Prison is often cast as a place of punishment and despair. But behind the high walls of Luzira Upper Prison, something unexpected is happening: inmates are learning—and teaching—their way to hope.
What started as a quiet attempt to pass time has evolved into an organised education system transforming prisoners into teachers, lawyers, and community leaders in waiting.
One of the women reshaping that narrative is 28-year-old Ajupo Esther, who is serving a 25-year sentence.
Once a Senior Four dropout, Ajupo has since completed Senior Six while incarcerated and now teaches fellow inmates.
Her classroom, fashioned within the confines of prison, is more than just a space for learning—it is her sanctuary.
“Before prison, I was a Senior Four dropout,” Ajupo recalls.
“After my sentencing, I realised I needed something to keep me going, so I chose education. It started as a way to pass time, but it became a purpose.”
For Ajupo, teaching is not just a responsibility—it’s a lifeline. “Teaching gives me strength. Every lesson I give reminds me that I still matter, even in here,” she says with conviction.
Still, the path has not been smooth. Two years into teaching, Ajupo admits she faces ridicule from fellow inmates who question her motivation.
“They say, ‘You’re not getting out soon, why bother?’ But I believe in preparing, whether or not I leave tomorrow or years later.”
Ajupo is part of a growing community of inmate-educators. According to the Uganda Prisons Service, convicts must meet specific criteria to become teachers: a disciplined record, a certain education level, willingness to teach, and some exposure to structured learning.
While some view prison education as a time-filler, for others it is nothing short of salvation. Paul Kakubi JohnBaptist is a striking example.
Sentenced to death in 2008, Kakubi entered Luzira as a disillusioned ex-army political commissar with no future. But inside prison, he found education—and redemption.
“I was a Senior Three dropout. I sat for UACE in 2011, scored 18 points, and then got a chance to study law through the University of London,” he says.
By 2015, he had earned a Diploma in Law. Three years later, he stood before the Court of Appeal to argue his own case—successfully.
“My lawyers were delaying my case. Yet I had everything I needed to argue it. From death row to 20 years, and eventually, I walked free,” he says.
“I faced the judge with facts. I was ready. I fought for myself.”
Now a Legal and Compliance Officer, Kakubi has used his legal skills to help over 522 inmates gain their freedom.
His journey—from condemned inmate to courtroom advocate—shows what is possible when education is given room to flourish behind bars.
The architect of this prison education movement is Anatoli Biryomumaisho, the Assistant Commissioner for Education and Vocational Skills Training at Uganda Prisons Service.
He began the programme with a bold vision: to defeat death row through books, not just appeals.
“We wanted to show that even those society had given up on could transform—through education,” Biryomumaisho says.
“Education turns the impossible into possible. But we’re doing it with limited support.”
While Luzira Upper Prison receives a government grant, the remaining 20 inmate learning centres rely on private donors and former inmates like Kakubi.
The Ministry of Education supports only one prison centre, leaving many inmates struggling to continue learning beyond secondary level.
As of now, the prison system boasts over 3,400 inmates enrolled in primary school, 758 in secondary, and 63 in university programmes.
What began in 1997 in the condemned section has become a network of transformation driven by perseverance and scarce resources.
Yet challenges remain. For teachers like Ajupo, the future is uncertain.
Despite her achievements and dedication, there is no clear path to transition into the professional education system upon release.
“There’s no framework to absorb us,” she says. “Even if I wanted to teach formally, I don’t know if society would let me.”
Still, Ajupo continues to teach, shaping lives with each lesson.
Her students, like her, are learning that no sentence—however long—can silence a mind determined to grow.
Behind bars, they are proving that knowledge can indeed be power—and, sometimes, freedom.