Lives at risk whilst Makerere remains closed!

Makerere University College of Health Science post graduate students have defied a directive issued by the First Lady and  Minister of Education and Sports, Janet Museveni instructing Makerere University college of Health Sciences postgraduate students, undergraduate students and consultants to continue working in the various hospitals where they had been deployed. The above directive was communicated in a letter sent to the Makerere University council.
In a communique issued by Makerere University College of Health Science (MaKCHS) postgraduate students leadership, they disregard the directive instead issuing demands.
Wednesday 8th November 2016 will mark exactly a week since president Yoweri Museveni indefinitely and abruptly closed Makerere University citing security concerns. The closure of Uganda’s top University was the climax of the week long lecturers' strike who demand 8 months worth of allowances owed to them. The lecturers go slow strike championed by Makerere University Academic Staff Association (MUASA) prompted students to stage a violent strike demanding to be taught.
Whilst Makerere University remains closed, there's a potent crisis rapidly brewing in the health sector. World Health Organisation stats place Uganda's doctor patient ratio at an  estimated 1:24,725 as by 2013, with a nurse to patient ratio of 1:11,000 this exceeds the recommended 1: 1000 doctor- patient ratio recommended by WHO. It's this gaping hole that students try to fill by being deployed at Mulago National Referral Hospital, Kawempe MNRH Directorate of Obstetrics and Gynaecology, Kirudu Hospital and Naguru China- Uganda Friendship hospital where patient care is largely dependent on postgraduate students and lecturers.
This is a bit tragic, lives will certainly be lost as a result of the impulsive decision to close a University over apparently simple reasons. 
In a letter signed by Chief Resident  Dr. Solomon Kyazze and General Secretary  Dr. Phillia Ampeire, the post graduate doctors demand that the University be holistically opened before they return to offering their services.
"The college of Health Sciences can't operate autonomous of Makerere University, we need all facilities of University fully functional for a holistic learning experience." reads the letter in part.
 They also demand that proper documentation be availed by MUASA clearly stating the available of lecturers to teach.
The letter ends with a resolution not to provide the much needed human resource in absence of their academic concerns being addressed.
The letter addressed to the no one in particular and dated 7th November 2016  surfaced after a 3 hour fruitless meeting held between MaKCHS students and the college principal Prof. Charles Ibingira. Where they highlighted security concerns and fear of consequences or "insubordination" of the president's unrescinded directive to close Makerere University.
Uganda is quietly turning into an active land mine!‎ The spillovers off the economically dysfunctional system will keep veering their heads.‎

Differently-abled!

A large glass water jar; crystal clear as the water it holds, sits majestically upon a long table layered by a green  floral-patterned table cloth. The jar's devoid of its previous occupant; a bubbling gold fish.
13 empty glass bottles which I fathom previously held liquor stand neatly filed on the table's edge. In one of the glass bottles; a potted plant grows, it's serpentine roots float aimlessly within the glass confines like an ensnared Medusa.

A crimson carpet covers the tiled Lumumba Boy's Hall floors. Clean cream walls enclose the room, green curtains shield the two wadrobes from prying eyes. Two neatly dressed metallic beds fill up the little space inside the room, in addition to the two wooden chairs wrapped in chair covers.

Upon the snowy white ceiling, the words imploring one to "ask but not steal"  line the ceiling. The neatness of Alex's room is startling.
Alex Lukwago is a visually impaired law student at Makerere university. He's one resilient fellow who refuses to let his total visual blindness impair his vision.

Born to a polygamous political father and business woman on the 30th day of November in 1993, Alex is the fifth child to the couple.
A quiet fellow who I later learn is Kigundu Wilson, Alex's helper walks in and eyes me suspiciously, Alex introduces us. Wilson mumbles his greetings.

Alex heaves deeply and asks whether I'm ready. He tells his tale.
"I wasn't born blind, I was a normal child till the day that has remain etched in my life; the 25th day of the 1997 December. Christmas. I was rushed to Mengo Hospital, Kampala where doctors predicted doom, a life of gradual sight loss. I held on unto my sight till 2003 when pitch darkness made my eyes their place of rest. Before then, I still could make out blurred objects before me.

We were devastated by the news. The frightening realisation that my life would soon be a sea of darkness was immense on my timid soul."
"The whispers turned steadily into songs, every one was certain I had been bewitched.  Doctors failing to identify a specific cause intensified the rumours. I've personally never been a believer in the existence of sorcery. My condition is wholly medical." he continues.

Alex speaks with a refreshing honesty, there isn't an iota of emotion detectable in his voice.

I ask whether he ever feels vulnerable. An emphatic "not in anyway" is uttered in response.
"I'd only feel vulnerable in the Gordian knot that Kampala city is. I can ably do as others. I can cook, peel matooke, read Braille, do my laundry, run my facebook, use my computer, have my own bath, find my way around familiar ground like any other." a sly touch of satisfaction embraces his words.

Alex adds, he used his remaining days of sight to identify the world around him. He remembers his parents faces, he remembers the description of beauty. He remembers the striking red colour. When night falls, he imagines the sparkling light of stars. He remembers all.
"It's a bit strange, some faces of the people you love, you hardly can recall. Those who came after you lost your sight you can only imagine what they look like." he says.

Inspiration.

"My parents! Mugerwa Robert and Kyalisima Prossy are my sources of inspiration. My mother is a mother of the Nation; a primary school teacher and Social worker in a Community Development Organisation. My father is a politician. His passion for farming contributes towards the food basket. He grows Cocoa and Coffee. In my eyes, they're a success story their own little way."

Passions and pleasures.

"I find loads of pleasure in pro- disability rights advocacy. I equally pride in extending a hand to those I consider more needy than I! I personally know what it means to live without!"
"I love music. I love novels, Julius Ocwinyo's Fate of the Banished is a personal best."  (mellow music plays off his cracked screen laptop while we talk.)

I carefully choose my next words and ask.
"Do you miss anything from the days of sight??"
" I miss riding." his voice trails off.

"Besides that, don't miss much. No I don't. I would have missed seeing  faces of people but somehow my imagination comes to my aid. I often make use of people's voices." he continues.
"The voice is a powerful tool. By their voice, I can tell someone's kind. I can discern one's height by their voice."

Bad moments?

"Losing my sight definitely. After I lost my sight, the 18th day of February 2016 haunts me, the fact that my vote somehow didn't count is one terrible thing. I feel I was robbed of my civic right. I left home that day with the assurance that I'd cast my vote. My name wasn't in the Voters' Registry, I've never been more embarrassed!"

Blame Game.

" I initially heaped blame upon God and my parents for my condition. I blamed my parents for not doing enough. I was angry and bitter.  I however was sadly wrong, my parents tried more than they ever could. The Good Lord has a purpose for which He took away my sight. "
" I equally blamed society for being unkind, inconsiderate, judgemental. My exploits must have changed the society's outlook.  I believe society 'feels me' when I return to my village. The news spreads across 7 hills!" he jests cheekily.

Fears.

" I haven’t any doubts that I'll get a job after here, no I don't think I'll
flop.  I however have a soul gnawing fear within me. Shall I be treated like the rest. Shall I suffer from the pains of job market discrimination based on my lack of sight.
What if after all this hustle I fail to find a job???  This is one honest fear I have."

Challenges?
"I'll personalise the challenges we face. They're of two kinds, mobility and accessibility. I personally find it difficult to move around places,  to which I'm not accustomed without requiring the need of another. A tinge of guilt flows through me when another helps me even out of the goodness of their heart, I feel I'm somehow an inconvenience to their life's schedule.

I bleed for my friends who use crutches and wheelchairs as movement aids. The Makerere University terrain is effortlessly frustrating."

Of the heart's cravings.
"I'm in relationship. I however won't mention names. The lady is in first year (will be in her 2nd year soon)" Alex chuckles at my relentless probing.( I tried people, chap wouldn't budge an inch.)

" We met way back in High school, at Iganga secondary school."
When I ask whether she's equally visually impaired. He responds in the negative chipping in that Iganga SS has a special needs section but it's a normal students school!

"I'm a man! I made the first move, we became friends and out of that innocent friendship, passions blossomed. She's understanding, caring, loving, infectious! "

Parental pressure.
Alex knows her birthday. His parents don't know about this relationship. He says they've been exerting slow but consistent pressure on him to get a girlfriend. Alex and his anonymous woman have been in a relationship for close to two years now. His face lightens up when he speaks of his girlfriend. His words are riddled with a certain mirthful quality. You don't need the finest spectacles to know he genuinely likes the girl whose name he won't say.

Last word.
" I don’t seek pity, my dignity won't let me. Empathy I might appreciate but I certainly won't welcome sympathy. I am human, normal like any other, with feelings and dreams. I hope society understands that. I
dream of getting married, passing the bar, becoming an advocate and
serving society."

Alex offered his thanks to me. And added.
  I also wish to thank all lecturers at Makerere University School of Law for their friendly policies towards we the differently-abled folk. Bless you."
"My Law class is living testimony of the goodness of society! My closest friend Malunga Acidri, is a gem. He leads me to and from class every single day! Bless that boy! It's difficult to imagine life without Malunga.

Ps. Alex read the Readings earlier this year during the Pope's visit at Namugongo. Close in tow was the rather noble Malunga!


Photos by Zahara Abdul!

The Refugee.

The  "Refugee" bears a certain aura about him,  a sort of unwanted  mark. The Refugee is despised, scorned, ridiculed, unloved, unwanted, unrecognised. His voice isn't given much attention, The Refugee's life is likened to a stain upon the proverbial White Fabric of society.  A blemish. We often forget that before all fell apart. The Refugee led a happy and peaceful life.  The Refugee held large dreams and big prospects. Then one morning His sons and His neighbours' sons took up arms and gunsmoke filled their kitchens. 

We often encounter the unwashed, wretched lot. We forget they're that way because of circumstances out of reach. Each one of us is a potential refugee.

Kyangwali Refugee Settlement Camp, undoubtedly the largest Refugee Camp in Uganda is located in Hoima District South West Uganda. The Camp is  home to over 38,000 refugees. The refugees are mainly from Congo, South Sudan, Somalia, Rwanda, Burundi and Kenya.‎

A number of non governmental organisations like AAH-I Uganda, Refugee Law Project, American Refugee Commit, UNHCR are  trying to change the lives of the refugees through provision of  health care, food, security, education, legal aid, water and sanitation, environment and sources of livelihood.

A team bubbly  of 3 bubbly lawyers, an immoral-tongued driver and I  crammed into a Navy Blue Mitsubishi double cabin and hit the rather beautiful highway which leads to the oil fields at Kaiso-Tonya.  We soon branched off onto a dirt road, slowly leaving civilisation in our wake.

The main entrance to the camp is manned by armed guards. Within the camp are tents set up by UPDF soldiers. The civilians live in mud and wattle houses. A few lucky  enterprising refugees own concrete and iron roofed houses.  

We had lunch at Betty's.  Betty Kiden, is a rather hyperactive South Sudanese woman with trademark fair Dark Sudanese skin,  snowy teeth and clear glassy eyes. Her beans cost 1000 less than her chicken stew. I prefered chicken. She has about 3 cooks who double as waitresses and a sarcastic boy help. 

"Aunt Betty, are you planning on boiling this water?" he asks of the dirty water collected in a hand washing bowl.

 The chicken in Kyangwali is mammoth. It's like the thigh of a Khoi Khoi newborn child. The chicken looks like the sort which has to be chained and held by strong men from Kabale quarry on the day of its slaughter.  Monstrous piece of meat. Unlike city broilers whose bones might be chewed. Betty's chicken is rocky. Hard enough to crack your jaws on attempting to crack it.‎

I suspiciously eyed the greasy looking chilli in a glass jar before pushing it aside; 'poison' I muttered under my breath.

I walked the lengths of the trading centre and most shops were filled with more soft drinks neatly arranged.‎

We visited a police cell where we found 3 inmates detained. All males, one man had beaten up his wife after taking one too many gulps of the bitter stuff.  An eleven year old chap who beat up a peer because he'd betrayed them was inside the cell. The boys nicked a bowl. Their peer betrayed them, earning himself a proper beating. He spent the weekend in jail.  He looked visibly shaken and traumatised.  

Kids in tattered cloth and no shoes hold dog-eared exercise books, returning home after a long day at school. We hit the road again, with about 3 lawyers. Lawyers have certain dark humour. You always wonder whether laughing would be against your conscience.‎

 The people in this Camp are peasant farmers.  Large gardens of maize, sorghum, millet and tobacco race by. The houses here are mud and wattle. In the midst of one of the villages within the camp stands a Jehovah Witness Church, majestic  like a blue eyed child in a Nigerian village.

The chairman's house has an iron roof with small rocks conveniently placed on its top to prevent the roof from flying away when it storms.

We went to Nyapindu village where we were meant to have a community meet. The folks sneaked upon the meeting point quietly and sat. The legal team shared with the folks on the intricacies of the law.

Boda boda cyclists here zoom past. Loud music blaring off their bicycles.

I met a Congolese girl. Here girls  are are goat queens.  The little girl had a rather uncanny ability, tending goats. She summoned them, beckoned them. They seemed to listen to her, the goat whisperer and do her bidding. She ran after the little ones. Goats, ducks, hens are quite common here. 

Dogs and cats are deemed useless. They produce neither meat nor milk. "What will they eat? Dogs and cats refuse to eat grains. Proud little devils." laments Michael.

"UPDF goats stray here and destroy our crops. Even when we arrest them their owners take forever before they claim them. There are no drugs within the health points. I have a child dying in my house. I haven't a thing to do." Laments a man. 

 His voice is firm with bitterness. Wearing a rather frustrated look. He keeps swinging his hands wistfully. The sort of demeanour a man watching dark clouds of the bleak future hovering keeps.

"The health personnel don't understand our language, we need translators. The police men ask for 50,000 UGX when we report crimes. It's an insult to ask that much from a

"Foetus and Polythene!

I remember her eyes. Pale, hazy and drowsy. They had within them a certain tender bewilderment.   They had a repulsive aura about them. She stood at our house holding a shiny black polythene bag and a hankie drenched in sweat and dust. It had turned from crisp white to dirty brown. Her feet were covered in a thin layer of dust.

"How are you, is your mother home?" she inquired in the softest of voices. It was difficult to discern the reason for her softness of voice. Was it soft with politeness or was it what life moulded our voices into in times of trouble.

"Ma isn't home, she returns around 9pm!" I replied softly in Luo.

That quiet January day still sends shivers down my spine.

Ma had arrived a few minutes later from her little shop.

I'd told about the presence of a strange young woman. 

She'd moved out to meet the young woman who she found sitting at the door steps, head bowed, eyes staring into the ground.

The two discussed in hushed tones. Their  whispers soon turned to sobs. Feminine sobs sound the same, guttural and punctuated with sniffling and deep breathing.

I moved closer to the dark pair and called out.

"Ma!" 

"I'm coming! " she replied curtly.

Mother replied firmly, beseeching my patience. I knew they weren't her sobs. I was guiltily relieved.

Guilty because a troubled soul was sobbing and simply because it wasn't Ma, I didn't feel an iota of pity. The gulp of saliva that slipped down my throat  was certainly one of concern but not pity.

"Why did you do it my daughter? Why???? Ma asked.

{Silence...}

"You can't spend the night here, something could happen to you and we would be blamed."Mother  firmly said.

"Madam I'm so tired, I can't carry on. I don't have any money on me."

Mother had sat down long with the young Luo woman. I sat at a distance observing the dark pair. Ma laid her hands upon the young girl and offered her what she had, prayers.

"How did you know we spoke the same tongue? " Mother asked.

" I often pass here, and I know you speak Luo, I gathered the last strength I had and made it here." she replied.

‎

The young woman girl whose face I certainly can't recall had passed by our home because she'd noticed us speak Luo. 

A young man soon was summoned by phone. He arrived on a motorcycle and took the young woman away.

Mother stayed out in the dark. I went out to meet her and learn the truth.

The polythene bag the woman carried  held a two months old terminated foetus, the source of her woes. We never got to know her reasons for aborting the life she had growing within her. She never said.

Her heart was heavy with guilt, her body was light with the threat of imminent death.  

Those eyes still trouble me, I could have forgotten her face but not her eyes. You wouldn't forget those eyes.

I asked mother what her reaction was when she realised the contents in the black polythene were the remains of a two month old foetus. 

She looked at me and said.

" Son, it's not your place to take the life of a baby!"

"People will talk when you bring here a young girl pregnant with child, but they'll judge if you take a life of that child. ‎

You can't wash your hands clean with blood."

Fornication is sin between two, but abortion is murder.

‎

"Police Brutality!"

A drowning man will clutch at a Crocodile's tail to save himself.  Drowning conjures certain levels of desperation.  The same level of desperation is evident in our society. Ours is a frustrated society. Police brutality?? Mirror image of us.‎

What makes police men and the thugs within police force so brutal?? Are they the squalid conditions of living, leaking unipot roofs?? A frustrated force is capable of anything, a little bit of bonus and tot packs of  potent Officer Cane spirit are enough to trigger off the beast mode.‎

Albert Camus in the 'Outsider' focuses on the irrationality of the universe. The universe as a whole gives zero fs. But the people ought to stand for what's justifiably right.

William Golding in "Lord of the Flies!" asserts that generally man is innately. Police is innately evil. There's a certain level of rot within the forces. Rot that must be gorged from the depth of it's spawn pool, us!  

‎

We ought to all be ashamed of what we've degenerated into; vicious beings indifferent to reason.  We however can change us. We can, by refusing to blindly tolerate blatant disregard for rights of man.

What does it feel like to hoist a baton over one's head, bring it crushing through the air against  some hapless citizen's  head or chest. Does consci

ence temporary run amok?? Does satisfaction fill our hearts seeing adults scamper like scared fowl. Do we love the odour of blood or are cries of pain Music to our ears????

This sickness will be our death. First they'll use batons then they'll employ ammunition, wounds will summon coffins. 

#ImpunityMustEnd.‎

Shall we Blacklist them?

Why

I read with mild disdain and concern remarks made by Mr Patrick Okwir, headteacher  Apach secondary school  concerning strike ringleaders in secondary schools.

He suggested that such ringleaders ought to be blacklisted and therefore denied admission in schools within Apach District.

Lira Resident District Commissioner, Mr Emmanuel Mwaka Lutukumoi, claims there are organised strike groups such as “Lango joint strike group”, which plan, scheme and organise these strikes. 

I haven't heard something more ridiculous. Is this RDC suggesting that a bunch of youth dedicate their time to meet and draft a way forward with regard to schools to target. Strikes are reactions not inventions!

He points a possibly long crooked finger at the striking students; condemning them to the abyss of damnation. He refuses to acknowledge that the society entrusts it's students to his lot. He is the potter, he's expected to mould students into socially acceptable citizens. To condemn students is to acknowledge that he has failed in his role. It's to appreciate that his lot ought to step down.

Kicking out  an untamed monster is unleashing untold terror upon  society. How will they learn?

What do you expect of students upon whom violence is meted day in day out in the form of archaic punishment modes like wielding the cane? We need to take violence out of schools, and find appropriate modes of correcting misbehaviour and failure.

Why can't we give them another chance. Why can't we show them the way, why can't we learn to tolerate expression of grievances?  Students shouldn't be gagged. 

Students should be allowed to express themselves, aggression often means alternative means have proved futile. Are there efficient mechanisms  to express grievances? 

But I'm just a student, no one will listen.  

The Painter.

Basic rule of institutions, your food and security are the most important elements in life. This is basic wisdom that Monkeys in Mabira forest and parrots in the Amazon jungle would agree with;  that they need to be safe and have a good meal to live.  In short, one can't afford to have qualms and scores to settle with the cafeteria folk nor the watchmen. Your ego is bad for your digestive system!‎

There's a cop I know of, he speaks Runyakitara, I eavesdropped on his conversation once or twice before I conveyed wishes of a beautiful evening to him, inquiring about the day's work. He was taken aback by my crisp mastery of a foreign tongue. His child apparently is in that upcountry school I attended before I joined University. The same place I often return to extend a hand to. See, small world. He often waves when he meets me along the streets, sometimes he stops his Yamaha police bike and conveys his tidings, often reluctantly and apologetically waves his acknowledgment across the road.  His a burly man, soft spoken and polite. My safety is vital.‎

Last Week, while I lazily prowled these rather  calm and often sombre streets, I stumbled upon a rather unfamiliar yet not entirely shocking sight. A young man, in a faded orange tee, surrounded by  5 uniformed men wielding guns; their feet hidden within the confines shiny boots. His forehead bore the marks of a previous beating. His head; scarred like a carpenters work table was dented with vestiges of a thorough beating. He wore old brownish wet leather shoes, that seemed to have been prior owned by a highly committed fish monger. 

Save a few old drops of paint on his shoes. There was nothing to show for the trade he fervently claimed to partake in pursuit of an honest living.

"Officer do you expect me to carry a pot of red paint, overall coat and brush simply because I'm a painter? " He asked sarcastically. His English was astonishingly proper and his enunciation of words right. I drew closer.

His fleeting tiny eyes peered at mine. Before he continued.

" I'm being arrested because of my reputation! It's just my reputation, but I'm no thief! " he added.

He said his name was Mark. He insisted he was an ordinary painter, minding his business, walking aling these streets.He said he was only leaning against a Mercedes Benz when a pack of gun wielding possibly drunk policemen descended upon him like vultures upon carrion.

 He bore no iota of decency nor honesty. You could smell the bearings and markings of a fraudulent crook about Mark. He had neither identification nor any sort of document. He politely said he'd lost them. He added he'd equally lost his police letter.  

" Very convenient," I thought." He knows the system." He knows the cops will have no one following up his case. He'll spend a few nights in the coolers. Feast on roasted beans, feed government bugs with his blood ; return home to his hovel and steal again! That's the tale of many frustrated ghetto dwellers, they pay visits to affluent sides of the city; pick, take and carry away headlamps, sidemirrors, batteries, valuables within the car.‎

Policemen tend to know the prominent petty thieves. Another cop came and before anyone spoke to him he said.

" I know this young man, he is a reputable vandal. Last semester he abandoned his brother with whom he was found forcibly attempting to gain access into the Vice Chancellor's vehicle. " 

Mark had been found vandalising cars belonging to church going folk. He apparently spreads his trade on religious grounds. His preference for exotic and classy vehicles is unmatched.‎

The policehead soon came wielding a stick.  He posed a simple question to Mark.

" How many times have I led you to the hospital?? How many times have I salvaged you from the fangs of morbid mobs?"

His rather fretful tongue failed him.

Here towering before him was Mark's uniformed saviour. He politely replied he had reformed. That it was the devil that conjured him through these streets, that he'd all this while turned to the paths of honesty. That he'd found refuge in honest toil, that he wasn't vandalising vehicles any more. He said he wasn't looking at vehicles twice! He intimated he'd cut all contacts with all vehicle spare part buyers. He said he was sick and tired of fervently making love to death everytime. He said he wanted to go home. That He was just a passeby, passing through. ‎

‎

Last night, I saw a dark shadow lurking behind a car parked on the shoulders of these streets. When I raised my voice, the dark shadow sprinted into the pitch darkness. All I found was abandoned in haste was a left brown shoe. Mark's been stealing again. Mark's courting death again. Mark is fiercely determined. Don't be like Mark.‎

" A woman scorned!"

William Congreve in "The Mourning Bride"writes;

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury

like a woman scorned." Dr. Stella Nyanzi is living testimony to this phrase.

‎

She paces the length of the block where Professor Mahmood Mamdani's 3 offices sit; one for him, the other for his secretary and the last belongs to his personal assistant. Dressed in an orange African garb. She screeches, roars, screams, chants, hysterically laughs cold mirthless laughter. Like a self caged tigress she prowls with the satisfied gait of a war general bracing herself for battle.

" He locked my office with two padlocks, I have 2on his office block pathway." she sneers contentedly.

"Checkmate!"

"Mahmood Mamdani is an intimatedator!"She adds.

My arrival at MISR coincides with the departure of a seething Ddumba Ssentamu, Makerere University's Vice Chancellor; a puffy raven black Afro sits on his head. He had just been defied by the woman who had just undressed to her black undies. He enters his cream vehicle and leaves. My 3rd year at University and I've only seen him thrice. A few students see him and chant. " Dictator."

Two students stand outside the barricaded red gate, while the online lioness spits fiery magma! Heavy Coastal  Tanzanian accent riddles the chants against what they purport to be Mahmood Mahdani's intimidation work policy.

They hold placards and markers, and white sellotape soon covers their lips in an X to represent suppression and gagging.

"You have nothing to lose but your chains! We are oppressed at MISR!"

"I want Makerere to protect my office, I have no disciplinary actions against me.

MiSR website is littered with scandalous accusations."

Stella soon returns seething hotly, she accuses Mahmood Mahmdani of hiring terrorists. She accuses Lydia Kaweeka of labelling MISR cleaners "unlearned dogs!" The cleaners watching the drama with mild aghast, evident shock and unmasked concern somehow vanish when they're brought into the picture.

She holds a bottle of water in her hand. She mockingly  implores Professor Mamdani to kiss her tities. She retires to the basement. 

Professor Sylvia Tamale; a law school human rights activist and passionate feminist arrives. She conjures Stella out of her "dungeon," Stella returns. She loses her hitherto firm demeanour and breaks down. Her voice heavy with unshed tears. She lets them flow. She draws back when Sylvia attempts to hold her, she in one swift motion pulls her dress off her body, her bra follows suit! She stands naked in black panties, her voice broken, her resolve unbroken, her unbridled spirits fly with unrestrained rage. 

" Sylvia Banziita!" (Sylvia I'm dying, how will I feed my children.") Sylvia begs Stella to calm down. She doesn't budge. She sobs stark naked.

Sylvia leaves; her characteristically calm face shows signs of defeat. Stella apparently was Sylvia's research assistant for two years before she got a job a MISR as a research fellow, a job she's held for 6 years.

She bares all to the live cameras. 

A small crowd has gathered as more media houses arrive. She asks for a break. Hysterically laughing.

Her students take over; they chastise this reporter for trying to shield Stella's nudity from the NBS tv camera. Sylvia Tamale politely slams NBS for lacking ethical appreciation of their work. 

Stella returns with a pot of orange paint, she spurts the liquid against the walls.

" This is the blood of every research fellow who has been reduced to a teacher, I am sick and tired of oppression."

She smudges the walls and her face with the orange "blood."

"Fcuk you Mahmdani, there's more blood running through my veins, I'm going to fight, either you leave or I leave. If we must stay, return my office!" she hisses amid sobs!

"I am fighting with nudity, because it's the only weapon I have, I am fighting for my children."

Stella returns bound in thick chains, her mouth crossed with sellotape. Stands defiant momentarily and leaves. She returns without her sellotape; she directs her gun nozzle towards Lydia Kaweeka who she brands "a terror, not an employee." There's another oppressor in Lyn Osome; she's lesbian, another terror is James Ochita. Come save Makerere! "

" I'll defend my job to the dead! Makerere should fire me, I've not been lazy, my work speaks for itself!"

‎A young fellow soon arrives, tiny dreadlocks dot his head, he wears faded fluorescent green pants and has ear pins in his ears. Stella identifies him.

" Bad Black banzita!"

"I've been outside the country Maami, what's the matter mummy??" he asks coolly.

" They want to kill me, fcuk Mamdani, he runs this institute like a private firm." she spews more scathing vulgarities in Luganda!

Refuses to take question only responding to one. She swears rather agitatedly when one of the reporters' phone rings. Switch off your darned phones, I can't concentrate."

She mocks the policemen who arrive, the female cops sit down dejectedly.

" What's the way forward?" asks a reporter.

"This has to work(undressing) the exposure,

I've bared all with exception of my vagina!"‎

"He has sat on my promotion for two years! I was his first recruit! All my pleas to the HR have gone unanswered!"

At the end of it all, a bouncing Stella hugs her students, beaming; her office keys in her hands! Victorious once again. Is this the beginning of a new dawn??

Have the Amuru undressing ghosts taken over??‎

You don't mess with Stella Nyanzi!