In the year 2000, I was in Bishop Angelo Negri College School, a catholic boys' boarding school in Gulu, Uganda. In October that year, pressure was building on us like a storm. We were in Senior Four, preparing for the Uganda Certificate of Education (UCE) examinations set by the Uganda National Examinations Board (UNEB). UCE exams are considered very important because they define your future. So, students need to prepare the best, master 4 years' worth of knowledge in 8 to 10 subjects. This means extensive revisions to prepare for the exams. Yet, at Bishop Angelo Negri College, there was no slowing down on other co-curricular activities, even with UCE exams just two weeks away. We still had to say the rosary every evening. We still had to attend church every Sunday. And our Headmaster, a strict, serious man with a heavy Acholi accent, made sure every boy followed the rules.
The
Plan to Escape to Read
One Sunday, at 6:30 AM, I quietly packed my books. So did Tabu, my dormmate. We weren't close friends, but in a class of just 48 boys, everyone was more or less like family. We weren't escaping to go home. We just wanted to go somewhere and read in a quiet place and not go to Sunday mass. We planned to sneak out and walk 45 minutes to a nearby primary school where it was calm enough to revise.
Getting
Caught by the Headmaster: "Where Are You Boych Going?"
As
fate would have it, we got caught. We were just rounding a corner, about a
kilometre from school, when we heard a car approaching. We wondered who would
be driving the lonely road to our school this early on a Sunday morning, but
ignored it. We thought it was no big deal. Until we saw the driver. It was
Brother Charles, our infamous Headmaster, or as we used to call him,
"Oduk". It was too late to run inside the bush. He had already seen
us.
Our
Headmaster had big, puffy lips and a deep, rumbling voice. Everyone called him
Oduk behind his back because of his lips. Somehow, he knew, and somehow, he
didn't care. But you wouldn't dare call him Oduk in his face. What made him
unforgettable, though, was his heavy Acholi-English accent. Words took on new
shape when he spoke. So, when he rolled down his window, stared at us with
those sharp eyes, and said:
"Wea
yu boych go-ing?" (Where are you boys going?). We tried to lie, of course.
"We're just taking some books to our friends… not far. We'll be back for
church." He didn't even blink. Just said calmly: "Go an neva kom bak
agen" (Go and never come back again) and he drove off towards the school.
That was it. We had been caught and knew immediately we were in deep trouble.
Our hearts started racing, and our eyes were tearing. We were worried our
parents would "kill us" if we were suspended or dismissed from
school. More so, we were worried our future would be ruined.
Return
of the escapees to Laughter and Shame
Of
course we couldn’t continue the mission anymore. We walked back to school in
silence. Heads down. Shame is burning our faces. You know that walk that
quietly says, "I want to disappear right now". When we reached the
dorm, our classmates were getting ready for church, and we were the laughing
stock of the day. One boy, loud as ever, shouted in Acholi: "Wun ono
wutamo ni wun keken aye wu ngeyo kwano buk?" Translation: "You people
think you're the only ones who know how to read!" Another boy shouted in
Acholi: "Ka wek otwe wu." Translation: "Let this teach you a
lesson". These boys were so heartless. The whole dorm erupted in laughter.
It stung so deep. But they weren't entirely wrong. We needed to face the
consequences of our actions.
The
Church Strategy to Shake Hands with the Headmaster
While
some of our classmates scornfully laughed at us, one sympathetic boy gave us a
brilliant idea: "During mass, when it's time for shaking hands, go and
greet him [Headmaster]. Let him see that you didn't run away." And we did
just that. During that holy moment when the priest says "the peace of the
lord be with you always, …….let us offer each other the sign of peace", we
walked straight up to the Headmaster as if we were seeking salvation and
offered our sweaty hands. He looked us in the eye and uninterestingly shook our
hands but said nothing. But we knew he saw us, and this is what we wanted. We
wanted Oduk to know we returned to school and attended Sunday mass.
Living
in Fear in anticipation of what was to come
The
next few days in school were unbearable. Both Tabu and I could barely
concentrate in class. We couldn't revise. The pressure of UCE exams had now combined
with the fear of suspension or dismissal. Every time Oduk walked towards our
classroom, our hearts stopped. Just the sight of him in school made us sweat.
Then on Thursday afternoon, the worst happened.
I
was revising under a tree when my cousin, who was also my classmate, came
walking so fast toward me. "Omera, nyeri oryemo wu-o". Translation:
"My brother, this guy [Oduk] has dismissed you and Tabu." My book
dropped from my hand. I was in disbelief. It was like the weight of the world
had just crushed me. I couldn't say a word. I later asked my cousin how he
knew. He said a teacher had served Tabu his letter in class and that the
teacher was looking for me. Somehow, I still didn't believe it. I decided to
pick up my letter to see for myself. My cousin informed me that Tabu had not
opened his letter. Despite not opening the letter, Tabu concluded he had been
dismissed.
The
Letter And the Unexpected Colour of the envelope
The
letter was in a white envelope and knowing this gave me hope. Usually,
suspension or dismissal letters came in brown khaki envelopes. White envelopes
meant something else. When I received it, I went to class with my classmates,
and I opened it. It was addressed to my parents. The letter simply said that my
parents were being invited to the school to discuss a matter of indiscipline
involving me and another student. There was no mention of suspension or
punishment yet. I was so relieved. Tabu then also decided to open his parents'
letter after learning the content of my parents'.
Cover-Up
that "My Mum is in Kampala"
We knew we couldn't tell our real parents, not with UCE exams so close. So Tabu brought his uncle, and I got my distant older cousin. He showed up and told the Headmaster that my mother was in Kampala and had sent him to come on her behalf. Oduk nodded. "Let the parent come when she returns from Kampala. For now, we will not discuss the issue." And that was it. Case closed. We were free.
UNEB
and the Twist No One Saw Coming
We
went back to revising our books. Our parents never came to school and the
Headmaster either forgot or somehow ignored it. And when UCE exams came, we sat
without any further trouble, and we both passed. But two years later, when I
was on vacation in Senior Six, I got shocking news. Tabu, my dormmate, my
co-conspirator, had taken his own life. I never found out why. Maybe it was
pressure. Perhaps it was silence. Maybe it was something none of us could see.
Reflections:
Why Young People Need Second Chances
Looking
back now, I know we were wrong to sneak out. But I also know we were scared,
young, and overwhelmed. Like many teenagers, we made a mistake. What saved us
wasn't our clever lies. It was Oduk with his fat lips and funny accent who
decided not to ruin our lives for one mistake. He gave us a second chance. Not
every young person gets that. Some are severely punished. Others are broken by
harsh decisions of teachers and parents. And some, like Tabu, never had the
opportunity to tell their story.
A Message to Parents, Teachers, and Leaders
Young people will always mess up. They will sneak out of school, break rules, pretend, lie, and fall. But they also deserve second chances. They need understanding and people who see beyond their mistakes. Because sometimes, a second chance is all that stands between a bright future and a tragic ending.
Have
you ever been caught doing something crazy in school? Did someone give you a
second chance? Or not? Leave a comment below. Share this story if it made you
laugh or made you think.
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