Ogwal, a university accountant who laid bricks in exchange for fees

By: JACOBS ODONGO of the EAiF Staff
Published July 1, 2009

He laid bricks and cultivated the school farm for the school in exchange for fees. He used his spare time to labour in the staff quarters, doing all sorts of menial jobs to raise pocket money while at school. And in his later life, he was an askari, a storekeeper, a cook. But despite all these, Geoffrey Ogwal toiled on to have education. Today, as Jacobs Odongo writes, the accountant in Kyambogo University can look back with a smile and nod, knowing all his humility served him to the best.

As a guard at Kyambogo University, Ogwal was hoisting the Uganda flag infront of the administration building, a morning routine in his job. Photos by Geoffrey Ogwal.

FICTION, they say, makes sense. What does reality do? I don’t know; maybe, Albert Einstein does. But believe you me, when I sat down to interview Geoffrey Ogwal, it is only the pre-interview chat I had had with a colleague familiar with his drudgery that stopped me short of calling my subject a novelette. Even then, I did not foresee the humble picture he himself would immerse me into, until the interview . . .

When intense poverty forced his father to capitulate meeting fees obligation for his five sons, Ogwal was only in P4. He had only one thing to do: become a man. To be a man, he had to wear ambition like a garb. He had to claw into dirt knowing he is dirtying his hands for his future. Like Njoroge in Ngugi’s Weep Not Child, Ogwal leaned his hopes on education. He attained his over the years, novel-style

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The elusive chase for fees

For the next three years after his father’s capitulation, he was out of school fending for his fees. “We used to walk from the village in Amach, 10km to Lira town, carrying fruit baskets on our heads to sell,” he says chuckling.

If going through primary school was like a fisherman clawing squishy earth in search of earth worms, one would expect Ogwal’s high school pursuit to be bleak, unless a Good Samaritan had come his way. Yet he declares proudly that in high school, “I was self-reliant,” throwing me aback.

Turns out the ‘self-reliant’ had bold quotation marks: he was implying something-for-something manual labour—a weird bursary. “They used to show us the school farm that we would till and plant stuffs,” he explains. “We farmed in exchange for fees.”

Ogwal (right) with fellow students preparing mud for laying bricks for the school during holidays in exchange for his school fees. Photos by Geoffrey Ogwal.

This ‘bursary’ or self-reliance—whatever you call it—at Bugema Adventist SS was what ensured that Ogwal completed high school without dropping out. This bursary did not, however, guarantee its beneficiaries basic needs at school. Hardships bring the best in those with gold dust spines. Ogwal relied on kyeyos (petty jobs) for his basic needs.

“For basic needs,” he says, looking in the ceiling as if reading the past from thereon. “We would go to staff quarters during our free time and work.” I was perplexed. From his diary, he quickly fished out an old photo. Three lads in action, shoving at sludge for bricklaying.

“That’s one of the jobs we did to earn our soap,” he says. “We would ask to be given some work for a pay, so if they gave you laundry, you just did it.”

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The humble jobs begin

After his A’ level, however, Ogwal had to grind his teeth. College was bleak without ‘bursary’ he had to feed, too. That is how he ended up at the Crown Tiles in Jinja where four sticks of fried cassava of sh100 and a glass of water served his supper more often than breakfast.

With days turning into weeks, weeks into months and months into years, he realised he was like a man who has fallen down. He would get up, he believed, for he trusted in his willpower. Armed with a Japanese trilogy maxim, he heard the echo that inspired him.

“When you are walking and you have to fall, fall far ahead; you will be able to get something. After the fall, remember to get up; don’t remain lying down. And when you are getting up, you don’t come up empty handed; at least, clutch at something.” This became his three rules to success.

Ogwal looked for a job. Highfield Junior Academy, Gayaza, opened the first door to him. He was the cook, guard and store keeper. But the administration was not paying him, so he had to wake up at 5a.m. daily to raid the jungle for wood, which he sold for a living. Then he joined Namboole High School. This time he was the head cook, chief guard, store keeper, dean of students and chaplain. But the more humble titles you hold the more voluntary your services are; Ogwal left Namboole empty-handed.

After a 3-month cadre training, he decided to hobnob at Makerere University Business School (MUBS). He was a guard, beginning the second part of his trilogy—he earned some meagre income, at least. He was getting up from the fall with something in his hand. He enrolled for a diploma in Business Administration in 2002. After graduating, he rug-ran the streets of Kampala in search for a job but failed. So, he settled for another askari job at Kyambogo University.

Former Vice Chancellor Prof. Lutaalo Bbosa encouraged the guards to further their studies. Ogwal was elated. Though laudable, I was wondering if then the story The New Vision ran last year of Kyambogo guards serving as lecturers holds Ogwal to the whim. But he denies teaching, though he says, “some guards are already holding bachelor’s degrees in education; they teach high schools and guard at night.”

Ogwal opted for a bachelor of management science. But the pursuit was no easy journey. Besides the obvious challenges of stringing tuition from the meagre earnings, Ogwal is a Seventh Day Adventist; their stance for the Sabbath is well documented in academic institutions. Ogwal would never step in class on Saturday even if it meant missing tests or exams. He proudly did his retakes thereafter.

However, by the time he completed this course, he had already got a job as an accountant at Kyambogo. He also says he is an agent for Tasly Africa (U) Limited, a Chinese traditional medicine company that is marketed in Africa.  In 2006, Ogwal was among the 3000 people who convened on Chinese traditional medicine in Kualampa, Malaysia.

“We walked out with USD 10,000 each for marketing. You just did your job and what percentage that remained of that package was the milk in it.”

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Tough times don’t last . . .

. . ., but tough men do. Ogwal can finally smile. He is in the white colour sector and Tasly is still around and it will remit another USD 10,000 in October.

Feb.27, graduation at Kyambogo University with Bachelor of Management Science. On the right is his wife, Alice, and left is Dorah, a family friend. Photos by Geoffrey Ogwal.

He credits his humble past for bringing the best in him. “Bugema Adventist laid my foundation,” he says. “I’m indebted to that school and to me it’s the best in East and Central Africa. Most contemporary schools teach you values that don’t get ingrained in you, but at Bugema, students were trained the essence of physical, moral, mental and spiritual willpowers.”

Ogwal boasts that for the six years he spent at the school, he never once fell sick. “Sickness was like a rare thing; an accident and no student I know of fell ill while in the school because we were fit all-round.”

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His lessons and the big dreams

When he says he has no kind words for schools of nowadays whose students don’t know that a hoe is figure seven, he is reflecting on his self-effacing past. No wonder, he advises people never to despise humble jobs. “Don’t shun what is available; it could be the first [rungs to your ascension ladder] to success,” he advises.

Born to Imat Tero and Misaki Alip (both deceased) in 1974, Ogwal was the last born of five siblings, all male. After his modest but determination-imprinted journey, he can now smile and look into the mirror hoping to see the image of the father he is soon to be. He wedded Alice Achen in April last year and he says, “We are very optimistic of a bouncing baby in a few months time.” Radiant!

In 10 year’s time, he wants to be an investor owning a model Bugema-like school in his home town in Lira to offer opportunities to other children who are toiling like he did. “That is God willing, but the head teacher must be an Adventist.”

And the capital? He refers me to his trilogy of adage and his motto: never give up. “In 10 years,” he reminds me. Ogwal wants to do his Masters and PhD to complete the adage sequel. A novella indeed!

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