 |
| ©2008-2011 St. Nicholas Uganda Children's Fund |
The Prize Bull
July 2005
It's another beautiful day in Uganda. The sky is blue,
the sun is shining, the wind is gentle, and it's not too
hot. Children are in school, babies are being born, and
people die. Our joy is always mingled with tears.
Most of you know by now that the children are my
inspiration. Every day they wake up in homes that most
Americans would find miserably appalling, put on
uniforms that they themselves have washed in basins,
and walk to school, some for great distances, many
without breakfast, most in ill-fitting shoes. Yet they are
unfailingly cheerful--laughing, playing, eternally
hopeful.
Sharon and I have become involved with a family of
orphans, nine of whom live with their bent-over JjaJja
(Grandma) in a small house squeezed between a busy
road and a swamp. Every day they walk two kilometers
to school—first moving along a busy highway, then up
busy, dusty streets until they reach the school building.
On Sunday we sent them off on a school field trip while
we attended Visitation Day at a local high school here
on the hill where we live.
The high school's four "houses" competed in drama,
singing, traditional dance, and other events. First prize
was a bull, second prize a goat. The prizes were tied up
on campus as we walked by. We were there at the
invitation of Mary M., an orphan who lost her parents
some years ago. Sharon has become a mother to her
and we were honored to be there with the other
parents. Mary turned out to be quite a talented girl, and
had a lead role for Atim House in every competition. All
the teens did a great job, full of energy and creativity.
I'm glad I wasn't one of the judges--it would have been
difficult to choose.
By late afternoon, I noticed that primary school children
were filtering into the audience, including our own kids.
They had returned from the field trip and their ears
followed the sound of drumming. I was sitting on the
ground in front of the judges' table, trying to get some
video footage of the dancing. I removed my eye from
the viewfinder and found Fiona, Henry, Bertram, and
Irene surrounding me in the dirt. Aisha and Andrew had
found their way to Sharon in the seats. The children
were fascinated by the traditional dancing--such an
exciting diversion from the bleak sameness of their
everyday lives. I didn't want to end it for them, but
eventually it began to get dark and they had a long way
to walk home.
July 2005
It's another beautiful day in Uganda. The sky is blue,
the sun is shining, the wind is gentle, and it's not too
hot. Children are in school, babies are being born, and
people die. Our joy is always mingled with tears.
Most of you know by now that the children are my
inspiration. Every day they wake up in homes that most
Americans would find miserably appalling, put on
uniforms that they themselves have washed in basins,
and walk to school, some for great distances, many
without breakfast, most in ill-fitting shoes. Yet they are
unfailingly cheerful--laughing, playing, eternally
hopeful.
Sharon and I have become involved with a family of
orphans, nine of whom live with their bent-over JjaJja
(Grandma) in a small house squeezed between a busy
road and a swamp. Every day they walk two kilometers
to school—first moving along a busy highway, then up
busy, dusty streets until they reach the school building.
On Sunday we sent them off on a school field trip while
we attended Visitation Day at a local high school here
on the hill where we live.
The high school's four "houses" competed in drama,
singing, traditional dance, and other events. First prize
was a bull, second prize a goat. The prizes were tied up
on campus as we walked by. We were there at the
invitation of Mary M., an orphan who lost her parents
some years ago. Sharon has become a mother to her
and we were honored to be there with the other
parents. Mary turned out to be quite a talented girl, and
had a lead role for Atim House in every competition. All
the teens did a great job, full of energy and creativity.
I'm glad I wasn't one of the judges--it would have been
difficult to choose.
By late afternoon, I noticed that primary school children
were filtering into the audience, including our own kids.
They had returned from the field trip and their ears
followed the sound of drumming. I was sitting on the
ground in front of the judges' table, trying to get some
video footage of the dancing. I removed my eye from
the viewfinder and found Fiona, Henry, Bertram, and
Irene surrounding me in the dirt. Aisha and Andrew had
found their way to Sharon in the seats. The children
were fascinated by the traditional dancing--such an
exciting diversion from the bleak sameness of their
everyday lives. I didn't want to end it for them, but
eventually it began to get dark and they had a long way
to walk home.
There was no way I was going to let these kids walk
home alone in the dark. I told Fiona (the oldest of this
group, in third grade) to round up the little ones and off
we went. By the time we reached the dirt street by the
local mission hospital it was totally dark, and we had
been joined by a little girl who lives near them. As we
walked downhill on the rutted street, dodging traffic and
pedestrians, I kept up a constant count to seven so I
wouldn't lose anyone. We arrived at the trading center
just off the main highway and it was total chaos. These
seven little people were huddled around me, while
adults, bicycles, motorcycles, cars, and minibuses
swirled around us. I wanted to take a matatu (minibus
taxi) the last mile to their home, but each one seemed to
be full, and when one stopped with a few available
seats, grownups pushed past us and scrambled into the
vehicle.
By the grace of God, I was filled with an amazing peace
and certainty that somehow we would get a ride. More
vehicles came and went, and after about another five
minutes a matatu pulled up and the milling mob parted
like the Red Sea. The conductor jumped out and
motioned us in. I didn't see eight open seats, but my
kids scampered up and in with me following. We went
careening down Hoima Road toward the swamp and I
could see absolutely nothing outside the van. I told
Fiona to watch for her house and to tell me when she
spotted it. She did, and when I called out to the driver
to stop, the other passengers were much amused by
this crazy muzungu speaking Luganda accompanied by
all these kids in their school uniforms.
We still had to cross Hoima Road to get to JjaJja's
house and the kids automatically took my hands and
each other's. They've done this before, many times,
though usually not at night. Traffic opened up for a
moment and off we went, a chain of eight running
across the highway and over the guardrail. The chain
exploded like popcorn as the children ran off in all
directions around and into the little house. I started to
leave, but one of the boys said I had to greet JjaJja.
She came running out of the house, bent over at her
usual 90 degrees, grabbed both my hands and began
ululating and jumping up and down, in the dark, in the
mud, headlights rushing past us just over the rail. Her
Luganda was so fast that I couldn't quite follow, except
that there were a lot of "thank yous" and a brief
description of some medical problem that she was
experiencing. Eventually I extricated myself from her
grip, but she insisted on climbing back over the
guardrail with me and held my hand until I boarded a
return matatu.
And Atim House won the bull!
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |