MUSEVENI 24 YEARS LATER: All I knew were gunshots and nights in the cold

I lived a bigger part of my life hearing gunshots, which was a constant interruption of sleep, work and education. I grew to learn how to distinguish between government soldiers’ gunfire and that of the rebels. The sound of the gun meant leaving the comfort of our huts for the nearby bushes.

When abductions, killings and maiming of civilians by the LRA reached its peak between 2000 and 2006, sleeping in the bush became a daily routine, while those who lived in villages had to go to internally-displaced people’s camps.

Dodging rebels
It was in a small grass thatched hut (commonly called aloof), built in a nearby swamp by my father, that I and my eight family members huddled in every night. It was in the aloof that I felt safe from the easy trap of the LRA abductions but not escaping snake bites, mosquitoes and the cold.

In 2006, everyone seems to have become mute. Actions were loud and every word uttered was soft, as if everyone was in fear of being overheard by the next neighbour who could be a rebel.

The day began at 10a.m. We left the aloof and hurried to school which ended at 4p.m. Playing after school was a preserve of children who lived in town, not for me who lived in Layibi Cubu- three kilometres away from Gulu town. I had to hurry back home, fetch water, or wash utensils, and wait for darkness to fall so that we head to our “safe haven” (aloof).

Abductions, killings, mutilation of relatives, friends and neighbours by the rebels was daily news. I once asked my grandmother if people in other parts of the country also suffered the way we did. She had no straight answer for me.

She, however, told me that in regimes past, our region had enjoyed booming trade and farming. She alluded to the fact that our suffering could be a vengeance of sorts for having been “favoured” by the past governments.

Her explanations seemed to tally with the mood during elections. President Museveni kept losing in my neighbourhood and the talk I heard from voters—was that they were protesting the instability and poverty.

It was almost taboo to support the ruling government. The deep-rooted sentiment was that as long as President Museveni stayed in power, northern Uganda would remain impoverished.

A desperate craving to live a better life like I supposed people elsewhere were doing filled my heart. I always wished that if I was born earlier, I would have tasted the life of bliss that was so much talked- about by elders.

Life not lived
Maybe I would have sat with my grandparents at the fireplace and listened to their riddles and folk tales. I would have probably drank milk from one of my father’s cows and had my education with a peace of mind.

My mother told me that she had named me Anena, a short form of Anenocan, in reference to the sleepless nights she had suffered during the Alice Lakwena insurgency.

The name loosely translated means “I have witnessed suffering”.
But despite this, I was able to pass my A’ Level examinations and get a government scholarship to study at Makerere University.
Today, the rebellion has come to an end. Life is returning to Gulu.

The rebirth of schools, hospitals and roads are signs that finally we might be catching up with the rest of the country. However, the land wrangles, presence of child-headed families, stigmatisation of returnee-rebels, still portend trouble if not well handled.
I also thank God that unlike the thousands of fellow graduates who are still searching for jobs, I am constructively engaged.