My app makes a Shs10m education much cheaper

Alvin Buye, computer scientist, a teacher and an education tech problem-solver. ILLUSTRATION/CHRIS OGON
What you need to know:
- Over a few cups of iced coffee and espresso, Deogratius Wamala and Alvin Buye talk about TutorHail, an education assistant startup the latter started.
I’m running a few minutes late to my lunch with Alvin Buye, lugging my blue vintage travel backpack like some wandering scholar who’s lost his way. Feral and slightly exposed, I step into Java House, Lugogo—perched atop the ground floor, where the open-air setup lets you watch boda boda guys swap stories as a maize vendor zigzags through traffic.
The café has shuffled locations within the same petrol station, but it’s still the go-to spot for corporate honchos, some of whom keep bumping into each other with the kind of surprise that feels a little too rehearsed. Laughter, backslaps, the occasional bear hug—networking disguised as nostalgia.
Buye and I grab a corner table. He slides the menu over. “Plenty to choose from. Dig in.” His black-framed glasses rest lightly on his face, giving him the look of a man forever processing the world through an analytical lens—a computer scientist, a teacher, and now, an education tech problem-solver.
Before diving into the big conversation, we indulge in some warm-up banter about Uganda’s startup scene—specifically, the cash drought strangling innovation.
“There should be a proper funding programme for local startups,” Buye argues. “If you have a viable idea and a well-structured white paper, you should be able to present it for funding.”
His voice sharpens with frustration.
“You walk into the science and technology office in Naguru, and they tell you, ‘No, no, no—you need a prototype.’ But come on, at the stage we’re at as a country, shouldn’t the focus be on studying the white paper, analysing opportunities and loopholes, and then funding promising ideas? Right now, that’s not happening.”
I nod, sipping my iced coffee—silky, cold, a far cry from the espresso Buye ordered.
“The policy should be simple,” Buye leans forward, “let people start. Over time, natural selection will sort the viable from the doomed.”
A long road
Fair enough, but where exactly should aspiring entrepreneurs take their ideas?
“There’s a place—STEM something, in Naguru,” he says, tapping his temple as if scrolling through mental files. “Every Wednesday, they listen to proposals. But, mahn, the line is endless. It’s inefficient. And if you don’t know someone, you’re waiting forever.”
So, there’s a path, albeit one paved with bottlenecks. And those bottlenecks kill innovation before it even has a chance to breathe, I learn. Buye, who’s leaning back, seems unfazed. His background spans computer science, engineering, and education. His mission? Fix tutoring in Uganda through tech.
A waiter appears. Buye orders an espresso—bold choice. I stick with iced coffee, still reeling from my last espresso encounter. As I stir my drink, the hum of espresso machines blends with the murmur of lunchtime deals. Uganda’s startup scene, much like Java House itself, brims with potential. But the real question remains—who’s willing to invest in it? I hit him with something to chew on.
“Say you develop a solution that cuts hospital wait times from an hour to 30 minutes, maybe even 20. Then tomorrow, you wake up to news that China—or the US—has cracked the same problem, but their solution delivers results in two minutes. How do you feel?”
Buye smirks. “Good question. You feel challenged.” He adjusts his glasses. “But as a founder, you also realise—someone’s done better. And if they can, so can I. The key is to dig deeper. Read more. Push harder. Because in tech, the difference is always on the edge. A slight edge. You’re rarely the only one solving a problem. You might think you are, but that’s usually just a lack of research. The moment you build something, you start seeing others who’ve done it too. Then the real question becomes—what’s my edge? What am I adding?”
His voice picks up momentum. “You analyse your roadmap. What features can I add? What’s the next step? How do I refine this into something unique? And eventually, maybe, you find it. If not, you pivot, adapt—keep hunting for that edge.”
Passionate
Buye knows tech’s relentless pace. He started his journey back in 2016, studying Computer Science, but his enthusiasm predated university. During school breaks, he worked at an internet café—not for the paycheque, but for unlimited research time. That’s where he taught himself to code. Financial struggles delayed university, so he pivoted, getting a diploma in Computer Engineering.
“Most of it felt repetitive,” he admits. “I had already taught myself the bulk of it.”
Eventually, he returned to complete his degree. While studying, he volunteered at GEMS Cambridge International School—yes, the now-defunct but once-renowned international school. “My sister worked there and was friends with the head of the school. One day, I fixed his laptop. That’s how the idea of volunteering came up.”
Volunteering soon turned into a job. He started teaching kids how to code, then later formalised his expertise in international education in Nottingham.
The waitress arrives—his triple espresso, a shot of liquid defiance, served with a tiny, heart-shaped brown cookie. My iced coffee with milk sits beside a golden chicken pie. Allen, the waitress, isn’t particularly friendly, but we’ve got bigger things to focus on. We delay our drinks, the conversation too heated to pause. The construction below clanks on, an unintended percussion to our discussion. No volume control for that background noise—so we power through.
Starting out
Buye explains how his startup, TutorHail, was born from his deep understanding of both education and technology, in Uganda and beyond. “In international schools, parents often came to me saying, ‘My child is struggling. I need a tutor, but I don’t know where to start.’”
This wasn’t a formal request—it was whispered in hallways, mentioned in passing. Parents weren’t marching into administration with this issue. It wasn’t about bad teaching; they just needed extra help but didn’t know where to find it.
“In international schools,” he says, “you have to differentiate work for high and low achievers. But in Uganda, our education system is heavily theoretical. That’s both a strength and a weakness. The strength? You gain a vast knowledge base, so whichever industry you land in, you have a general understanding. The weakness? It’s incredibly hard to specialise.”
He pauses. “I think that has a lot to do with our job market—it’s so unpredictable. You study one thing, end up doing another. So the system prepares you broadly rather than deeply. But the practicality of it? That’s lacking.”
His time at GEMS international school was an eye-opener. “Our tech lab was insane. Probably the first school in Uganda to use drones. Definitely the first to use VR. The robotics lab? Fully equipped—LEGO engineering kits, pneumatics for moving tractors, sensors for autonomous vehicles. Imagine kids building systems where a robot senses an obstacle and backs away. International schools have that. Local schools? Not so much.”
He leans in. “You can go from P1 to Form 6 without even knowing that the world exists. Meanwhile, a kid in an international school is learning block coding in P1.”
“Really?” I ask.
He nods. “Absolutely.”
Those small things
I sip my iced coffee, and it hits me—he’s not just talking about coding. He’s talking about access. Exposure. The small things that create a massive gap between what students in different systems can dream of achieving. And that’s exactly what he’s trying to change.
“International schools follow different curricula—Cambridge, American, IB. They’re not tied to the local system, and those curricula require certain subjects to be taught,” he explains.
“I used to think they just made up their own rules,” I admit.
He chuckles. “Nope. They follow structured global standards.”
That’s where TutorHail began—leveraging his computer science skills to create an app-based tutor booking system.
“I might not afford international school tuition—it’s like 10 million. But maybe I can afford 50K here and there for an hour of IT or math tutoring. Because in international schools, we don’t just teach kids to cram numbers—we teach different ways of solving problems. That means a child learns to apply knowledge across different environments. Meanwhile, in local schools, it’s all about memorisation. I grew up reciting, ‘Science is the study of living and non-living things.’ That definition never changed. Years later, I still knew it. Kids today are still memorising it. But is that really what science is now?”
In international schools, concepts evolve. “We don’t just define science; we explore its changing nature. That’s the difference.”
Embracing a hustle
With TutorHail, parents can access international school tutors without paying a fortune. “Say I’m a parent with a child in a local school, but I want them to benefit from international school teaching methods. Now, I don’t have to pay millions to enrol them—I can book a tutor for an hour, just like you’d book an Airbnb.”
It’s a fresh idea, breaking the exclusivity of international school education. “Students can access international school tutors at their convenience, without needing to enrol. It’s education on demand.”
I tell him it sounds like a game-changer—nothing like this exists here. Buye nods but knows ideas aren’t enough. “Even with the will, we need to push. We need private-sector innovators in government panels. They understand the challenges. If they’re in the room, they can push for funding, meetups, resources. That’s how we build something like Silicon Valley.”
He gestures toward Rwanda. “They’re already trying it, and it’s working.”
Then he sighs. “The problem is, people don’t always appreciate the role of struggle. Suffering builds you. But most people just see hardship and think, ‘It’s too hard, I should give up.’”
Then he grins. “I was watching an interview with Nvidia’s CEO recently. He was speaking to students at Stanford, and at the end, he said, ‘I hope you all suffer.’”
I raise an eyebrow.
“But he meant it in a good way,” Buye clarifies. “It’s through struggle that you grow.”
And honestly? That hits home.