Hannah's Travels

We were making our way up the side of the hilly Bwama Island on Uganda’s Lake Bunyonyi to visit a local primary school. ‘Hilly’ being an understatement; most of us were panting ungainly and we weren’t even halfway up.

The little girl who had met us at the shore and gestured for us to follow had practically sprinted up the first part of the incline and slowed down with a giggle when we stopped to rest under the pretence of admiring the view.

Her bare feet found their way easily along the dry, meandering path which promised to lead us to the top of the hill. She broke into a light skip occasionally then stopped abruptly, looking over her shoulder at us shyly to check if we had noticed. I smiled back at her conspiratorially. I could imagine her mother scolding her that morning, telling her to be on her best behaviour in front of the 'wazungu'.

So far she had kept her distance but as we waited for those who had fallen behind, she took a few steps closer.

“Jambo!” I offered, with a smile and a wave. Emboldened, she came to my side and looked up, expecting more. My Swahili ended there. “What is your name?”

“Yes,” she replied, twisting the corner of her white and green patterned cloak between her fingers.

I tried again. “Hannah,” I said, poking myself in the chest a few times. I pointed at her, “What is your name?”

She beamed in comprehension. “Sonya!”

Sonya, whose wise eyes belied just how young she really was, had very little English but made up for it in enthusiasm. “How are you? I am fine!” she sang out as she ran ahead.

As the ground levelled out and we reached the school, Sonya disappeared. I assumed she had squeezed into one of the classrooms while the headmaster walked us from one mud house crammed with children to another.

I stopped in a room to listen to some pupils singing and showing off the English they had learnt. It was then that I noticed Sonya standing outside, mouthing along to the song. Her big eyes drank in the blackboard and notebooks, pencils and the lucky ones who held them but she made no move to enter. I noticed a sadness that had not been there before.

It was only as we were informed that the school was full to capacity, unable to take in any new students until they had funds to extend the building, that I understood her story as one of the unlucky ones. Sonya made her way up the hill to the school on a daily basis, but all it served to do was remind her of an education which remained firmly beyond her grasp.