The sound of a bell echoed across the red Ugandan earth, followed by a thunderous stampede of tiny feet rushing directly towards me. Small arms reached out, wide eyes shone with excitement, and voices chorused "Teacher! Teacher!" before they crashed into my legs with embraces so genuine they instantly erased any notion of me being a stranger. I was merely a visitor—a mzungu—passing through the dusty grounds of Kids Gear Primary School in Bukomansimbi, Uganda. Yet to these children, I was immediately someone special.
An Unexpected Journey to Bukomansimbi
I arrived with a backpack and the fatigue of 11 months of solo travel behind me, a tight knot of anxiety in my chest. This volunteer placement marked the final chapter of a mammoth 410-day journey around the world. I had come to this small, rural town seeking a grounding experience, something meaningful to conclude my global adventure. I had no firm expectations, but I was entirely unprepared for how deeply the ensuing three weeks would affect me, softening parts of my spirit I hadn't realised had grown hard.
Kids Gear Primary School is a boarding and day school perched high on a hill overlooking Bukomansimbi, roughly a three-hour drive from the capital, Kampala. From this vantage point, the town below looked like a miniature settlement, its residents moving along the narrow, potholed, dust-covered streets like trails of ants.
Lessons in Resilience and Joy
Each day began early. Dedicated teachers like Mr Heavens, Ms Fortunate, and Ms Bonita—many of whom lived in small rooms just metres from the stuffy classrooms—were already at work by 6:30 am. The boarders, some as young as four, would shuffle into class in their bright orange uniforms, still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
By the time I arrived each morning at 8 am, lessons were in full swing. I spent my mornings in hot, echoing classrooms teaching English to students in P2, P3, and P4 (equivalent to Australian Years 2, 3, and 4). Our tools were simple: a stick of chalk and a blackboard. We sounded out vowels together, built words into sentences, and celebrated every small victory with clapping and dancing. Their eagerness to learn was breathtaking. Despite a stark lack of resources—textbooks, pencil sharpeners, and sometimes even functioning pens were scarce—the children were never distracted or bored. They possessed a raw, hunger to learn and an infectious desire to impress.
Generosity flourished in this environment of scarcity. A little boy would run around proudly showing off a tiny sachet of powdered milk his mother had packed as a special lunch treat. Teachers, who cooked on the floors of their single-room homes, spent hours before term hand-designing and colouring educational posters to brighten their classrooms. On registration day, I witnessed parents haggling not out of apathy, but sheer necessity, asking if a handwriting book or a fourth pen was truly essential for their child.
The Unforgettable Goodbye
Lunchtimes were spent under the shade of mango trees, where little girls jostled for a spot beside me, their small hands giggling as they twisted my mzungu hair into long braids. There were shrieks of laughter during P.E. lessons that transformed into full-blown dance battles. On one occasion, a group of 12-year-olds ran through the cafeteria desperately trying to find me a fork, even though everyone else, teachers included, ate posho and beans with their hands.
I realised these children didn't need material things to be happy. All they truly wanted was my time and attention. In return, they offered the only thing they had in abundance: pure, unadulterated love. Every day, I was greeted by the thunder of little feet and spent a full two minutes reclaiming my hands from the dozens of tiny ones clinging to them.
Having spent nearly a year traversing the globe—climbing mountains, crossing borders, and witnessing both extreme poverty and immense wealth—I thought I had experienced it all. But nothing pierced my heart as deeply as sitting on the concrete floor of that rural classroom, sounding out letters with a six-year-old who refused to sit anywhere but on my lap.
Leaving was far more difficult than I had anticipated. I was accustomed to goodbyes from hostels and bus stations, but this one was different. On my final morning, those same tiny feet came running. Their arms wrapped around me in a final, tight embrace. Then, one small voice asked, "What time will you be back tomorrow?" In that moment, my heart broke in two.
