Maama Herbert: The NRA/UPDF’s 89-year-old healing matriarch honoured on Heroes’ Day

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OPINION

By Maj. Bilal Katamba

A story of war, sacrifice, and motherly love

At the height of Uganda's bush war, a mother's quick thinking saved her children from certain death at a UNLA roadblock in Kawanda. Joyce Sserwaniko’s 10-year-old son, Sunday Kabugo, tugged her gomesi and whispered, “Maama, tufudde… Isma wuuli, Isma wuuli.” (Mother, we are finished… Isma is there, Isma is there). Her blood ran cold.

Her heart skipped a beat. She stole a glance toward the roadblock and immediately recognised Isma. Her pulse quickened, the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears like the deep, resonant beats of mujaguzo (Kabaka’s drum). Without hesitation, she turned to her three children; Margaret Nakanjako (6), Esther Ssekitoleko (8), and Sunday and gave them firm instructions: “Mweyawule, mweyawule, buli omu atambule yekka, tusisinkane eri mu maaso.” (Listen carefully, each of you must walk alone; we will meet ahead).

The children obeyed, scattering like frightened chicks. Joyce’s eyes remained fixed on the ground as they moved, her mind racing. Fifty meters away, she was certain Isma could hear the pounding of her heart. But just as fear threatened to paralyse her, a miracle happened, a woman selling ebinyebwa (roasted groundnuts) approached Isma, engaging him in a conversation. They seemed to speak the same dialect, and Isma, momentarily distracted, allowed Joyce and her children to slip past unnoticed.

From Kawanda, they walked to Kagoma, where they boarded a taxi to the Old Taxi Park. From there, an omnibus carried them to Kiryowa in Jinja, where they would wait out the storm. Eight months later, on January 26, 1986, the NRA seized power, and Joyce’s narrow escape at Kawanda became just one chapter in her long journey of survival.

Isma’s presence at the roadblock was no coincidence. He had once been a UNLA soldier captured by the NRA during battle. Unlike UNLA, which often executed prisoners, the NRA had a strict code that captured enemies were to be spared. That was how Isma, along with Otim and Charles, found themselves in an NRA camp.

But when UNLA forces attacked the camp, Isma and Otim escaped. Before fleeing, however, they had been given some freedom within the camp, which was enough to interact with Joyce’s children. That was why Sunday recognised him.

The journey to Kawanda had begun weeks earlier when the Chairman of the High Command (CHC), Yoweri Kaguta Museveni, summoned Fred Rwegyema. His orders were clear: “Go and bring me Joyce Sserwaniko.”

When Joyce arrived at the Command Post in Kufu-Makulibita, Museveni sat her down and spoke with the gravity of a man who knew the cost of war: “Mwanyinaze, stage y’olutalo lwetugendamu luyinza okuba oluzibu. Abaana abo bato nnyo. Tolina bantu bonna bayinza kubalabirira?” (My sister, the stage of war we are entering may be difficult. Your children are very young. Do you have someone who can look after them?)

Joyce told him of a relative in Jinja. Museveni, ever the strategist, made arrangements for the children’s evacuation before the NRA’s grueling trek to Rwenzori began. “Mwanyinaze, kati nze nakomawo ntya?” (My brother, how will I return?) Joyce asked.

“Ojja kusigala yo, tujja kusanga e Kampala bwonoba tosobodde kudda,” (You will stay, and we shall meet in Kampala when you are unable to return), Museveni reassured her.

The task of escorting Joyce and her children was given to Sserwanga Lwanga, who led them to a contact in Kawanda, just one kilometre from that dreaded roadblock.

Joyce Sserwaniko. (Courtesy)

Long before the war, Joyce had been a trained nurse from Mulago Nursing School. In the early 1970s, she worked at a health centre in Wakyato, Luweero, run by her relative, Dr Fenakansi Ssembeguya. When Ssembeguya was killed and the clinic collapsed, Joyce remained in Bulemezi, later settling in Kiwoko with her husband, Yoram Ssekitoleko Byekwaso, nicknamed Bikato.

When the 1981-86 liberation war erupted, Kiwoko became a battleground. UNLA soldiers descended on the trading centre one day and slaughtered nine people, mutilating their bodies beyond recognition. Among the dead were Matiya (a former UA officer), Richard (brother of Biraatwa), Musisi, Tabaalo, Kibirigo, Meere, Ssekasamba, Eliot (an Alur man married to Deborah Nakimera), and one other.

The horror was unspeakable. Yoram, Joyce’s husband, helped bury the dismembered bodies. Fear gripped Kiwoko. “Entiisa yali ya manyi nnyo, mwana wange,” (The terror was too much, my child), Joyce recalled. By 4 PM that day, the trading centre was deserted, and everyone had locked themselves indoors.

Joyce fled with her mother and children to Kiruuli, two miles from Kiwoko, seeking refuge in the home of a man named Luringambwa. But after a week, news came, Luringambwa had been killed.

She kept moving from Kijeebejo, then Gayaza, where a man known as Mandevu (The Bearded One) gave her a four-roomed house. “Nurse asule wano, ajanjabe abantu baffe,” (Nurse, stay here and treat our people), he said.

And so, she did. The suffering was overwhelming, but her determination to heal was stronger.

While in Kijeebejo, Joyce saw NRA fighters for the first time. They came to her for treatment, men like Mutwalib (Kaggwa’s driver), Stanley Muhangi, Kamada of Bwaise, Sikaagi, and Shama Shama.

Word of a skilled nurse named Joyce Sserwaniko reached Museveni. He sent scouts like Aziz, Sikagi, and even the bow-legged Apollo Marufu to find her. But Joyce, wary of traps, refused to reveal herself.

One day, Marufu arrived at her clinic in Gayaza, seeking malaria treatment. Just then, UNLA attacked. Chaos erupted. Marufu, despite his ailment, organised the fleeing civilians and led them to safety in Kattambogo, where he handed them over to Benon Tumulunde. The local chairman, Rwakigaba, arranged for grass-thatched huts to be built for shelter.

It was there that Joyce finally confided in Aziz: “I am the nurse you’re looking for.”

Aziz led her to Museveni at Nsakaziragula. The moment was charged with emotion.

“Sserwaniko Joyce!” Museveni called out.

“Wangii,” she replied.

“Nsanyuse okulaba. Muganda wange Israel Wamala yakutumira, omumanyi?” (I’m happy to see you. My brother Israel Wamala sent me to you, do you know him?)

“Oyo Mwanyinaze!” Joyce exclaimed in recognition.

Mzee’s voice softened. “Mwanyoko yagamba nkukuume nga bwenkuma eriiso lyange.” (Your brother asked me to guard you like the pupil of my eye.)

He then turned to his aide, Joram Mugume:

“How much milk do I receive daily?”

“Fifteen litres, sir.”

“Give five litres from my share to my sister, for her children.”

A hut was built for Joyce at the High Command headquarters. She worked alongside Dr Nayoga, Ssengooba Wamala, Nkangi (a medical officer from Kikandwa-Nakaseke), and Gava Eriasafu Wamala. Together, they treated fighters and civilians alike.

But war spares no one. In February 1984, tragedy struck, her husband, Yoram Byekwaso, was killed. Museveni summoned her. “Munange kya nnaku, Byekwaso baamusse, naye entalo bwezityo. Naye bwetunanula eggwanga, abaana njakubawerera era njakubalabirira.” (My friend, am saddened. Byekwaso is gone, but war is like this. When we liberate this country, I will take care of your children.)

Then, UNLA captured her mother, boasting they had “Maama wa nurse wa bayekera” (The mother of the NRA nurse). Under torture, her mother denied having children. She was later released, but the ordeal left Joyce shattered. Yet, she never broke.

At night, Joyce would light a small fire (forbidden during the day) to prepare obushera (millet porridge) for returning fighters, men like Bruce Muwanga, Moses Drago Nyanzi, Amigo (aka Wa-Wa-Wa), Musisi Kalampenge, Jackson Tushabe Bell, and her own son, Herbert Itongwa. Their laughter as they ate her porridge was her solace.

When the NRA took power in 1986, Joyce was brought to Lubiri Barracks, where she continued treating soldiers until her retirement in 2018 at the rank of Lieutenant.

Her worst moments are the death of Akanga Byaruhanga, the passing of Aronda Nyakairima, and the troubles of her son Herbert Itongwa in the 1990s. Her greatest joy is when Museveni bought her a house in Kawempe. “It’s old and dilapidated now,”she says with a smile, “but it’s mine.” “N’amagulu ganuma, sikyasobola kutambula, netagayo akamotoka akatambuza”.

Today, when Heroes’ Day songs are sung, remember that not all heroes carried guns. Some carried ebikopo byobuji  “cups of millet porridge” through rebel camps. Some would just whisper "Mwana wange, ojja kuba burungi" to shivering fighters.

Joyce Sserwaniko - Maama Herbert, was both a mussawo and a mama to a revolution. Her battle wasn’t for power, but for the pulse beneath the uniform. As Mzee vowed in the bush, so she remains, he holds her in high regard like emunye y’eriiso lye – the pupil of his eye.

She dodged death at roadblocks, buried the mutilated, healed the wounded, and mothered an army, all while carrying her own unbearable losses.

"Bannange, ensi eno teriimu bantu bangi nga Mzee. Nze mutendereza!"

Maama Herbert is a nurse, mother, warrior. Her name deserves to echo through generations.

The writer is Ag. Deputy Director of Defense Public Information, MoDVA/UPDF