HIGH SCHOOL CHRONICLES: The Series.

Episode One: This Boy from Lira

It was a Friday morning, one of those that drag painfully slow, like time itself is holding its breath. I hadn’t slept much the night before. My mind was a carousel of fear and hope, spinning endlessly. The PLE results were due that afternoon, and for a 13-year-old whose whole world hinged on a few numbers, nothing felt safe.

I didn’t dare switch on the TV. Even the neighbour’s radio murmuring through the window made me shiver. It felt like the whole world was waiting for me to fail. I stayed locked in my room, curled up in the comfort of silence. The house was warm, but inside me it felt cold. Every creak of the door, every message alert – it all sounded like bad news coming.

By one o’clock, I couldn’t take it anymore. With trembling hands, I shuffled into the living room and looked up at the old wall-mounted Sony TV. And there it was, the Minister and UNEB officials lined up in suits, announcing the results. My heart threatened to leap out of my chest.

I’ve never done well with anxiety. The previous day, I had quietly loaded 1,000 shillings of airtime onto our old buttoned phone, hoping it would be enough. I had rehearsed the SMS code like a prayer. But, as usual, the first attempt failed. MTN swallowed my 500 shillings like it was nothing. I just stood there, crushed.

I remember closing my eyes before the second try, pressing send with the weight of a thousand dreams. Seconds later, the message came through:

“PLE Results: Mathematics D1, Science D1, SST D1, English D2. Total: Aggregate 5.”

For a moment, I just froze. The world went silent. My stomach sank. Five. Not four. Five.

By many standards, that was good. But not mine. Not my parents’. Not my teachers’. I felt every expectation I’d carried all year crash down on me like rain on a tin roof. I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to disappear.

I think I cried. Maybe I broke. Maybe both.

To say I wasn’t disappointed would be lying. I was the bright one – the boy they talked about at family gatherings, the one teachers called promising. Everyone, including me, expected a perfect four. Anything less felt like failure. So, I did what I knew best – I shut down. Locked myself in the room, buried my face in the pillow, and let the tears come. Not because five was bad, but because it wasn’t perfect. And because I didn’t know what to expect when my parents came home.

Then the phone rang. It was Dad.

My heart stopped.

This was a man who didn’t need to shout; his silence was enough to shake me. The same man who never hesitated to raise a cane if I didn’t make first position in class. I wiped my face and answered, voice trembling.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. I braced for the worst.

Then his voice came through – soft, calm, deep. Nothing like the storm I feared.

“Five... that’s very good, my son. I’m proud of you.”

I blinked. Did I hear that right?

“You did your best. That’s all I’ve ever asked of you. Thank you, my boy.”

Something loosened in my chest. My voice shook as I whispered, “Thank you, Dad.”

Mom called right after. Her tone was warm, bright – like home wrapped in sound.

“My baby! You did so well! I’m so proud of you, eh!”

I smiled through the tears. Maybe things would be okay after all, even if a small part of me wasn’t convinced yet.

By evening, I had loosened up. I called a few boys from the neighbourhood, and we hit the school pitch for football. Growing up, we didn’t have much – no PlayStation, no fancy weekends – but we had a ball. And somehow, that was enough. That worn-out ball was therapy. On that pitch, nothing else mattered. Not the results. Not the pressure. Just laughter, dust, and freedom.

Time slipped away until I heard my sister’s voice yelling across the school fence.

“Bo-boi! Bo-boi! Mr. Okello! Tye alwongi paco!”

She said my Primary Seven tutor was home and wanted to see me urgently. The tone in her voice froze me. Why would he want me? I dashed home.

There he was – Mr. Okello – beaming like he’d just won something himself. “A New Vision reporter came looking for you,” he said before I could even sit. Apparently, I’d made national news.

When results are released here, it’s almost tradition: the top students end up in newspapers, faces plastered under bold headlines. But I didn’t feel like a hero. I didn’t feel anything.

The reporter asked if I was happy.

I hesitated. “I’m not sure,” I said. “But whatever I’m feeling... it’s not happiness.”

Everyone around me was throwing congratulations like confetti, but inside, I felt like a fraud. I hadn’t met the expectations I’d set for myself. I wasn’t even sure I’d make it to Namilyango College – the dream.

Then he asked what I wanted to be.

In this country, dreaming is one of the few free things a child can do.

So, I said, “Hopefully an engineer. Like my dad. I want to build houses and make a lot of money.”

He smiled, scribbled something, and snapped a photo – my tired smile frozen in a tiny box of pride. The next morning, there I was, in The New Vision, among the country’s best performers. For the first time, I felt seen.

Still, one sting lingered – that D2 in English. It hurt. That subject wasn’t just another; my own uncle taught it. He was also the headmaster. For years, I’d topped English, and part of me feared he’d just been generous. But when I looked at my old papers, I realized – nah, I’d earned it. So, seeing that D2 glare back at me felt personal. Like I’d let him down.

That evening, Dad knocked softly and walked in holding a small black polythene bag. He pulled out a new pair of jeans and a track-fit T-shirt. That alone nearly made me cry again. We never got boutique clothes unless it was Christmas. Throughout the year, we grew into hand-me-downs. But here he was, smiling, handing me something new – something that said, I’m proud of you.

Then he added, “Your uncle called. London College of St. Lawrence has offered you a full scholarship – for four years.”

I just stared. It explained everything – the calm, the gifts, the sudden gentleness. London College hadn’t just offered me a scholarship; it had tamed my father. And if that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

But with that news came a quiet funeral in my chest: Namilyango College. My dream school. The plan had been clear; we’d even talked about the Kampala trip days earlier. But now? The script had changed.

London College sent everything to Lira; admission letter, scholarship, the whole package. Just like that, before the dust of PLE had settled, my next four years were decided.

London College of St. Lawrence. I’d heard of it – not fondly. It wasn’t one of those names that made people nod in respect. No one bragged about going there.

Worse, Dad had already heard the rumors – that it was a “very unserious school.” A place where bright students lost their way. And if you knew my father, you’d know – he was not the type to send his son into mediocrity. But maybe this time, the math didn’t math. He had to compromise.

He looked at me and said, “A school doesn’t pass a student. The student passes himself.”

That was it. No sermon. Just that one line – like a stone dropped in water.

So here I was – 13 years old, scholarship in hand, dreams shelved, headed to a school that didn’t even require students to trim their hair. I heard they wore trousers, not shorts, which honestly felt like freedom. Maybe too much freedom.

But deep down, I was scared.

This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the dream.

All I knew was – this boy from Lira was about to find out.