“Gwe muwala genda ondetereyo omuddo, emyuufu ne ka pistol.”
This statement, loosely translated, means “Hey girl, go buy me omuddo, emyuufu, and a pistol.” In our ghetto slang, omuddo is a curt, emyuufu is chewing gum, and pistol is a bottle of gin—named for how it fits in a pocket or waist like a weapon.
This is the kind of community I was born into.
My name is Nansereko Shanita, born and raised in Bwaise, Kimombasa zone, one of the many ghettos in Kawempe Division that make up Kampala, Uganda’s capital. I am the eldest in a family of seven, and currently in Senior Three. Many people speak of the challenges faced by young girls, but I have lived them first-hand. From the time I was little, I didn’t fully understand what was happening around me—until I turned seven. That’s when I began to grasp what it really meant to live in Kimombasa: looking after my younger siblings, and opening the door for my father in the middle of the night whenever he returned from wherever he had been.
In the beginning, my father valued education. But as our family grew larger, survival took over. I found myself moving from one school to another, often chased away for lack of fees. Somehow, I managed to complete my primary level, and for a moment I felt relieved—telling myself I’d deal with the next stage when I got there.
By 2023, exams were back again. Like any other student, I was excited, but also afraid. At just fifteen, some in my community already saw me as “of age.” Yet in my heart, I was only beginning to chase my dreams. I was terrified of becoming another statistic in our community where so many girls fall victim to teenage pregnancy, drugs, child labour, rape, and prostitution.
The threat nearly became real. In my first year of secondary school, I missed an entire term because I had no fees. That same year, something unexpected happened. At Jamdong, there was an activity that caught my attention: men distributing sanitary pads and scholastic materials. I was shocked—because in our culture, men rarely talk about menstruation, let alone support it.
I listened from the side as they taught about staying positive during periods and the importance of education. At first, I didn’t approach them—my self-esteem was too low. But my friend introduced me, having already told them about my struggles. That was the beginning of my journey with Obuyisi Bw’omu Initiative (OBI).
From then on, OBI has walked with me. They have supported me in many ways, and because of them, my dream of becoming a lawyer is still alive. More importantly, I have regained my confidence. Today, I proudly stand as an advocate for the girl child—teaching my peers about menstrual hygiene and the importance of staying in school.
I was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time. Otherwise, I might have become just another statistic.
