Row Development

Global Health Corps fellows at the entrance of Wells Of Hope School in Nakaseke District, Uganda Y ou are not your parents’ mistakes; nothing has ever brought this famous quote to life for me than when we visited a school for children of convicted prisoners. Wells of Hope is a Christian ministry and organization that runs a school in Kyajinja, Semuto in Nakaseke District, in Uganda. It is a 1.5hour drive from Kampala without traffic. The road to Wells of Hope provides the scenic view, one watches through the bus windows (As I did) the landscape start to curve into soft green hills, and lovely shades of brown and green trees flash by. Blue skies with big fluffy clouds reminiscent of giant soft cotton balls float above you in the distance. If you are lucky, like we were and the driver doesn’t play deafening Nigerian tunes, this can really be a wonderful drive. Wells of Hope, as its name infers, is a place of hope. It all started when a young man was falsely convicted

My long time close friend and fellow nurse, Ms. Evelyn Nakachwa at the registration desk in Queen Elizabeth II centre, Westminster It was upon invitation from the Mayor of London. Well, that and also I am a scholar under the Johnson & Johnson (J&J) One Young World (OYW) Program . J&J designed a six month mentorship and coaching program for health workers on the front lines of care. Each scholar is paired with a coach and a buddy team that plays a supervisory role and offers general support for the scholar to grow in their career and multiply our impact. Part of the program involves attendance at the OYW Summit. Now, OYW is in the business of inspiring and igniting fires – fires inside people – to do more, to give more and to lead better. This year, it was held in London, with 2,100 delegates representing 190 countries. Like a moderator on the sports discussion said, “It is the closest I have come to attending the Olympics.” Delegates  wave 190 different flags at th

  I told everyone who cared to ask, or did not that I wanted to become a police woman. I was 10 years old. I went to this small public school called Shimoni—it was originally built for the Indian upper-middle class population in the years leading up to Amin. It was grand in a way, with white and dark blue walls, high ceilings, and cracked floors. It was right in the middle of the capital city, Kampala, in the heart of all of the traffic. Someone clever had decided to place a policewoman right outside on the streets that separated the school gate from the rest of the world. She wore a khaki dress, a black belt at her midriff, and a small twist rope thrown casually over her shoulder. Her job was to authoritatively stop cars and order us to march across in perfectly straight cues, all of which she managed to do with utmost grace. We respected her. We feared her. We obeyed her. Everyone did. And I wanted to be her every single evening of my life, that is, until one day when I had anothe