The Alma Mater

In a magic place, no not under the sea,
An adventure is set, no, not a cup of tea.

The faint of heart, no, not in this place any to see,
A herculean task, no, not a spending spree.

Fools rush, no not angels, they flee,
What rhymes with cell, no not a heaven more of a malee,

For the humble plant, no, not the mahogany tree,
The modus operandi of the lexis, no not it's 123.

For the deligent lawyer, no, not  tardy success shall precede,
We are The Centre, no, not a darecare centre, we do not teach ABC!

                                                      -The Centre.

At a glance

In a place where the rain does not fall, where the Government holds little sway, where the concept of God is inexplicable. . . not a lawless place but one with a law of its own; is great suffering. In this place, the currency is not money but blood and bullets. That place is Karamoja.
The Centre is differentiated from Karamoja in a couple of respects. The currency here is hopes, youth and one's humanity.
And at the Centre, the sky weeps along with you. For she has paid witness to the horror before and can only render her tears in pity.

The Centre champions the ‘divide and conquer' strategy. Victims are thrown into work camps known as firms. The grouping is said to be random but the god of chance would plead innocence in regard to this penance.
It's a sleight of hand. Played to break the human spirit and plague the mind. For these firms are uncharacteristic. No one firm can be said to have the prettiest females nor the most debonair of brutes.
And yet there is melancholy to this grouping. Each camp is tied by a contract of blood, in legal terms a partnership deed, granting trust to other twenty something strangers who become your partners. The sense of a pending knife in one's back is the only clear cut emotion universally felt.

In these work camps, there are drill sergeants known as PA's. . . no, not that kind. These are professional advisors. Much has been said about these people. The last advocators of the draconian system. The most loyal of all the vampires. The ones that seek out the prodigy vampires and train them. Key pieces on the board of despair and used in that regard.

A strict eye is kept on the camp dwellers through roll calls entrusted upon the snitch in the firm that is your firm leader/managing partner. Technically whips and floggings are illegal so they can't happen, not physically anyway. These gargoyles known as PAs are abreast with diction that would make Mourinho doubt himself. The kind of people that have chats with opposition members to have them switch back to yellow related fashions, Mahogany or not.

To the casual observer, there is order. But the victims are well in the know of the chaos that reigns. Perpetuated through what they refer to as timetables. Also referred to, in  hushed whispers, as torture schedules(TS). Made “serendipitous" by their unreliability. A new TS for each LC each week. Surprise is half the fun, they said.
These TS's, to pick on a random analogy, are that scream a prisoner hears as they await their turn in the interrogation chamber. By your TS you can tell that you have a  torture session between 2-4pm, carried out by PA. . . And it's inevitability is that scream. It has to happen.

Why put up with it all? Because we agreed to. The shackles with which we are bound are the rules and regulations. The mirror document of Abraham Lincoln's declaration against slavery. So tight are the rules that a Boa constrictor would be envious. Nooses have been knotted looser! And speaking of nooses. . .ties. The gentlemen have to wear suits, definitely not of the Adam variety. With that, a tie. Or a little noose. And should it escalate to a point where a female might have use for said noose, it helps that most firms have a lot more male partners. Chivalry is a quality of all gentlemen at the Centre.

My favour, the odds. . . forever be.

The Odds

In any hopeless cause, there is always the illusion of hope. The promise of a likely better future. If only you try hard enough. If you just work at it. Keep banging your head against the wall and it shall be yours.(Off the record) These are often mere concoctions of the mind. A defense to the futility of one’s efforts. This tirade of course is in one way or the other related to The Centre.

I blame it on our parents you know. High expectations placed on our young shoulders . . . become a lawyer . . . become an advocate . . . solve world hunger . . .  convince Mzee (an affectionate way to refer to the Ugandan Supreme leader) to retire . . .  pass the LDC Pre-entry examination. The impracticability of their expectations borders ridiculous, nay is ludicrous.

The said Pre-Entry Examination is the vacuum with which The Centre sucks out all hope and joy. An insatiable alter upon which the lawyers dump their dreams and self-worth. When used in a conversation, this is how it goes

Self-respecting person: So. . . I heard that you sat for the Pre-entry exam. How . . . (sniggering) was it?

Lawyer: Well, to put it mildly  . . . (strolls into oncoming traffic)

I lie. The stroll only occurs after the results arrive. Good or bad, the results inspire this reaction in one and all. Except those that have come to their senses and have opted out of the whole charade . . . regained their senses . . . fought and won against the slave trade that is The Centre.

To be fair, what amounts to good news from Pre-entry has yet to be appropriately coined. Those that gain wisdom while waiting for the results (not to be confused with those that commit suicide while waiting-King Solomon has nothing on them) often surmise that failing the exam is the good news.

Alas there are the fools that rush to get their admission forms. These bring to life Einstein’s words “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.” They cannot be blamed for their folly. After all, hope is the last of flames to be extinguished. Long after logic and reality have retired bowed out.

But even I cannot flaw their reasoning. Or should I say my reasoning. I am propounding a theory. The Centre remains today; aside from the callousness of advocates and their desire to see suffering done onto others; because it churns out advocates on a yearly basis. Converts I would say. People that have found an out. Those that have paid the ultimate price and sold their souls.

Hollywood has made light of these poor souls but the vampires and zombies that do leave The Centre return to the world seeking more sacrifices for their Master. My theory thus is that the odds aren’t completely hopeless. It’s just not the kind of hope perceived. Can a stalemate be achieved? Do the vampires and zombies ever become human again? Will Mzee retire? What is the meaning of life? Probably the last is the simplest to answer.

It all comes down to the odds. 

May they forever be in my favour.

The Centre

Legend tells of a not so mythical place in the bowels of a dusty, one bit, no horse town called Kampala, of a place so treacherous, so vile and degrading it sucks the joy out of anyone that goes there. Much like procrastination, this place is a thief of time, nay, a murderer of it. The learned have daubed it "The Centre" and speak of it in hushed tones. Those that do not know of its true nature refer to it simply as the Law Development Centre.

Established in the early seventies, it remains the last visage of torture enacted by the late President for Life, Field Marshal Alhaji Dr. Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, CBE. It fronts itself as a respectable institution to which lawyers go to study for and sit the bar exam before becoming fully fledged advocates of the High Court and subordinate courts there under.

It's true purpose is however far more sinister. Some would have you believe that any collection of lawyers is a bad sign. And this place takes a lump-some every year and purports to churn out advocates on the other end. The oness that make it out are usually scared for life. Not quite PTSD but close enough. And then there are the victims. Piles upon piles of failed lawyers, now unable to fend for themselves because the Centre did not deem them worthy.

Ample warning is often given to the martyrs before they offer themselves to the beast as fodder, usually by way of a Pre-Entry examination. It is a four hour long paper for which 50% is guaranteed to grant you access to your doom should you be foolhardy enough to sit it. The grueling exercise is only made worse by the wait for results which are usually received with mixed awe. 3/4's of the applicants are spared this fate. 

I was not. And thus begins the path of enlightenment. I shall chronicle my adventure through this torturous land for the next year. In dismal hope of bringing enlightenment to those that still wish to tread where Angels fear to go. The very concept of God is lost in this place. The rewards are of course substantial but the path is wrought with tears and betrayal. All the makings of a good telenovela.

I volunteer as tribute. And may the odds be forever in my favour.