Back to work.

Many years ago, my father came to see me at school. My parents are the kind to visit you in your third year of university because they want to make sure that their money is going where it should be. They actually met with my lecturers and had conversations about my performance. I was livid with embarrassment because I was the ONLY one in my class whose parents were that keen. It does not help that they, too, are teachers, and are very much aware of the tendency for teachers to lose sight of one child in that crowd of thousands. My parents made sure that I knew that I was not just part of the thousands. They kept following my results, insisted on regular emails and reports every semester. My sister, in her final year of her masters degree, still sends reports home. And Daddy still asks about the B- that could have been an A. When I was in Makerere they did not have to bother about asking for reports. My father designed the system into which the results were saved. Before I know what was going on, I was summoned home to explain why I got less than 80% in a course on Electrical Engineering. 

During one of those school visits, when I was living by myself in a foreign land, my father and I had lunch, and of course, tea with desert. Our conversation somehow wandered into the realm of politics. I was very vocal about how corrupt the system was and how the politicians we have should make it their responsibility to right the wrongs in our nation. I asked my father why he had chosen not to go into politics. He was knowledgeable and not without friends in the right places. Had he considered serving his people by challenging the laws and shining the light on the thieves? 

I later found out that he had, at one time, served as Local Council 1 Chairman for Makerere West Road. My father told me that when I was a child, barely a year old. I had a bad case of pneumonia. I was rushed to a government hospital at the university. My father thought, as a local politician and distinguished member of staff [PhDs meant more then than they do now], he was entitled to the best treatment that the state had to offer. He watched the life drain from my face and saw the tears roll down my mother's eyes. He then made the all-so-important decision to carry me out and drive me to a nearby private local children's hospital. My father says he watched me turn blue and die, then, miraculously come back from the dead.

As we sipped tea that day, over cake and biscuits, Daddy said, "That day, I decided that I was not going to wait for my government to change things. We must change things from within our circles before we can hope for the change to reach the top. Those people in the government are blinded by power and money. They do not see us any more. I could choose to join them but I know that I will get lost in that mess. I will start my work here, where I know I can change things. I will make sure my children have the best education I can borrow money to pay for. I will make sure my students are challenged into thinking beyond a 9-5 job and a pay cheque. I will start here."

I should listen to my father more often.