At your age, I’m cocksure you’ve never heard of the Kasayi river, right? So how was I, at just 11, supposed to even know its source? But I had to show Mr Batwawula exactly that, or the cane in his hand would come crashing down on my head. We were in P6K at Victoria Nile School, Jinja, one afternoon in 1982. Mr Batwawula, stocky and strong, calm and cool as a cat, was a man of few words who spoke mostly using his cane. He expected us to read widely and to know a lot. For that geography lesson, he had a map of Africa pinned on the blackboard. One by one, we’d be called up to pinpoint certain physical features. Whoever failed would be whipped. Ferociously. Starting with the head.
‘Gawaya, show me the source of River Kasayi.’ Forget about the source, I’d never heard of the Kasayi thing – but I couldn’t ask for an easier question. I looked at the man, then at the stick. He knew he had me. I hesitated a moment as I prayed quietly, ‘Lord…please!’ Then I walked slowly to the blackboard. I didn’t look at the map, since I didn’t know River Kasayi. I simply put a finger on a spot…then closed my eyes and braced for impact, expecting the stick to strike my head. Then, wonder of wonders, I heard him say, ‘Perfect!’ I opened my eyes, looked at my finger…and, there, met River Kasayi for the very first time, at its source. Two things happened to me at Victoria Nile. One, I was seven when I starred in the Christmas play, as one of the Three Wise Men that took gifts to Baby Jesus. Two, I got a personal copy of the Victoria Nile Hymnbook.
One of the songs that melted my heart went, ‘God is in heaven, can He hear, a little prayer like mine? Yes, He can, and I need not fear, He’ll listen unto mine’. In my little heart, the Jesus I had taken gifts to, big though He was, could answer little prayers of kids like me. In class, I was a struggling kid, with many limitations and flaws, incapable of computing even the most basic of sums. Fortunately, I recognised my limitations early and realised that, with the incredibly brilliant kids around me, I’d be bottom of the class. I began praying…and began seeing God help me in incredible, often dramatic ways. Perhaps the most telling incident came in third term, 1980. I had failed the Reading exam the previous term, with an E. So, when I got called up for the final one, Ms Kirigwajjo – quiet, plump, Black beauty – didn’t expect much from me.
She gave me a list of about 50 words, told me to begin, and then looked down at something, completely unconcerned. When I reached the fifth word, she looked up sharply and told me to stop. She was greatly disturbed. She sent me away. I got called up again after a while. This time, I found she’d called another teacher, Ms Biryeri. I was asked to read again, then stopped when I reached the fifth or sixth word. They summoned me again after a meeting. Ms Biryeri looked into my eyes and asked me, ‘Gawaya, tell us, does your father (the headmaster) give you these exams ahead of time?’ I shook my head, surprised that anyone would think so low of my father! But if I told them I’d been praying, and they’d just witnessed a miracle, they wouldn’t believe me either. I later learnt it was an exam we weren’t supposed to pass.
The P5 class had failed it, and here was a P4 kid making short work of it. I got an A (90 percent) for doing 10 percent of the exam. Some columnists in Sunday Monitor consistently use acres of space in this newspaper to allege that there’s no God. The simplest proof of God’s existence lies in the fact that He answers honest, sincere, heartfelt prayer. One of Uganda’s finest lawyers, Fred Muwema, my best friend back then, sat beside me in Mr Batwawula’s class; he’ll probably remember that afternoon of 1982. Both Ms Kirigwajjjo and Ms Biryeri are alive and well in Jinja. They’ll remember this. Let’s put Christ in our Christmas celebrations, because He isn’t just a story. Merry Christmas, y’all, my dear readers.