Tombstones and Banana Trees by Medad Birungi Page A

her house, where it was rumored that they beat her to death. There was also a story that they had stoned to death a member of the staff as well as killed a policeman who got caught up in a scuffle. I had not arrived at the school at this time, but I was there when we invaded a nearby girls’ school—not just once, but more than three or four times. The girls were beaten and raped. Peer pressure is a big thing—you want to please people—so I would get a stick and join in the beating, though nothing more. At those times I may not have known why I was fighting, but I knew I needed to do it to keep my place.
    All the boys in the gang shared the same background and the same passion for alcohol. They protected me from being bullied and helped me out when I did not have enough money to buy drink. And we would walk to our homes together—most of the nineteen of us. They were not as poor as I was, but they would far rather spend their money on alcohol than on a bus fare.
    I had such anger and bitterness in my heart that it did not take much for me to start to become violent. Without even asking questions I would go and do what I was told. I was a drunken mess: wetting my bed, vomiting in my half sleep, and running up drinking debts that I had no means of ever paying. To get out of the worst of them I would steal books, plates, and spoons to go and sell.
    We often raged against the school, but one time we fought with greater force than usual. We were angry because the bursar had been stealing from the pupils. He would deny having any knowledge of receiving payment for fees, and if you had lost your receipt you had little choice but to pay again. The food was also not good, and because it was nearing the end of term we had examinations fever. This was cause enough for us to unleash the full chaos of our violence. We smashed windows, set fire to the bursar’s house, trashed other staff houses, and destroyed school property. It was a moment of pure violence, and we loved it.
    And yet I was like an orphan there, being favored by the school, working hard for the headmaster, behaving in such an exemplary way while working for him that he never believed anyone who accused me of being involved. He stood by me. And yet, in secret, I was a thug.
    I felt guilty, but it was not until I became a Christian that I knew quite how wrong my actions had been. The thing I most regret about the time in the gang was that riot. As well as the buildings we also attacked many people. We beat many younger students and stole their money; we also attacked nearby shops and looted money and property. Dozens of policemen came and we threw stones at them and they beat us and shot in the air and many students were arrested. We ran through nearby villages, vandalizing property, beating the residents, and looting shops and bars. We took all the beer we could find.
    The headmaster feared the gang. He never brought it up with me, although after the riot he called me in.
    â€œPeople are saying you were involved,” he asked. “Were you?”
    My denial was dramatic; I lay on the ground, wept, and swore I had no involvement in any of it at all.
    He defended me in front of the staff and board of governors, but it was not enough to get me off the charges completely. We were all sent home and forced to pay for the damages—three thousand Ugandan shillings, which was a lot of money in those days, more like two hundred dollars today. It will not surprise you to learn that I did not tell my mother about this.
    In 1982, three years after Peninah’s murder and two years after I started at Makobore High School, a Christian choir from Makerere University, Kampala, came to sing. They were called the Anglican Youth Fellowship choir, and they were more of a band than a simple choir. They had guitars and drums and keyboards and all the rest. Because we were a boys’ school we were happy about any girls coming over to see us, and as a gang we