#33 – August 31st 2007

The long walk home…

Lets say in order to belong to a brass band you would have to walk for two hours to the practice field, then walk two hours back home in the pitch black along dangerous roads with no side walks, no lights, replete with police patrols anxious to get ‘idle’ children off the streets. Would you join? I’m sure your first response is no, hell no.

Now what if you knew joining this band was your only hope of continuing high school? What if you knew your parents had eight other children at home in desperate need of all the help they could get? Five of those children are your siblings, the other three are your cousins whose parents died of that horrible disease strangling your country. For as long as you can remember your parents have been working hard to put a roof over your head and food on the table, all the while struggling to get all of you through school. Every time there is extra money one child goes through one year of school. Although your ages range widely, you are almost all in the same grade. The exception is your eldest brother, who had just completed his first year at University. Your parents sold their house downtown and moved to a remote village on the outskirts of Kampala in order to pay the first year’s tuition. Now eleven of you live in a tiny four-room house. You share a bed with two of your brothers. Although you’ve stopped schooling so your sister can complete one more grade, the distance to school, if and when you go back, has increased to an hour and a half walk. Rain or shine.

You and your twin brother suffer from a severe case of asthma. When the weather turns cold, the walk to school poisons your lungs. The medication costs as much as your younger sister’s tuition. You love your parents dearly and want to do everything in your power as an individual in order to help the desperate situation of your family. You’ve decided to join the brass band your friend David mentioned to you last year at school. The leader, Abbey, welcomed you and you are now taking trumpet lessons in hopes that you will one day be able to perform at functions and make some money to help your family. Meanwhile, your father is operating a small shop that sells muffins, water, and other odds and ends, and your twin brother is running neighbors’ errands for pocket change.

Welcome to Kato Richard’s life. Richard is a new member of the African Hearts organization, and a new friend of mine. A few weeks ago he invited me to his home in order that I could see for myself what he had written in his biography. He had not done the true hardship justice. I was taken aback by the sheer distance he travels every day just to attend the 5pm practice, and to think of him walking home every night in the dark makes me extremely anxious. I can’t imagine what its like for his parents, of whom he speaks so highly. I got the impression from his siblings that they have a very strong family unit, that there is a lot of love in the home, and also a lot of intelligence. Richard’s siblings peppered me with questions, which fortunately I am getting better at answering. Yes, the demographic differences between Uganda and Canada are intriguing. Yes, I can state several reasons for the economic disparities between our two countries, most of which reside within the area of the negative aspects of global trade. Sure, I can explain the voting system of the World Trade Organization. What do I think of Museveni’s politics? Let me tell you. And on and on it went. It was difficult for me to get a question in.

In the end I thanked Richard’s family for their hospitality and apologized for having to continue on to another program I had later that day. I had arranged with one of the other boys to visit his home in the late afternoon. My second visit was to Ibra’s house, which was located a lot closer to the African Heart home than Richards’, thankfully. Ibra lives in the same “ghetto” area (in the boys’ words, not mine) that Robert lives; they are practically neighbors. As per usual here in Uganda, while I had been saddened by Richard’s situation, I was heart-broken by Ibra’s. Will there ever be a situation where I find someone isn’t struggling just to survive? Will there ever be a time I discover someone has a decent-sized home, a regular source of comfort and love, the security of shelter, food, and tuition fees paid? Perhaps it is better not to answer that question.

The “ghetto” area 200 meters off Rubaga Road (the same road the African Heart home resides on) is not a nice place. Infested muddy water pools in every crevasse. Plastic bags (which were banned last month) litter the red ground, collecting foul material children step in with their bare feet. Video halls blare restricted movies, the over-blown speakers crackling Hollywood voices across the neighborhood and into the ears of susceptible tweens. Jobless young men congregate around outdoor tables, gambling, some smoking ganja (Uganda’s weed equivalent). Naked toddlers run unsupervised through piles of garbage, grabbing at stray dogs, playing in mud and sucking their thumbs, often young siblings their only care-takers. Half have malaria, some are HIV-positive, all have lost at least one guardian to AIDS.

It is in this area that most of the boys who don’t reside at the African Hearts home live. I passed Assadu and Digga on the way to Ibra’s house. I got to Ibra’s just as the rain started pouring down. We ran the last few steps and burst into the one-room cement structure. Inside a dozen wide eyes peered at me in the darkness. My name echoed across the small room as Bowen jumped down from the three-high metal bunk bed and ran toward me. Quite possibly the cutest four-year-old in Uganda, Bowen and I have become great buddies, despite the fact we don’t officially speak each other’s language. His English vocab consists of, “Nico, look! Look, Nico!” and an ever exuberant “come SEE Nico!” Bowen is the sole reason I have to wash my clothes almost every day, as he loves to come running at me full force, grab my hands, and climb all the way up to my shoulders with his perpetually dirt-encrusted little feet. Boisterous and bubbly Bowen. If it weren’t for his make-you-melt side-ways smile I swear I could get a weeks wear out of my jeans. Bowen is Ibra’s half-brother, as is Lenon, another band member. Also living at the house is Ibra’s older sister, older brother, and younger sister, as well as Lenon’s older sister and baby brother, and their teenage cousin. That brings the total to nine kids, all being cared for by a single mother. Ibra’s mother, and Lenon’s both died, leaving their younger sister to care for their children.

Lenon’s baby brother peed on the cement floor beside the stool I sat on, filling the room with a less-than-terrific smell, further exacerbated by the mugginess of the heavy rain and the bitter scent of sweat and dirty laundry. The baby continued to cry during the entirety of my visit. We took turns with questions, the girls anxious to test their knowledge of Canada on me, my questions all directed towards determining exactly how their ‘mother’ managed to care for them all. I never did find a satisfactory answer to that inquiry, probably because there wasn’t one. Unfortunately their mother was at work, apparently at a small shop that sells breakfast cakes (dry, bland muffins), so I was unable to officially meet her, although we’ve spoken on the phone on a couple of occasions. I asked where everyone slept. Two to each bunk, which upon closer inspection I noticed had four layers, each with about five feet of head room, and two on the floor.

Since most of my time is spent with male teenagers here in Uganda, it was interesting to spend some time with a majority of females. I guessed their ages to be around sixteen-seventeen, and was intrigued when the conversation eventually turned to movie and television actors. The girls giggled and asked if I was familiar with Wentworth Miller (Michael Scholfield) off the series Prison Break, or Tom Welling from Smallville. When I mentioned I’d actually met Tom Welling one of the girls dropped to her knees and let out a exuberant gasp. They asked some interesting questions about the reality behind these shows, not knowing what things were portrayed realistically and which things weren’t. Did North American couples really hold hands in public? Did they really kiss in front of their parents? Was there really such thing as female lawyers and pilots and construction workers? Yes, yes, and of course, I replied. Emancipation of women here in Uganda is a topic for a whole other journal entry, or several, but suffice it to say that when Lenon’s sister announced she wanted to be a pilot, one of the boys piped up that girls can only study aviation, not actually become pilots, silly. If you thought I got worked up about religion, wait till you learn a little more about the treatment of women. Just as things are taking their time to change in the West, so they are here.

As I was leaving, Lenon’s sister mentioned that Lenon had been bitten by a dog the previous afternoon. Lenon lifted his shirt to reveal a stitched gash on his back. He explained that he’d been rushed to the hospital and given only half a treatment. His mother couldn’t afford the rest. He was reluctantly released and told to return if his mother could find the 90,000Ush ($55) for treatment. I am well aware that most of Kampala’s stray dogs have not been treated and many are infected with disease. A single bite can be deadly. I am also aware that I have paid twice as much as the cost of Lenon’s treatment for a haircut. Despicably, I chose not to offer up the cash. I hesitated. I am still trying to determine why. I told myself that I didn’t have all the facts. Maybe the dog wasn’t rapid. Maybe the initial treatment had been enough. I inquired with Abbey, who had visited Lenon in the hospital, but he was fuzzy on the facts. I somehow justified my resolve not to help on the fact that I wasn’t sure if it would be money well spent. Who was I kidding? Better yet, who am I kidding? I still haven’t helped. This could be a life-threatening issue. If something happens to Lenon…am I any less to blame?

And thus I conclude my entry. The depressive tone is regrettable but necessary, and honest. Please take a moment, just a small one, to be thankful for your home, for the few people you share it with, for your comfortable and spacious bed, your education, your job security, and your access to affordable medicine.

~Nicole