The Bishop and the Boys Who Wouldn’t Go to the Chapel

There is a long history behind bishops’ visits to Kigezi College Butobere. To understand one particular visit, it is worth first stepping back into the history of the school itself.

The stage is set: Siniya, or, as it is more officially known, Kigezi College Butobere.

A School Still Defining Its Tradition

Kigezi College Butobere was founded in 1957, although serious construction did not begin until 1963, just a year after Uganda gained independence. From its earliest days, the question of what exactly constituted the school’s tradition and culture has been a subject of discussion among generations of students and Old Boys. In 1977, as the school celebrated its twentieth anniversary, the then Head Teacher reflected on this question in the foreword to the School Magazine. He wrote:

“I have often heard people talk of school traditions, such and such a school has got its tradition and to administer it you must be an old boy of that school; you must know its tradition. I have therefore often asked myself as to what the tradition of Kigezi College Butobere was. May be the old and present students of this school might help to explain what they believe the tradition of their school was or should be.”

In the same magazine, S.R. Baitwababo, a 1962 Old Boy and then a member of staff, offered two possible interpretations. Either the Headmaster, despite not being an Old Boy, had found it easy to administer a school that had no established traditions, or he was challenging the old and present students to define their own traditions.

The question was not an insignificant one.

In the 1960s and 1970s, schools with strong traditions were largely those modelled on the English public school tradition, institutions originally established for the sons of chiefs, such as Budo, Nyakasura, Mwiri, Nabumali, Gayaza and Mengo, and, to some extent, Namilyango, Kisubi and St. Leo’s Kyegobe. Tradition, however, was not simply something inherited. School administrators played a major role in creating it. They made rules, cultivated academic standards, enforced discipline, designed uniforms, erected buildings and sometimes pulled them down. All these things shaped the identity of a school. Tradition included the beliefs, customs, principles and standards of conduct passed from one generation to another. It could be seen in the arrangement of buildings, the names they carried, the dress code, the conduct of those in authority, relationships between staff and students, relations with outsiders, attitudes towards work, and the social, cultural and ethical values of the institution. The philosophy of the founders and their successors inevitably left its mark. And therein lay the particular challenge at Butobere: the founder was the government.

For the first intake in 1957, some Catholic students were not allowed to join by their parents because of the belief that the school would be dominated by Protestants. The misconception was soon cleared, and Catholics and Muslims joined the school from the 1958 intake. From the beginning, therefore, the school had a foundation of religious tolerance. Over time, that tolerance became one of the defining features of its tradition. Students of different faiths studied, worked and lived together, with no more disharmony than one would expect in any human community. The spirit of tolerance was particularly evident in the joint use of the chapel by Catholics and Protestants during important school occasions.

There were other unmistakable signs of being a Butobere student or Old Boy. The blue jersey and black rain cape were once instantly recognisable. The jersey, in particular, was a badge of smartness and one of the things that attracted many young men to the school. The jersey survived in part; sadly, the black rain cape did not. The school’s attitude to work also evolved. In the 1960s, the sickles represented in the school emblem were not merely decorative symbols. They were put to practical use in cleaning and maintaining the school grounds. In that sense, the school motto, “Progress Through Labour,” was lived out quite literally. With time, however, and as the national mood changed, the sickle gradually gave way to the pen. The school, born in the late 1950s, grew through the 1960s and matured in the 1970s into an academic giant. It built a remarkable record of examination success, a winning streak that continued for more than three decades. Its graduates went on to make their mark in politics, academia, medicine, public service, private enterprise, the East African Community and many other fields, both within and beyond Africa. Yet defining the complete tradition of such a large institution remained difficult. Too many factors were at play: frequent changes of head teachers, which made it difficult for one individual to stamp a lasting identity on the school, and the school’s ideological neutrality, which meant that it did not always enjoy the support of the so-called “big Old Boys.” Against this background, the relationship between the school and the church could sometimes be delicate.

The Bishop Is Coming

Fast forward to 2010. The Anglican Bishop of the Diocese of Kigezi was coming to visit the school on a Sunday. The chaplain had been preparing boys for confirmation by the Bishop, and there was a noticeable sense of anticipation. There was also a running rumour that, the previous year, the chaplain had reported the school administration to the church as being composed of people who “opposed the church.” Whether the allegation was true or not, it had the potential to make an already delicate relationship even more complicated. Butobere was secular in origin, and the school could not afford to appear to be taking on the church in a head-on confrontation. At the time, the school neither participated in nor received invitations to attend some church-school programmes, even as an observer. Any report allegedly made against the school was therefore viewed with considerable anxiety, a kind of sword of Damocles hanging overhead, with no opportunity for defence.
The school had a unique Anglican chapel. It was headed by a student Chief Warden who worked under an ordained Reverend Chaplain of the Church of Uganda. The chapel vestry was upstairs, in a cosy medium-sized room with an access door at the back of the main hall. The main hall itself was a big, imposing structure, its roof appearing to lean forward like an eagle preparing for take-off. It had been constructed in 1963 with American assistance during the Kennedy administration.

Yet the chapel community was not always easy to manage. There were factions among students from Pentecostal churches, each bringing different theological positions and practices, all existing alongside the majority Anglican community. Disagreements between wardens and members of the congregation were not unusual. The chaplain certainly had his work cut out. On one occasion, the entire chapel committee, led by the Chief Church Warden, stormed into my office. They placed the chapel keys on the table and vowed never to work in the chapel again. It took some delicate negotiation to get them back around the table and persuade them to resume their responsibilities of leading this difficult flock. And then there were the “saved” students. Every born-again student was generally respected, but there was also an assumption among the boys that such students were automatic “snakes”, potential snitches. The reasoning was simple. A born-again student might report you because something you had done conflicted with his beliefs. Or he might mention you while giving a testimony. Other students found them strange. They appeared fearless of things that frightened everyone else, bullets and even death, yet were terrified of things other students barely thought twice about, such as bootleg spirits. As administrators, we hoped that having “saved” students among the boys would at least give us a small window into the student world. Perhaps, occasionally, information would leak through. It never did. Those boys were “as bad as everyone else.” They never, ever snitched on their colleagues. As teachers, we would silently, and with growing frustration, wonder whether they were actually working undercover, gathering intelligence from the staff and feeding it to the students. Otherwise, how was it that no information ever leaked from them? As you can see, the chapel leaders had a tightrope to walk.

A Lesson from My Mother

To understand what happened next, I have to go further back in time.

I am in Primary Two. An old, nearly toothless lady with wrinkled, dark skin has come to visit. We are at the residence of the Kikungiri Chief. I am happily horsing around with my mother when, suddenly, the old lady turns to me. “Look at him with those balls, that look like his father’s!” I had no idea what the old lady’s words meant. I could, however, tell from the reaction that whatever she had said was not exactly complimentary. So I replied: “You too!” My reasoning was simple. If what she had said was good, then we shared the same quality. If it was bad, I had simply returned the insult.
The effect was immediate.
There was a marked pause.
Silence.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
A chill crept over me.
I knew I was in trouble.
I began scanning the surroundings, planning emergency escape routes. My neck swivelled from side to side like an electric fan, watching for any attempted grab-him operation.

Eventually, the tension eased, or perhaps my short attention span simply erased the danger. The old lady eventually said goodbye. I was absent-mindedly playing when I suddenly felt my mother’s hand firmly around my wrist. “Children, bring me that munyafu – the big cane.” Oh boy! I was in serious trouble. My sister brought out a huge, menacing-looking stick. Running was no longer an option. I was effectively under arrest. I had only one strategy left: an emergency plea for mercy. “Please, Mama, don’t cane me. I have not done anything wrong!” “Why did you talk back to the senior lady like a boy who has no manners? You embarrassed me. I am going to teach you a big lesson.” “Please, Mama, don’t. I did not know it was bad to talk back to my seniors. I will never do it again. She is the one who started it.” Wagira ngwenki? – What have you said?

The temperature plummeted again. I was covered in cold sweat. I knew I had to explain myself quickly, or the dark clouds of the cane were about to open. My mother warned me: “You never, ever talk back to your seniors in age, whether you feel wronged or not. It is bad manners and brings shame on the family. Have you heard?” “Yes, Mama.” “Now, I am forgiving you only this once. Next time, I shall give you the beating of a lifetime.” She finally released my wrist.

Phew! That was a close one.

To this day, I do not talk back to my seniors. When an older person addresses me, the tête-à-tête is carefully crafted. Some lessons stay with you. Especially when you can still remember the sight of a thick cane being raised over your head.

Bishop George of Kigezi Arrives

It was Sunday. Bishop George of Kigezi was coming to the school for confirmation. I was running a little late. I was at the Police Barracks on the Mbarara-Kabale road when my phone rang. It was the Headmaster. What did he want? “Where are you? The chaplain has called me, complaining that students are not coming for service.”
There were so many things wrong with this situation.
First, what had happened to the relationship between the priest and his flock? Why could the service itself not attract the congregation?
Second, where were the chapel wardens?
Third, what about the student prefectural body?
Fourth, where were all those God-fearing students?
But there was no time for philosophical analysis. Everyone was passing the problem down the line. And now I was at the end of the line. Fine. I would pass it down the line too. Nobody was going to talk back to an elder, not on my watch, and certainly not to a Bishop. I rushed to the school. The Bishop was already in the staff room, waiting with the chaplain. I went straight to Bwankosya Room One, the first dormitory you reached as you entered the school. “Boys, you are very late. Please finish dressing quickly and move down to the chapel.” They stared back at me. Nothing. No movement. I moved from dormitory to dormitory. Same message. Same response. Then I got an idea. I walked back to the staff room.

I remembered the biblical story of Jesus finding people turning the temple into a marketplace, John 2:13–17. He drove them out. The boys were messing up our temple by refusing to go to chapel. Therefore, if words were not going to convince them, I was going to find another language. Behind one of the chairs in the staff common room, I found a short stick. I now had a problem. How could I walk across the school carrying a stick in front of a Bishop? Then I devised a plan. I was smartly dressed in a navy-blue suit. I looked every inch the gentleman. I pushed the stick up my sleeve. It became my new tool of office. And, strangely enough, it was not even my cane. It was a cane very much like the one my mother had almost landed on me years earlier for talking back to an elder. I was simply passing on the favour. I walked gently back towards Bwankosya. Some of the sharper students had already begun hurrying. They were beginning to smell a rat. I entered the first room. “Boys, why are you still here when I specifically asked you to hurry up?” No response. So I pulled the secret office tool from my sleeve.
Pandemonium!
I immediately re-sheathed my weapon and walked calmly out.
As I moved to the next room, I could hear the quick scurrying of feet. The message had been received. I did not need to say anything else. I simply stood and watched as students hurried out of their rooms and headed towards the chapel. Within ten minutes, the entire student body was in the chapel.

The Bishop’s Carrot

The doors were locked. We then led the students directly to the dining hall. And there was a final twist. The food prepared for the Bishop’s feast was served only to those who had remained in the chapel. Meat and rice. Those who had stayed outside were given a special alternative: posho and beans.

As we finally saw the Bishop off, I overheard one boy swearing: “I will never miss the Bishop’s visit again.” I smiled to myself. True, young man. This time, the Bishop had visited with carrot and stick. And the lesson stuck.

The following year, the Bishop’s Service became one of the best-attended services ever recorded at the school. Sometimes, in the strange theatre of school administration, leadership requires more than rules, more than persuasion and more than good intentions. Sometimes, you need the carrot. Sometimes, you need the stick. And occasionally, as at Siniya, you need both.

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