It is not over until it’s over inside Luzira Upper Prison
Apr 13, 2008
I had my fears — I was not sure what to expect. My mind was racing with what- ifs. Whose wouldn’t if they were visiting prison — not just any prison, but Luzira Upper Prison?
By Nigel Nassar
I had my fears — I was not sure what to expect. My mind was racing with what- ifs. Whose wouldn’t if they were visiting prison — not just any prison, but Luzira Upper Prison?
The rules there are too many. I could break one and I am booked into the next empty cell — if there is any. Just for clarification, the Upper Prison is where those with maximum sentences are kept.
Time check: 10:00am. Day: Saturday, March 29. There I was, under the dreadful place.
I feared anything could happen since the inmates were to be released to interact with me.
Specifically, the Richard Arinaitwe dude is the one I was terrified to run my camera lens into. History has it that he was swift at strangling. What if he pounced on me and the sentries could not hear me scream until I was summarised?
That is why the what-ifs were not vanishing, much as I knew I had a team of more than 15 people coming with me.
Power FM had, throughout the Easter season, run a campaign over the radio asking people to donate to the Upper Prison inmates.
Dubbed Easter in Prison, the campaign was a gesture of love for the inmates, whose hope dwindle by the day due to the many years of their sentences, or due to the fear of execution day that is not known.
The Kampala Pentecostal Church-owned radio would then send a team of its employees to deliver the items as the inmates’ Easter presents. And March 29 was the day.
Gates opened to receive the gesture of love, a thing that happens once in a while, under the prison’s open-door policy meant to make the inmates not feel neglected.
And there I was, in one of the cars delivering to the inmates 33 boxes of bathing soap from Unilever, 500 bars of soap from Mukwano, 103 crates of soda from Pepsi, 250kg of rice, four footballs, a bull and two human goodies to add to the list — gospel artistes Martin Sekku and Betty Namaganda.
I was preoccupied by anxiety when the imposing retro building came into view. We had already by-passed the women’s prison and the Murchison Bay, the one that houses petty criminals.
From afar, the building, sitting eminently on the upper end of the prisons’ land, sports an aura of a palace. But as we drew closer, the Upper Prison block wore a grotesque appearance, its whitish walls getting dim.
The closer we drew, the more apprehensive I felt. In my mind, a scene from Frank Daramont’s Shawshank Redemption kept resurfacing — very high walls, an armed sentry at every corner, deafening silence.
A Roman numeral inscription high up on the dim block’s face reads MCMXXVII — could have meant 1927 for all I care (I did not pass my Roman numeral coursework, you know).
Overlooking the block from beyond the prisons’ boundary is a beautiful scenery of an arm of Lake Victoria with an island on it. The inmates, however, never get to see this view as they are kept behind closed doors faraway beyond the imposing front view of this block, which sits the administrators.
After offloading the goodies and music systems, the ancient heavy padlock to the first gate clang open, allowing us into the lobby for thorough frisking in case we had any weapons.
I had always thought it was only at airports that one gets that famous massage-like search. This one went beyond.
I could not take a picture of my teammates being frisked because, according to a standby guard, I had attempted to take one without permission, and that I had lost even the slightest chance of seeking permission.
The mean-looking guard, with a heavy accent from the north, ordered that I had to seek permission before doing anything. “Yes, sir,†I replied. “Excuse me sir, may I go to the toilet?â€
I got one hell of a mean, pricking stare in the face, a jeer, plus bad breath to add.
And I knew better than to ask again— at least not when I was going to the loo. Guy looked at me like I was a descendant of the Mafioso Vito Corleone.
Anyway, the frisking was done. Everything in my pockets, including money, had to be left at the tired reception for security purposes. We had a thorough debrief from the officer-in- charge of the Upper Prison, Robert Munanura.
“Fall for the inmates’ pleas, take them out to the media and you will be charged with trafficking,†he warned.
The second and third gates opened to a host of about 500 inmates, clad in yellow shorts and free-sized T-shirts.
Then there was a small group of 13, dressed in white suits, akin to those the CHOGM traffic Police wore during the summit.
Ironically, these angle-looking inmates were some of the over 300 condemned ones. An official said the 13 were the calm ones chosen to represent the rest, and that some were too hostile to interact with others, the reason solitary confinement can never be ruled out in any prison.
Altogether, they were gathered in the prison quadrangle that doubles as a football pitch.
At a glance, they all looked healthy — clean uniforms, carefully combed and shaven heads. Some looked harmless, or maybe repentant.
At a second glance, you could see some who seemed like they had spent some weeks without showering and had outdone themselves to look good this day, only to be betrayed by revealing dirt forming a scaly outlook.
Some just stared blankly; I could not make heads or tails of them. A few looked like someone had stolen their lunch share.
I saw Johnson Kamya Wavamunno, also condemned, and now a born-again.
On the whole, most of them looked happy. The revelation that each would get soap, a soda and also eat some rice and beef made them even happier.
Munanura then introduced the artistes and MC Pablo, a Theatre Factory comedian who charmed them with comics before Namaganda went on stage. Together with Sekku, the artistes thrilled the inmates with a number of gospel songs to which they sang and danced.
As they continued asking for more, my lens strayed, sure to pix a big-shot — probably James Kazini, Arinaitwe or even former Toro Kingdom Prime Minister John Katuramu.
Then, instead of any of the above, it ensnared death row convict Chris Rwakasisi, a former internal affairs minister in the Obote II regime.
Interestingly, the man, who has spent more than 20 years in the condemned section over kidnap with intent to murder, looks calm. When Pastor Chris Komagum got onto the stage to pray and preach hope to the inmates, Rwakasisi drew closer to listen.
At some point, he clapped and responded “Amenâ€. I was later to find out that he recently gave his life to Christ.
A golden cross sewn to the left-hand-side collar of his suit shimmered to light.
He sported a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, white sneakers and socks, a golden watch and finger ring, plus a Parker pen and a 2008 diary placed in his left-hand-side pocket.
With an aura of an important personality, the power he used to wield during his time was still evident. Some inmates in yellow kept filing to meet him. Since he is always locked away in the condemned section, rarely does an inmate from another section get to see him.
Lunch was approaching and the show had to be cut short. Even the prisoners’ in-house cultural dancers, who had prepared to entertain us, did not.
At about 1:30pm, we had to leave. But while still within their premises, it is not over until it is over. Our pictures had to be edited. The guards took our cameras and deleted every picture where Rwakasisi appeared.
And I felt like some brick-maker in Bwaise who had spent six months laying his bricks for a living, only to wake up two weeks ago and the bricks were a heap of soil in the floods.
I had my fears — I was not sure what to expect. My mind was racing with what- ifs. Whose wouldn’t if they were visiting prison — not just any prison, but Luzira Upper Prison?
The rules there are too many. I could break one and I am booked into the next empty cell — if there is any. Just for clarification, the Upper Prison is where those with maximum sentences are kept.
Time check: 10:00am. Day: Saturday, March 29. There I was, under the dreadful place.
I feared anything could happen since the inmates were to be released to interact with me.
Specifically, the Richard Arinaitwe dude is the one I was terrified to run my camera lens into. History has it that he was swift at strangling. What if he pounced on me and the sentries could not hear me scream until I was summarised?
That is why the what-ifs were not vanishing, much as I knew I had a team of more than 15 people coming with me.
Power FM had, throughout the Easter season, run a campaign over the radio asking people to donate to the Upper Prison inmates.
Dubbed Easter in Prison, the campaign was a gesture of love for the inmates, whose hope dwindle by the day due to the many years of their sentences, or due to the fear of execution day that is not known.
The Kampala Pentecostal Church-owned radio would then send a team of its employees to deliver the items as the inmates’ Easter presents. And March 29 was the day.
Gates opened to receive the gesture of love, a thing that happens once in a while, under the prison’s open-door policy meant to make the inmates not feel neglected.
And there I was, in one of the cars delivering to the inmates 33 boxes of bathing soap from Unilever, 500 bars of soap from Mukwano, 103 crates of soda from Pepsi, 250kg of rice, four footballs, a bull and two human goodies to add to the list — gospel artistes Martin Sekku and Betty Namaganda.
I was preoccupied by anxiety when the imposing retro building came into view. We had already by-passed the women’s prison and the Murchison Bay, the one that houses petty criminals.
From afar, the building, sitting eminently on the upper end of the prisons’ land, sports an aura of a palace. But as we drew closer, the Upper Prison block wore a grotesque appearance, its whitish walls getting dim.
The closer we drew, the more apprehensive I felt. In my mind, a scene from Frank Daramont’s Shawshank Redemption kept resurfacing — very high walls, an armed sentry at every corner, deafening silence.
A Roman numeral inscription high up on the dim block’s face reads MCMXXVII — could have meant 1927 for all I care (I did not pass my Roman numeral coursework, you know).
Overlooking the block from beyond the prisons’ boundary is a beautiful scenery of an arm of Lake Victoria with an island on it. The inmates, however, never get to see this view as they are kept behind closed doors faraway beyond the imposing front view of this block, which sits the administrators.
After offloading the goodies and music systems, the ancient heavy padlock to the first gate clang open, allowing us into the lobby for thorough frisking in case we had any weapons.
I had always thought it was only at airports that one gets that famous massage-like search. This one went beyond.
I could not take a picture of my teammates being frisked because, according to a standby guard, I had attempted to take one without permission, and that I had lost even the slightest chance of seeking permission.
The mean-looking guard, with a heavy accent from the north, ordered that I had to seek permission before doing anything. “Yes, sir,†I replied. “Excuse me sir, may I go to the toilet?â€
I got one hell of a mean, pricking stare in the face, a jeer, plus bad breath to add.
And I knew better than to ask again— at least not when I was going to the loo. Guy looked at me like I was a descendant of the Mafioso Vito Corleone.
Anyway, the frisking was done. Everything in my pockets, including money, had to be left at the tired reception for security purposes. We had a thorough debrief from the officer-in- charge of the Upper Prison, Robert Munanura.
“Fall for the inmates’ pleas, take them out to the media and you will be charged with trafficking,†he warned.
The second and third gates opened to a host of about 500 inmates, clad in yellow shorts and free-sized T-shirts.
Then there was a small group of 13, dressed in white suits, akin to those the CHOGM traffic Police wore during the summit.
Ironically, these angle-looking inmates were some of the over 300 condemned ones. An official said the 13 were the calm ones chosen to represent the rest, and that some were too hostile to interact with others, the reason solitary confinement can never be ruled out in any prison.
Altogether, they were gathered in the prison quadrangle that doubles as a football pitch.
At a glance, they all looked healthy — clean uniforms, carefully combed and shaven heads. Some looked harmless, or maybe repentant.
At a second glance, you could see some who seemed like they had spent some weeks without showering and had outdone themselves to look good this day, only to be betrayed by revealing dirt forming a scaly outlook.
Some just stared blankly; I could not make heads or tails of them. A few looked like someone had stolen their lunch share.
I saw Johnson Kamya Wavamunno, also condemned, and now a born-again.
On the whole, most of them looked happy. The revelation that each would get soap, a soda and also eat some rice and beef made them even happier.
Munanura then introduced the artistes and MC Pablo, a Theatre Factory comedian who charmed them with comics before Namaganda went on stage. Together with Sekku, the artistes thrilled the inmates with a number of gospel songs to which they sang and danced.
As they continued asking for more, my lens strayed, sure to pix a big-shot — probably James Kazini, Arinaitwe or even former Toro Kingdom Prime Minister John Katuramu.
Then, instead of any of the above, it ensnared death row convict Chris Rwakasisi, a former internal affairs minister in the Obote II regime.
Interestingly, the man, who has spent more than 20 years in the condemned section over kidnap with intent to murder, looks calm. When Pastor Chris Komagum got onto the stage to pray and preach hope to the inmates, Rwakasisi drew closer to listen.
At some point, he clapped and responded “Amenâ€. I was later to find out that he recently gave his life to Christ.
A golden cross sewn to the left-hand-side collar of his suit shimmered to light.
He sported a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, white sneakers and socks, a golden watch and finger ring, plus a Parker pen and a 2008 diary placed in his left-hand-side pocket.
With an aura of an important personality, the power he used to wield during his time was still evident. Some inmates in yellow kept filing to meet him. Since he is always locked away in the condemned section, rarely does an inmate from another section get to see him.
Lunch was approaching and the show had to be cut short. Even the prisoners’ in-house cultural dancers, who had prepared to entertain us, did not.
At about 1:30pm, we had to leave. But while still within their premises, it is not over until it is over. Our pictures had to be edited. The guards took our cameras and deleted every picture where Rwakasisi appeared.
And I felt like some brick-maker in Bwaise who had spent six months laying his bricks for a living, only to wake up two weeks ago and the bricks were a heap of soil in the floods.