The City That Never Sleeps.

HIGH SCHOOL CHRONICLES: The Series.

Episode two: The city that never sleeps.

“HAVE YOU PACKED EVERYTHING?” my mother shouted from the bedroom, her voice slicing through the evening like a knife through ripe fruit.

I was in the sitting room, pacing back and forth, fidgeting around where the flat iron was – which, oddly enough, I was holding the whole time. Nerves, I guess. Departure nerves.

“What about the knife? Have you packed it?”

I chuckled. That knife was the first thing I’d packed. I was weirdly excited about it – my first time eating with a knife and fork – officially, like those people in glossy Hollywood movies. Not a spoon in sight. It felt like stepping into another class of life.

Dad, in his usual proud tone, had painted a vivid picture of what school life in the capital would be like. He imagined class. Elegance. Discipline. High standards.

And me? I was scrubbing the poverty off my feet. Literally. I spent extra time on my toenails and ankles, rubbing them with rough rock until they were as clean as I could get them – like I was washing away the village dust before mingling with the so-called elites. Maybe I just wanted to feel like I belonged before I even got there.

We were a night-traveling family. Always had been. There was something comforting about moving through the dark – the cool air, the short-feeling journey, the buzz of a sleeping world rolling past the window. Unlike those day trips where the sun cooked the bus metal and everyone was too tired to talk but too awake to sleep.

At around 11 PM, three boda men rolled up outside, engines rumbling low like they knew it was a big night. They were there to take us to the bus park. I was ready – back straight, track-fit shirt hugging my chubby frame, jeans tight enough to feel like something new was beginning. I felt like a butterfly finally wriggling out of his cocoon. Free. Nervous. Excited.

We stood outside the house for a moment, darkness wrapping around us like a blanket, and said a short prayer. A routine blessing, but that night it felt like a rite of passage. Then, just like that, we were off – slicing through the midnight chill toward Lira Town.

At the station, my metallic suitcase – gleaming under the lights like a soldier reporting for duty – was shoved into the luggage boot with a bang. I clung to my backpack, which carried the “delicates,” as Mum called them. She’d packed them herself. Both my parents had small bags too, but really, they were carrying more than luggage. They were carrying unspoken hopes. Maybe even quiet fears.

Before long, I was seated stiffly in the GAAGAA bus, pressed against the window, watching the town I’d grown up in fade behind the glass. Familiar buildings and signposts blurred into the night, and I felt like I was silently waving goodbye to a version of myself – the boy who knew every dusty shortcut, every scent of home.

It’s strange how the things we ignore suddenly feel sacred when we’re about to lose them.

There was an ache in my chest – part excitement, part fear, part something I didn’t have words for. I wasn’t just leaving a town; I was leaving a piece of myself. And though I was chasing a dream, it felt like that dream was pulling me away from everything I knew.

The journey was shorter than expected. Somehow, I dozed off in bits despite the stiff seat and the awareness that something in me had shifted. Homesickness had already started creeping in, but it hadn’t sunk deep yet – my parents were still with me. As long as they were beside me, gently snoring, I felt anchored. Home wasn’t a place anymore – it was the sound of their voices, the warmth of my mother’s hand on my knee, the sense of their presence in the dark.

“Beep beeeeeep!”

A horn jolted me awake. I blinked and peered through the window, dazed, only to be met by chaos in motion.

“Wandegeya! Kamwokya! Wandegeya Kamwokya!” taxi conductors yelled over one another, voices rising above the thick morning air. It wasn’t even 5 a.m., but the streets were alive. Boda riders weaved through traffic like they’d never gone to bed, steering with one hand and pointing with the other. People rushed past, chasing something invisible.

Old women swept pavements with worn-out brooms, their movements slow and practiced. Chapatti stalls flickered to life, smoke curling into the air, the smell of frying dough mixing with the city’s restlessness.

That was my welcome mat. Kampala didn’t whisper – it shouted. It wrapped me in its chaos and said: This is the city that never sleeps.

The bus crawled between buildings that looked too tall for comfort. It felt like I’d been dropped into a film – the kind where a small-town boy arrives in a big city, wide-eyed and lost. But instead of wonder, I felt small. The newness didn’t excite me; it unsettled me.

Am I supposed to know all these places? Won’t I get lost one day?

That thought looped in my mind as the streets grew stranger by the minute. New city. New people. New language. The only Luganda I knew was from Radio and Weasel’s Bread and Butter. Now I was surrounded by people speaking so fast it sounded like encrypted code.

Eventually, the bus stopped – Arua Park. Loud. Crowded. Alive in a way that made Lira feel like a paused photograph.

It was still dark, so we stayed seated for a while, just watching, trying to let it sink in. So, this is it, I thought. This is where it begins.

By 7 a.m., we got off to find breakfast. We found a small local joint and ordered katogo and dry tea – my first meal in Kampala. The matooke was cold, tasteless. I chewed slowly and thought, If this is the staple here… maybe I should just go back. Ridiculous, I know. But fear and nostalgia have a way of seasoning everything when you’re far from home.

After breakfast, Dad seemed a little uneasy. He kept pacing around, glued to his phone – probably trying to reach someone. Not long after, a black Toyota Spacio, almost new, pulled up to the terminal gate. Dad gave us the signal to gather our bags.Out stepped a tall, slim man – maybe in his early forties. He had a receding hairline and wore a faded black cotton long-sleeved shirt, tucked into a pair of locally stitched “gentle” trousers. He didn’t speak much, just offered a quick nod and reached for my metallic box, lifting it like he’d done this a dozen times before, and tucked it gently into the open boot.

Dad took the front seat. Mum and I sat in the back. I leaned against the window, watching the city blur past, wondering if it was too late to change my mind.

Kampala swallowed us quickly. Even with the windows closed, the noise found its way in – honking, revving, shouting, whistles cutting through the air. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and just watched. Vendors pushed wheelbarrows stacked with pineapples, women balanced baskets on their heads, kids darted between taxis yelling “full!” and “stage!” like it was a rhythm only they knew. The city was breathing – loud and unapologetic.

We stopped at traffic lights. Real traffic lights. Not the ones in SST textbooks. These blinked through dust and noise, trying to bring order to a city that didn’t care. My heart thumped. This was real. This wasn’t a dream or a trip. I was going to live here.

And I wondered if the city would swallow me too – or if I’d learn to move through its chaos without flinching.

Soon, the congestion eased. We joined a smoother road – later I’d learn it was the Kampala–Masaka highway. The atmosphere shifted. The noise faded. Only the hum of the car remained.

I didn’t know how far we had to go. The silence escalated, and my thoughts got louder. That uneasy feeling stayed – the one you get when a chapter ends, but the next page hasn’t turned yet.

I sat there, staring out into the distance, the city shrinking behind us.

This was it. There was no turning back now.