesus came that they may have life and life abundant.” His faith buoyed mine a bit. “We need to go. There are children gathered at the church to meet you.”
I blurted, “What? Why? What am I supposed to say to them?” I was fighting back tears.
“ Mama Julie, let’s just go talk to them,” Tom tried to reassure me.
“The village pastor is expecting us. We can’t disappoint him.” Pastor Paul said as we arrived at the van.
The van had been baking in the sun; I collapsed into the seat with a burdened heart and rivers of sweat began running down my legs. There were six of us in the van, but no one spoke.
Pastor Paul carefully navigated the ruts, potholes and puddles on the dirt road leading from the local trading center up a long hill. Then we arrived at a whitish church building with large patches of missing plaster. I realized it was the same one where the wasps had dive bombed us when we visited last year.
I was back at the exact place I had declared I never wanted to see again, and this time people were gathered because they anticipated I could help them with schooling for their children. I wanted to run.
