Two years ago, Hon Migereko asked me for a favor. He asked that I install a computer classroom in some schools in his district. After looking at a few of the schools, I decided to focus on St. John’s Wakitaka near Jinja Uganda. The St. John’s installation took us over a year to plan. We had to raise money and ultimately we realized we had to relocate to Uganda to make it happen. In the end we installed 12 new nComputing stations and 18 donated P4 laptops. We networked them together, and tied a nice bow around it thanks to donations from NetSupport, Paraben, N2 and others.
Then we produced a contract and asked the school to sign it, promising that they would care for the equipment in very specific ways or face financial penalties. The goal was to teach them how to care for the investment. St John’s drug their feet on the contract. Four months later, the lab was beginning to slowly deteriorate and it was our responsibility to repair it. St John’s could use and abuse the lab any way they pleased (and they certainly did) because they had no legal responsibility to do otherwise. We were left holding the bag.
We were taxed on the import of the equipment despite the fact that educational equipment is supposed to be tax-free. Hon Migereko offered to help us with the tax issue and assigned us a representative inside the Ministry of Finance. I fulfilled my obligations to him, handed in all the required paperwork, and waited for an exemption letter. The letter never came. My phone calls, emails and SMS messages to the contact were ignored, and my frustration mounted. Our tax bills mounted to over 10,000,000 Uganda Shillings, a ridiculous amount for so small an organization.
On Monday of this week, a shipment of equipment destined for our training center arrived at Entebbe from WhiteWolf Security. The URA tried to charge us 70,000,000UGX (about $35,000) in taxes despite the fact that the equipment was only worth a few thousand dollars.
My thoughts flew to Hon Migereko and his promise and my frustrations mounted.
I texted him out of desperation:
***** Hon Migereko- Johnny Long here. Please sir. This is my last effort. I have followed your instructions and now face 70M in taxes on our latest shipment for educational computers. There is really nothing you can do for me after all this time? Our entire effort in Uganda crumbles because of this very unfair tax situation. *****
I pushed send and waited. I heard nothing back that day. This felt like the final straw. As if the existing tax bill wasn’t enough, I was about to lose the WhiteWolf shipment (which had cost thousands in shipping charges and packing not to mention the purchase of new equipment including an XBOX 360 for the cafe and nComputing gear) and Migereko just didn’t seem to care. All the while, St. John’s was sitting back and enjoying the no-strings-attached fruit of our labor (not to mention our donor’s investment).
I decided to shut down St. John’s and be done with the entire “Migereko situation”. I would either roll in on Friday (the day before we left for the US mind you) and remove all of the gear or I would lock the lab with my own locks until they signed the contract. I preferred to remove the gear despite the fact that we had spent months installing it. I preferred this because it sent the strongest message, and it was the best way to protect the gear in our one-month absence. I had decided that if another school were willing to sign a contract before them I would give them a lab instead.
I started writing a letter to St. John’s. I outlined my stance about the equipment. I explained why the contract was so important to the longevity of the lab. I explained that if they weren’t willing to sign a contract vowing to care for the gear, they didn’t deserve any of it. I decided I also wanted them to know about the pain Migereko was causing us, and I wanted them to know I wasn’t a bad guy but rather a victim of a corrupt government’s retarded method of assisting community work. I typed an entire paragraph about how the equipment would be sold to pay the tax debt that (from my perspective) Hon Migereko’s apathy had created.
In my rage, the letter felt like justice. It felt good to poke the stick back at the guy that was causing us our financial disaster. But for whatever reason, I never gave St. John’s that letter, and I never spoke a word to them about Hon Migereko. Call it conscience or guilt, or fear or whatever you like, but a still, small voice inside warned me otherwise.
Overwhelmed with frustration, I rolled in to St. John’s the next morning and after talking to David, the level-headed computer teacher, I decided to lock down the lab. I told them the locks would be removed when the contract was signed. I never mentioned a word about Hon Migereko.
Hours later, my contact inside the Ministry of Finance called me (at Hon Migreko’s urging) and asked me what the problem was. I told him that I had fulfilled my obligations to him, and his answer summed up what appears to be a festering problem inside most Ugandan Government agencies. He told me that he stopped working because I stopped pushing him. He also told me that he had other things he was working on and that we would have to start the process over again. I realized in that moment that Hon Migereko had very little to do with our tax situation. I desperately wanted to blame someone, but the only thing I could blame Hon Migereko for was placing trust in this guy in the Ministry of Finance.
The fact the the Hon made the phone call made me feel better but still I was intensely frustrated about everything surrounding him. That’s because I hadn’t learned my final lesson about him. That was still coming….
It seemed the shipment was lost. There was no way I could (or would) swing
$35,000 for that gear. I offered up a half-hearted prayer (after all Jesus himself advised us to pay our taxes) and made some phone calls. In the end, our cargo agent Ronnie got the situation sorted, allowing us to clear the shipment for a “mere” 2.5M/- (about $1,250) which was much more than the $0 we should have paid, but at least I didn’t have to be the bearer of bad news to Tim at WhiteWolf.
With the situation at St. John’s peaceably sorted, and the shipment in hand (Thanks in no small part to the AOET driver Godfrey who spent two days straight at Entebbe airport for us) I put some finishing touches on the Training center (so Fred could run it in our absence), and we headed to the airport. I felt at peace, although I have to admit I was had lingering anger and frustration about Migereko. It didn’t seem justified, but it was there thanks to my human condition.
When we reached the airport, we checked in our bags and headed to Immigration. We presented our passports, and the fun began. My entire family’s visa’s had expired in September. We knew they were expiring, bt after four fruitless trips to Jinja’s Immigration office and several trips to Kampala, we decided to seek some help. Our pastor recommended a good lawyer in Kampala who handled his family’s visas, and we tasked him with sorting things out. We filed for a work permit for me (under AOET) and dependent visas for the family. Months later, the lawyer informs us the AOET’s NGO status is expired and that the status must be renewed before we can get a work permit. I specifically asked what that meant for our trip in March and the lawyer told me that it wouldn’t be a problem as long as we were in the process of getting a work permit. Turns out he was wrong.
The Immigration agent had a HUGE chip on her shoulder. She obviously relished her position of power and flexed her bureaucratic muscle at every opportunity. She told us we had to pay the fine. IT would cost $30 per day per person per day that they were expired. Total bill? Just over $25,000. She told us we could pay now or go to Kampala to sort things out. Either way we wold miss our flight. I tried to explain our situation, and was very polite despite the fact that I was forced to talk through a belly-button level slit between rushed travelers. I eyeballed the police guard and weighed my options. I decided that with his Soviet-era Kalishnikopv notwithstanding, I could take him but realized that wasn’t the best solution.
Now eleven PM, with an hour to go before the flight, I called the lawyer, called Sam at AOET, and sent a desperate text to Hon Migereko:
***** I do not know who to call. Immigration has my family captive at airport. Illegal visas?!? Any ideas or contacts? ****
Sam called back first. Concerned, he told me he would make some phone calls. Meanwhile, I kept trying to reason with the agent. She told me I didn’t even have a lawyer because no lawyer would ever lead us to travel with expired visas. That meant we were breaking the law on purpose. Great logic. I texted the lawyer and called the lawyer. No response. That didn’t help my case.
Then Hon. Migereko called back. I was stunned. I explained the situation and he told me he wold call me back. An Immigration supervisor finally arrived, and took me to a booth where I unfolded my story. He had a head of security with him, and they both got hung up on the same thing: the fact that regardless of a lawyer’s involvement we were still responsible for obeying the law. (This despite the obvious fact the we are not experts in law… that’s the lawyer’s job).
At this point, late to the draw as always, I began to pray. This was going to take a miracle. In that moment, I wonder what, exactly, in the hell, I was doing in this country. Every step I took to help resulted in abject frustration. I faced fines and corruption and danger at every turn. Was this really worth it? It was a question I asked myself many times, and I know I’ll ask myself that question many more times.
Hon. Migereko called back and I handed the phone to Jen because I was still trying to get my story through to the supervisor. Jen answered, then gave me the phone.
“He wants to talk to the supervisor,” she said.
I took the phone, and handed it to the supervisor, who was in mid sentence. “Chief Government Whip, The Honorable Migereko,” I said.
The supervisor’s face fell. “I know who he his,” he said, taking the phone.
“Yes, sir, good evening,” he began. “Kali Sabo. Happy New Year to you.”
This was looking promising. Jen handed me her phone. It was a text from Sam. He had the Minister of Internal Affairs on the phone.
This was looking very promising.
The supervisor’s side of the conversation continued. The look on the head of Security’s face told the story. Something had changed.
“I understand that these people are doing valuable work in your constituency. I will not delay them. Thank you sir.”
He hung up the phone and smiled at me. It was the first smile I had seen on this guy’s face. “Next time,” he said, “make sure your paperwork is in order. Follow me.”
We stood and I followed him back to the booth with Chip On Her Shoulder. He sat next to her and nudged her. “If you have any problems getting back into the country, this agent will assist you.” Chip glared at me, obviously confused to hear these words coming from her boss’s mouth. “Give him your phone number,” he said, sliding her a slip of paper. She wrote the number down. “And your name.”
She wrote her name. The look on her face was priceless, but I couldn’t relish the moment. I was still in shock.
What Hon Migereko had done was above and beyond what was required regardless of any “favors” I had done by assisting with St John’s. The thoughts I had thought of him and the frustrations I had leveled at him made me an undeserving benefactor. But in that moment, I saw the Hon as a fellow worker, not as a bureaucrat. I realized that he was doing his best in a busted system, and like me, he was only as effective as the least of those he relied on him.
I was close to making a terrible mistake. I was about to unload my frustration on one of the most powerful men in the country. A man that I misjudged. A man that I now consider a friend.
Relationships are so important here. Perhaps the most important thing. Lesson Learned.
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