The Goans of Lira: A Forgotten Chapter in The History of Lango

 

A foundation stone at the ruins of the Goan Quarters in Lira

There’s a triangular piece of land in Lira town, near St. Kizito Primary School, that gives me goosebumps every time I pass by. It’s bordered by Lira-Gulu Road, Teso-Bar Road, and the road leading from the police roundabout back to St. Kizito. Tall mvule trees dominate the triangle, and their branches are home to thousands of noisy bats. There is a Pentecostal church there too.

Though I’m not afraid of bats, the place always feels eerie, especially when the bats take flight, shrieking and flapping their wings as they move from tree to tree starting fights with each others.

This triangle holds two memories that make it even more unsettling for me. The first dates back to my school days in the 1980s, when I attended Ambalal Primary School. Every day, I would walk past this very spot, often lost in my thoughts as I hurried to school. There was a kite bird that nested in those mvule trees, and it would torment me every morning, swooping down to scratch my head with its talons. I never understood why the bird seemed to have it in for me. Perhaps it was a result of my childhood habit of hunting birds during the school holidays, and maybe we had crossed paths once.

I still remember the sharp pain of the bird’s talons tearing into my scalp and the rush of air as it flapped away. It was a ritual. Every day, like clockwork, the kite would dive down to attack me. After a while, I began carrying a stick and keeping an eye out for it, but it always seemed to know when I was ready. On those days, it would just circle in the sky, only attacking when I least expected it. I sometimes wonder if the kite’s descendants are still there, waiting for me, aiming for my eyes instead of my head. Ouch!

The second memory is tied to the tragic violence of the mid-1980s, during the peak of Alice Lakwena’s Holy Spirit Movement (HSM) insurgency. The triangle, as well as the surrounding area, became a battleground between HSM forces and government troops. The fighting was intense, with bodies strewn across the area, sometimes left for days, rotting under the hot Ugandan sun. The smell of death would hang heavy in the air. I never joined the crowds who went to look at the aftermath, but on the few occasions I did, I saw the bodies, and the image of those corpses, scattered all over the triangle, has stayed with me.

Even now, when I pass that spot, I can’t shake the feeling that the bones of those who died in those battles are still buried beneath the overgrown grass. The area’s unusually lush and green grass makes me wonder if something is hidden beneath, something that remains from those horrific days.

A few months ago, I was walking past that very triangle with my late friend, Mr. Gard Okello, a man who had seen much of Lira’s history. Gard had passed away not long ago, but in his time, he was a wealth of knowledge about the town’s past. He startled me by suggesting, “Let’s walk through this triangle.” I looked at him, surprised, giving him that “over my dead body” look. The bats, the eerie green grass, and the memories of the deaths from the war made the idea unappealing. But Gard, who had always been the more adventurous of us, was already a few meters into the triangle before I could even protest.

Reluctantly, I followed. As we neared the far end, I noticed something that stopped me in my tracks—a crumbled ruin that looked like the foundation of an old outhouse. The green grass had overtaken most of it, but I could still make out the shape and structure of what had once stood there. As I looked closer, a concrete plaque caught my eye, bearing the year 1929.

I pointed it out to Gard. “1929? Looks like some colonial-era building stood here,” I said, curious about the history behind it. Gard, who had lived in Lira all his life, responded, “The whole area up to Lira Hospital used to be the quarters for the Goans who worked for the British colonial government.”

Gard’s father had owned a restaurant in Lira during colonial times, so when he spoke about the town’s history, I knew to listen. He went on to explain that many of the Goans who settled in Uganda worked as civil servants in the British administration, especially in the districts. In Lira, they lived in government quarters along Teso-Bar Road—now home to landmarks like the Hindu worship center and “The Grill” restaurant.

The Goans who settled in Uganda were highly respected for their work ethic, integrity, and trustworthiness. Many worked in the colonial government as accountants, clerks, and customs officers. They played a significant role in shaping Uganda’s early civil service, which was known for its professionalism and efficiency. Under the British system, people were classified by ethnicity, with Europeans at the top, followed by Goans, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, and Africans. Goans, though fewer in number, held key positions just below Europeans in the colonial government.

Apart from their work in administration, the Goans also contributed to business and education in Uganda. One of their most lasting contributions is the traditional Ugandan dress, the gomasi, which was designed by a Goan tailor named Gomes. The gomasi, originally modified for a school uniform at Gayaza Junior School, became a symbol of modesty and dignity in Ugandan fashion.

Today, much of the Goan influence has faded, especially after the expulsion of Asians from Uganda in the 1970s. Yet, their legacy remains in the civil service culture they established and in the lasting mark they left on Ugandan society, particularly in Lira.

As I walked through that triangle with Gard, I couldn’t help but reflect on the layers of history beneath my feet—the memories of war, the contributions of the Goans, and the personal experiences that make this place so significant to me. Though my friend Gard is no longer with us, his insights into the history of Lira and the Goans will always stay with me.