He Carried His Books Like They Were Food: A Story of Education in Uganda

Before the rooster crowed, before the village stirred, Kato was already awake.

He sat on the edge of the bed, listening to his stomach argue with the morning. There had been no supper the night before. Still, he reached for his school bag. Inside were three exercise books, their covers torn, pages thin and yellow. He pressed them to his chest for a moment, the way other children held food.

The walk to school took nearly two hours.

Dust clung to his legs. Dew soaked his trousers. When he arrived, other pupils laughed and ran. Kato went straight to the classroom and sat quietly. Hunger made noise inside him, but he forced his eyes onto the blackboard.

At break time, children unwrapped food. The smell of sweet potatoes and beans filled the air. Kato drank water and pretended he was full.

One day, the teacher asked everyone to buy a textbook.

Kato’s heart dropped.

At home, his father stared at the ground. His mother said nothing. That night, she removed her only kitenge, folded it carefully, and sold it at the market the next morning. When Kato saw the book on his desk, he understood that education was not free—it was paid for in silence and sacrifice.

Exams came.

Kato studied by moonlight when the lamp failed. When sleep tried to take him, he slapped his face gently and kept reading. He was afraid—not of failing, but of wasting his parents’ pain.

Years later, when Kato received his results, his mother cried. Not because the marks were perfect, but because the struggle had meant something.

Today, Kato walks past the same school, now as a volunteer mentor. When he sees hungry children carrying torn books, he kneels beside them and says softly:

“Hold on. These pages can change your life.”

In Uganda, education is not just learning.

It is hope carried in tired hands.