By Geoffrey Asmiwe

They say that as long as you’re alive, prison is a possibility.

That fear followed me from childhood. Stories of homosexual rape, bullying, and Brad Bellick-type guards made Luzira sound like hell.

In December 2015, police and the army combed the city ahead of the 2016 elections. I was arrested and taken to court. I had done nothing wrong, so I pleaded, “Not Guilty” — not knowing that meant remand.

The magistrate quickly wrote:

Two months at Luzira Maximum Prison.

Handcuffs clicked. Dread covered me. I couldn’t imagine being locked away with murderers and rapists for simply walking at night.

Thank God for family. As I was being processed for the short walk from the Luzira courthouse, my name was called.

Phew.

I was released.

That day I learned how vital a support system is — family and close friends. When you’re inside, you are “impotent.” You need people outside.

I remember a kid who had no surety. He was walking home from work because he hadn’t been paid, and he walked straight into a patrol. I can still see the sad face as he was being led into the holding cell.

From that day, I became careful about my nightly movements.

Then I got born again.

That greatly reduced the chances of me ending up in what people call “the University of understanding.”

I never visited, never wished to visit, never desired to see the place.

Until today.

Today I had to go.

To visit a relative.

The journey there was soul-searching.

“What does it mean to be locked away for 5, 10, 20 years?”

“One day you are on the right side of the law, one accusation later and then boom — sentenced for years, for a crime you didn’t commit. Where is God in all this?”

When we arrived at the prison, it wasn’t as bad as I had first imagined.

It’s like thoughts you have of a trauma ward or cancer institute if you have not been there in a long time. In your mind, you expect blood, broken bodies, wails, and despair.

In a maximum prison, you expect cold murderers, tattoos, gang leaders who’d “eat your liver,” and guards who load down on you.

You expect a place where innocent people are locked away for 5, 10, 25 years.

You dread it.

How would I survive without my bed, without my freedom?

But the first thing that struck me was how young the guards were.

How well behaved.

“How are you, Sir?”

How diverse — all tribes, both genders.

How clean the place was.

The inmates looked more relaxed than I expected. Better fed.

The prison felt like a community: homes, shops, bodas, and a well-stocked canteen. SUV visitors, churches, mosques, and NGOs were actively engaged.

The searches were thorough.

“Inmates can spend a year planning an escape,” one guard told me. “So we stay alert.”

I thought of Scofield and Lincoln. I thought that only happened in movies.

My relative was in quarantine, so they arranged a phone call through the welfare office. The welfare team was the most helpful I met.

Visitation day was busy, organized, and human.

As I waited, I heard my dialect.

Western Ugandan.

Inmates, guards, visitors.

One inmate stood out.

Yellow garb, but the confidence of someone used to ordering the room. Two portable desk phones on his desk. Clean-shaven, an expensive watch, leather sandals.

Then I was called to speak to the inmate taking care of my relative.

If he wore white, he’d pass for a nurse.

He told me ‘abazungu’ bring fruits and porridge for the sick.

My fear that patients were given medicine without food was momentarily dispelled.

“What’s your pay?” I asked.

“Sometimes an inmate gives me food from what he’s given. Sometimes a well wisher gives me ‘kasimo’. The office has no budget. But I love my job,” he said.

Meanwhile, the other inmate with his specs, retired on the table, was making calls like a telesales employee.

Among his visitors was an army officer and a humble-looking gentleman I thought might be the author of one of the books in my library.

I made a mental note to check when I got home.

A lady was soon ushered in — clearly there only because of who she knew.

I thought I recognized the phone guy from school. I made eye contact. He looked away.

Maybe he saw me.

Maybe he didn’t.

Before we left, the prison canteen.

It does more business than most supermarkets: Irish potatoes, tomatoes, general merchandise.

Money changes hands fast.

As we walked out, someone called:

“Eh! Mister. You’re here!”

An evangelist friend I hadn’t seen in years.

“It’s my cousin,” he said.

Then he laughed.

“It’s my first time here too.”

In the car, the person I was visiting with asked:

“Did you see that guy in the office? He was on so many calls.”

“I think he’s calling someone to get him out,” one speculated.

We drove home thinking about freedom.

What is freedom?

Is it not the ability to choose where you go, what you eat, who you’re with?

It’s in prison that you see what we take for granted.

Prison equalizes.

It holds the free and the incarcerated.

Is the guard free if he serves the not-free?

The prisoner is in physical chains, while visitor and guard risk chains in the mind.

Isn’t this the story of life?

That we suffer both for our sins and because of the sins of others.

Through a mindset or through physical bars.

My visit to Luzira Maximum Prison opened my eyes to what is on the ground, not just what was in my mind.

So where is God in all this?

He is right there.

In the dust.

In the forgotten.

Offering a freedom no cell can hold — the free gift of God through Jesus Christ.

There is hope, even behind bars.

There is a way out, even out of your mind.

WakeUp!

It’s a wakeup call.