Jimmy  Darts

SB Mowing

Pattie Gonia

Little Miss Flint

Kalina Silverman / @makebigtalk on Instagram

Samuel Weidenhofer

Patriotic Kenny Foundation

Ben Saunders - Flawless Cleaning

The Dogist

Peter Bond

Amy Jandrisevits

Ask Uncle Jack

That Good News Girl

Tess Bohne

FowlMouthFarmer

Latonja and Taylor Richardson

Officer Richard Craig

Flavor Flav

John Wolfe

Khloe

Traver Junior

<div><br />

</div>

<div>My Name is Ssemuwemba Hamidu and this is my story of  the Carrying three Souls

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>The nights in Kampala have a way of pressing down on you. The air feels heavier, the silence sharper, and even the city lights from the distant hills cannot chase away the loneliness that creeps into my small one-room house near Wandegeya, a short walk from Makerere University. Books are scattered across the floor—law textbooks, case notes, and legal dictionaries—but my heart is too tired to read. My body is drained from hunger, my mind tangled in endless questions.

</div>

<div>At nineteen, I should be celebrating the gift of youth, the promise of education, and the thrill of dreaming. Instead, I carry the burden of being the firstborn in an orphaned family of four. Every day, my siblings’ faces flash in my mind: their laughter when I bring home a loaf of bread, their tears when there is nothing for supper, their eyes—eyes that ask me silently: “What next, brother?”

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>My siblings do not know that tonight I considered giving up. I thought about proclaiming a dead year, pressing pause on my law journey at Makerere University. With no tuition, no stable income, and no one to lean on, it feels like the only way. But the thought of stepping away breaks me in another way. For this degree is not just mine. It is the rope we all cling to—the rope that could pull my siblings out of poverty, hunger, and despair.

</div>

<div>And when the night is darkest, my mind goes back to one man: Kivumbi Norman. My sponsor. My mentor. My father in every way but blood. He was the light that once shone so brightly in our lives, the man who promised to carry me through this very journey. Because of him, I set foot in the School of Law at Makerere University. Because of him, I believed my dream was valid. But politics in Uganda, sharp and unforgiving, cut his life short.

</div>

<div>Now, he is gone. And I am here, left with nothing but memories, responsibility, and hope too fragile to hold.

</div>

<div>This is not just my story. It is the story of four children who lost everything but refused to stop dreaming. It is the story of sacrifice, of struggle, of the silent battle of a law student who fights not just for his future, but for the very survival of his siblings.I was born in Nakaseke District, in a small village where life was simple and harsh in equal measure. Our home was a two-room mud house with a leaking roof and cracked walls that whispered of poverty to anyone who passed by. My father died when I was still young, leaving my mother to shoulder the weight of raising us. But she too, fragile from years of sickness and the unrelenting hardships of village life, left this world not long after.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>By the time I was sixteen, I was already a father in my siblings’ eyes. The firstborn. The one who had to step into shoes far too large for a boy my age. Nights of hunger were common. Days of uncertainty, even more so.

</div>

<div>School was both a blessing and a curse. I loved to learn. Books opened a world beyond our village, a world where justice was possible, where truth mattered, where people could be protected by the law. I wanted to be a lawyer—not because it sounded noble, but because I had seen injustice firsthand. I saw widows stripped of their land by greedy relatives. I saw children like me thrown out of school because of unpaid fees. I saw suffering, and I swore to myself that if I ever had the chance, I would be the one to stand in the gap.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>But dreams do not feed families, nor do they pay school fees. Many times I was chased away from class because we could not afford the small amounts required. I would sit outside the classroom, listening to the lesson through the windows, writing notes in secret. My siblings looked at me with hope, but I often felt like a fraud. How could I promise them a better life when I could barely hold mine together?

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>It was in these moments of despair that God sent us Kivumbi Norman.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I still remember the day he came. The sun was setting, painting the village sky orange and red. A man walked into our compound, carrying nothing but a notebook and a gentle smile. He had heard of me, he said—of a boy who excelled in class despite poverty, of siblings who had no one else to lean on. He sat with us, asked questions, and listened. Truly listened.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>“What do you want to be, my son?” he finally asked.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I looked down at the ground, afraid my dream was too big to speak aloud. But something in his eyes gave me courage.

</div>

<div>“A lawyer,” I whispered.

</div>

<div>“Why a lawyer?”

</div>

<div>“Because my people suffer. Because no one stands for them. Because I want to fight for justice.”

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>He studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. His voice was steady, filled with conviction.

</div>

<div>“Then you will be a lawyer. And I will walk with you until you are.”

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>That night, I cried silently on my mat. For the first time, someone had seen me. Someone believed.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Norman became more than a sponsor. He became a father, a mentor, and a guide. He paid my school fees, bought me books, and even supported my siblings with food and their own education. When I was admitted to Makerere University School of Law, it was not just my victory—it was his too. He celebrated louder than anyone else, clapping me on the back and saying:

</div>

<div>“You see? Dreams are valid. But remember, this degree is not just for you. It is for them too—for your siblings, for your community, for those who will one day look to you.”

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Walking through the gates of Makerere for the first time felt like stepping into destiny. The grand buildings, the buzzing conversations of students, the endless discussions about justice and politics—all of it felt like home. I carried my admission letter like a crown, whispering in my heart: Mama, Papa, I made it.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>And through it all, Norman was there. He reminded me never to forget where I came from. He reminded me that my siblings were waiting. He reminded me that one day, justice would not just be a dream—it would be my profession.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>But alongside his support, I also saw the other side of him—the activist, the political voice that refused to be silenced. He attended rallies, wrote powerful statements, and spoke boldly about the future of Uganda. His words inspired many, but they also drew the ire of those in power.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Sometimes I asked him, “Uncle Norman, aren’t you afraid?”

</div>

<div>He would smile, shake his head, and reply: “Courage, my son, is the price we pay for freedom. If fear stops us, who will fight for tomorrow?”

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I admired him deeply. But I also feared for him.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>And then, one day, my fears became reality.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Life changed the day Norman died.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>The news came like a storm. One moment I was in the library at Makerere, buried in case law; the next, my phone buzzed with messages that made no sense. “Sorry about Norman.” “Have you heard?” “Be strong.”

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I rushed out, my hands trembling as I dialed numbers, desperate for confirmation. The truth hit me like a blow to the chest: Norman had been killed because of his political involvement. The man who had become my father, my guide, my light, was gone.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I do not remember how I got back to my room that night. I only remember the tears—endless, unstoppable tears. My siblings called, asking questions I had no answers for. “Where is Uncle Norman? Will he still pay our fees? Who will help us now?” Their voices broke me. I was the eldest, but I felt like a child lost in the dark.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Suddenly, everything that had once been secure crumbled. Tuition was no longer certain. Rent, food, and my siblings’ education—all of it hung in the air like a sword ready to fall. And through it all, people looked at me, expecting answers. After all, I was the firstborn. The man of the house. The one who had to carry four souls.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>At night, I lay awake on my thin mattress, staring at the ceiling. Should I proclaim a dead year? Should I pause my law studies and focus on working odd jobs to keep my siblings alive? The thought tormented me. Every path seemed wrong. If I paused school, I might never return. If I continued, my siblings might starve.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I tried to hold on to Norman’s words: “This degree is not just for you. It is for them.” But my faith wavered. I felt too young, too weak, too broken.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Every time I thought of giving up, I remembered my siblings. My brother, who dreams of being a doctor. My sister, who wants to be a teacher. Their faces reminded me that if I let go, we all fall.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>And so, I pushed on. But it was never the same.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>---

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>The weeks after Norman’s death were the hardest days of my life. I would sit in class, but my mind would drift away. Instead of focusing on constitutional law or jurisprudence, I thought of my siblings at home—whether they had eaten, whether they were still in school, whether they were crying in the night.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>My tuition balance was overdue. The university system sent reminders—cold, automated emails threatening that I would not be allowed to sit exams unless fees were cleared. Each reminder pierced my heart like a knife.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I started entertaining the thought of a dead year. The logic seemed cruel but simple: if I paused school, I could focus on working odd jobs, earn some money, and return later when things were stable. I would help my siblings survive first, then come back for my degree.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>But the more I thought of it, the more it broke me. How could I betray Norman’s dream? How could I abandon my siblings’ hopes for the little security that a dead year might provide?

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>At night, I knelt on the cold floor and prayed, tears streaming down my face.

</div>

<div>“God, give me strength. I don’t know what to do. I am too young for this burden, but please, don’t let me fail them.”

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>The thought of giving up hurt more than hunger. And so, even when I had nothing, I chose to keep attending lectures. I chose to hold on to hope, thin and fragile as it was.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>---

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>To survive, I had to find work. Kampala is not kind to the poor, but I refused to give up. I walked the streets, searching for anything—jobs in restaurants, cleaning, loading trucks, carrying goods at markets. Eventually, I found a small opportunity working for a shopkeeper, arranging items and helping customers.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>The pay was meagre: less than five dollars a day. Sometimes it was even less, depending on sales. But to me, it was a lifeline. With that money, I could at least send something small back home—a little food for my siblings, maybe cover part of their fees, or buy them exercise books.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Every day, I would wake up early, rush to lectures at Makerere, then hurry to the shop to work until late. I returned to my small room exhausted, too tired to read, too tired to think. Hunger gnawed at me, but I pushed through, because my siblings’ calls reminded me why I fought.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>“Brother, we don’t have sugar.”

</div>

<div>“Brother, they sent us home again for fees.”

</div>

<div>“Brother, when are you coming?”

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Each call broke my heart but also kept me going. I could not let them down. If it meant working for five dollars a day, sleeping hungry, and studying with dim candlelight, then so be it.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I sometimes skipped meals so that I could send a little extra to them. Their happiness was my strength. When they said, “Thank you, brother, we ate today,” it gave me courage to wake up the next morning and keep fighting.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Being the firstborn in an orphaned family is both an honor and a curse. People look at you as the leader, the provider, the hope. But inside, you are just a child, broken, confused, and afraid.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Everywhere I turned, people reminded me of my responsibility. “You’re the eldest. You must take care of them.” “Don’t forget your siblings.” Their words echoed in my mind even without being spoken. I carried the weight of four souls, and it felt heavier with each passing day.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>There were times I sat in lecture halls, surrounded by students from wealthy families. They talked about vacations, new phones, plans for the weekend. I sat quietly, hiding the truth—that my siblings were hungry back home, that my rent was unpaid, that I didn’t know how I would pay for the next semester.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Sometimes, I envied them. Sometimes, I even hated myself for envying them. But then I reminded myself: my struggle is not in vain. My pain has purpose.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Walking through Makerere’s grand campus, I told myself: One day, I will succeed. One day, my siblings will walk here too, not as beggars of education, but as proud students. One day, this burden will turn into a blessing.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>---

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>For many people, a university course is just a path to a job. But for me, the Bachelor of Laws is life itself. It is not just a degree; it is a weapon against injustice, a shield for the vulnerable, a voice for the voiceless.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I remember growing up and watching widows lose their land because they had no lawyer to stand by them. I saw orphans cheated of their inheritance, children thrown out of school for lack of small fees. Injustice was not just a word—it was our daily reality. That is why I chose law. That is why Norman believed in me.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Every lecture at Makerere reminds me of this mission. Whether we discuss constitutional law, criminal justice, or human rights, I know these lessons are not just academic—they are seeds I will plant in the future to defend my people.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>When I wear the lawyer’s gown one day, it will not just be for me. It will be for my siblings who sacrificed their childhood for my education. It will be for Norman, who believed in me until his last breath. It will be for every child in Uganda who dreams but is told they cannot.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>And so, even when hunger strikes, when fees threaten to end my journey, I remind myself: this course means the world. It is the bridge between despair and hope—not just for me, but for everyone who depends on me.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>---

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>But even with all my strength, I cannot deny the truth: I cannot do this alone. The burden is too heavy. The pain is too much. The future, too uncertain.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>That is why I decided to run to the world for help. Not because I am weak, but because I am carrying lives beyond mine. My siblings depend on me for food, school, and survival. My community depends on me to rise and fight for justice. And Norman’s legacy depends on me to carry it forward.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>It took courage to write these words, to confess my struggles to strangers. I feared judgment. I feared rejection. But hunger teaches humility. Desperation teaches courage. And love for my siblings teaches sacrifice.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>If the world can hear me, if someone out there can extend a hand, I promise it will not be in vain. Every coin, every act of kindness, will not just educate me—it will educate a generation.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>---

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>In my quiet moments, I make promises to myself:

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>That my siblings will never drop out of school because of fees.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>That I will fight until they too stand on their own feet.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>That one day, when I am established, I will sponsor another child the way Norman sponsored me.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>These promises keep me alive. They remind me that pain is temporary but purpose is eternal.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>One day, my siblings will look back and say, “Our brother fought for us.” One day, another orphan will say, “He gave me a chance, just like he was given.” That is the seed of tomorrow I cling to.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>And so, I end this story not with despair, but with gratitude.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I thank the GoFundMe team and the Google site for giving me this opportunity to kneel before the world and share my story. Without this platform, my cries would remain unheard, my struggles unseen, my siblings forgotten.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>To anyone who hears this and chooses to help: know that you are not just helping a law student. You are feeding hungry children. You are educating orphans. You are keeping Norman’s dream alive.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>I may be confused today. I may be hungry tonight. But I believe in tomorrow. I believe the world still has kind hearts. And one day, I will stand tall—not just as a lawyer, but as a man who carried his family, who fought for justice, and who gave back to the world that lifted him.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div>Thank you. Thank you for listening, for caring, for standing with me.

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

<div><br />

</div>

Carrying three souls

Education

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Traver Junior

Traver Junior

What they care about

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Carrying three souls

About me