Listening to me ranting about the excitement of leaving primary school, you would think that secondary school was a bed of roses: it was not. Rather, secondary education in Mbarara, Uganda, was a bed of dogs: Miss. Drake’s big and fierce dogs! As I have told you before, Miss. Drake was the Catholic lady who used to teach in a girls’ school in the same town, Mbarara.
She was celibate and had devoted her life to her God and her dogs – as well as Rwandese children in exile. Exactly in that order! She assisted these schoolboys and girls by securing scholarships for them, from European families. These families would duly follow the progress of your performance in class by receiving your report form every end of term. If you performed well, you were assured of continued sponsorship.
End of term, therefore, always found us at the gate of the good old fierce lady, where we were supposed to wait in an orderly queue and in total silence. Even the most foolhardy of our fellows could not dare contravene these rules. If anybody made the most discreet whisper, then Miss. Drake would call out: “My boys!” This call very often spelt doom for the uninitiated, the boys who did not know what she meant.
If you were not initiated, you would take the call to be addressed to you as a group of boys. And in an attempt by each one to be the first to give the report form, they would scramble to beat one another at reaching her door first. Whereupon animals received you with ‘open paws’. Their nails would leave your uniform in shreds and your body as lacerated as a kisanja, dry banana leaf!
And that is because ‘My boys’ actually did not refer to us boys in the queue. ‘My boys’ referred to the old lady’s fierce dogs! She called them out to attack anybody who was making noise, or was out of line. Indeed, these canines never touched you if you were innocent, so intelligent were they! There we were then, as mum as Kiragi, and trembling despite the hot, morning sun.
We were all trembling because if the dogs did not scare you, then there was the iron lady herself, Miss. Drake, to contend with. We were usually many boys from Ntare School and other ‘places’ (others were secondaries, highs or academies, not simply schools!) in Mbarara. The ‘places’ included Mbarara High and Mary Hill High mainly. The girls, lucky for them, never had to put up with the wrath of the ‘iron’ lady. She hated only boys, God knows why.
Unfortunately, it is with shame that I associate myself with that school, Ntare, these days. The reason being none other than that it seems to have become the doormat of education, performing more poorly than some neighbouring schools that we despised so much. Gone are the days when it was known for academic excellence.
Today, I gather that the seat of wisdom of yesteryears is counted among the worst performers, even if I am made to understand that it is slowly getting on the mend. Mr. Chritchton, the founder of the school, and its proud headmaster for close to a score years, must be turning in his grave whenever such reports get to him. Who would not grieve to hear that our good old Ntare has gone to the dogs? Many were the days when hot debates shook the main building of that school!
Anyway, back to our ‘iron’ lady. When it was your turn to show your report form, you went to the door, knocked softly and entered. You did not sit down, no. You entered and stood at attention, your report form at the ready. She would go on with whatever she was doing, ignoring your ‘Good morning, Miss. Drake!’ Woe unto you if you were to make the mistake of calling her ‘Madam’ instead of ‘Miss.’
I guess that was because it made her feel old. And indeed, who wants to be reminded of their age when they are in their fifties? Those days I could not appreciate the reason for the fuss, but now I know better. So, without looking at you, she would bark out: “Your position?” Suppose you said you had performed badly and you were 11th in your class, she would bark out again: “My boys!” The dogs would literally lift you and dump you at the gate!
That was, however, before she met a hardened herds-boy! The fellow was intelligent but never used to read, so he usually did not perform well. And he was so fearless that we used to call him ‘Suicide’. One time when the lady asked: “Your position?” the fellow confidently responded: “Twenty-forth, Madam!” Blasphemy of blasphemies! When the dogs came, they knew their mistress was angry and they were ready to kill.
But ‘Suicide’ was prepared for them. He crouched as if to pick a stone – as all herdsmen will do – but the attack dog was not deterred. It reached for his neck, an act that proved to be its undoing: it had exposed its ribs. ‘Suicide’ kicked it hard in the ribs near the heart and the dog fell down with a yelp. The other dogs fled, tails between their legs.
‘Suicide’ took a chair opposite the now-trembling lady and brazenly asked for a cup of the black coffee she was taking! She fearfully obliged and made to move out of the room, but the fellow asked her to kindly sit down, which she did. Then he calmly narrated to her all the problems caused by his family’s poverty, how they had no money, no cattle, no land and worse, no country.
Without education, he concluded, he could as well lose his life. And if he was going to kill himself, why die alone? From then on, no one else got a scholarship before ‘Suicide’ and they became close buddies! The myth of the lady was thus broken, but that is not to say that she became soft to us humbler mortals. Still, we were happy that somebody could give our ‘iron lady’ such a humbling lesson!
And dispensers of such lessons were a dime a dozen. I remember a story that was doing the rounds of our school at the time we started our secondary education. Mr. Critchton (R.I.P.), the headmaster, was a fatherly man that every student loved. However, you know how these Whites tend to patronizingly hold you close when they are talking to you.
It was thus that our headmaster tried to explain to a dark, slender and tall boy that he would be expelled for non-payment of school fees. When the headmaster tried to thus hold the boy, the boy threw off his hand and shouted: “Leave me alone and never touch me again! How do you expect me to get money for fees when you colonialists and imperialists have plundered all the wealth of Africa?”
Our dear headmaster turned red with anger and headed for his office, ready to expel the student. However, he was a rational man and before dismissing him, he sought advice from some of his teachers, fellow Whites. Surprisingly, the other teachers were impressed by the courage of the student. Was it not true, they reasoned, especially the History teachers, that Europeans had looted the wealth of Africa? After long discussions, the headmaster relented and the student was not dismissed. The dark, slender student was known by the names of Yoweri K. Museveni!
