From Uganda: Mama Faith

Each morning Mama Faith walked down the dirt road, through the path cut through the long grass, and up the cement to bring us our breakfast.  It was an unnecessary act of service-especially on the mornings that it rained. She saw my bed un-made and insisted on making it.  She saw our dirty clothes on the ground and she insisted on cleaning them. She bent low to sweep the dust out the door and to mop the cement floors. 

Mama Faith runs the orphanage-the 50 kids who are in school, eating well, playing hard, and praying harder. She is not educated and she doesn't know much English. Her daughter Pauline is one of the kids that goes off to school every morning.

She is glad to have the orphanage-but not as glad as the orphanage is to have her.  She gets paid, but not much, not much at all.  Pennies/hour considering how long and hard she works.  She has a room in the orphanage, a bed, and a TV that gets 2 channels when the electricity works.  At church she stands behind the other women who lead the songs.  She is the widow putting her pennies in the offering plate, the least, the servant of all. With all that she does, she is the servant of all.

I found out on this trip that 15 of the children rescued from the slums were able to go to school. We visited them.  They brought us their books and showed us how they could write english and do math.  They are behind for their age, but they are in school. They are boarding school students-their home is no longer the slums, it is a school.  On the ride home from the visit, Patrick was telling me how they were able to send them to school.  Generous outside donors and volunteers who came to the orphanage generously put together almost enough money for all of the kids.  

Then Patrick told me that Mama Faith sponsors one of the kids.  My jaw dropped.  Mama Faith sponsors one of the kids! I thought about her salary-thought about the cost of sponsoring-she gave away nearly everything. Mama Faith uses her salary-a salary she has earned a hundred times over-to send a boy from the slums to school. 

I watched fields pass by my open window and thought about Mama Faith sponsoring a child. It changed something for me-forever I think. Mama Faith redefined generosity.  I had set the bar comfortably low.  I was more generous than most.  But now she is the bar-she is the example.

The kids who were rescued from that slums that are now in school need sponsors who can give $40/month. Their next term starts in June and they don't have sponsors, so as of now, they will have to drop out of school.  We need 12 people committed to 12 kids. Shoot me an email: caleb@beautifulresponse.org  

Black Shoes

At the orphanage in Uganda the youngest kids wear bright orange uniforms and khaki shorts. They wear tube socks that they hand wash twice a week. They must have black shoes.  If they come to school without their black shoes they are sent home.  The youngest walk down the dirt roads together. Six women stand around the doors of two shabby red brick buildings.  They are the teachers.  They welcome the kids with smiles.

The elementary kids at the orphanage walk past St. Mark's elementary school down to Bulenga Light Primary School.  They wear green and white checkered shirts. The girls wear dresses and the boys wear shorts.  They all need black shoes, or they get sent home.  Light School goes up until 7th grade.  All of the kids at the orphanage are gauranteed school up through P7-as long as their sponors keep sending them.  As long as there is a little money, they can go through P7.  But after P7, things get more difficult.  After P7 things are not so certain. 

In Uganda, you must pass an exam to move on.  The national examinations are a Ugandan event. Every child in P7 takes the same exam.  The whole nation holds its breath, waiting for the exam results.  The newspapers reserve the front page for the biggest national exam headline.  Seven of the kids at the orphanage took the exam.  We held our breath with them.  

On a Monday in January, 70 kids from Light Primary School in Bulenga took the national exam. Some passed, some didn't.  We checked our emails for weeks, waiting to hear how the P7 students did.  Six of those seven are now at a secondary school where they wear green sweaters over white collared shirts.  Their socks have stripes, their shoes are black, and they are smiling in the picture that Patrick sent us.  

One of the students got the very highest score in the entire school-among the best scores in the nation!   He got in to a private school where he will continue studying.  He gets to be one of the best and the brightest.  All of the kids passed!

We are so proud of the 7 kids who studied so hard-who took nothing for granted.  School was never a given for any of these kids. At points in their lives, it was an unlikely prospect.  Passing their P7 exams seemed like an unknowable future.  Getting into one of the best private schools was an unrealistic dream.  

Now, sending 7 kids, plus next years kids, plus next years kids, plus next years kids through high school is an intimidating future for us.  Sometime we worry about where the money will come from. But when we are in Uganda, we tell the kids what our parents told us, "Your job is to study".  Work your hardest, do your best, study and learn-and have fun doing it.  That is their worry now.

These kids have carried more worry in their lives than any kids should.  Through the generosity of sponsors, the work of the staff at RUHU, and God's grace, their job can simply be to study, to play, and to keep track of their black shoes.

Global Citizen-By Carlos

(This blog was written by Carlos (15), one of the young men who lives at Raising Up Hope.  It was not edited in any way.) 

I am living in a nation with over 2 million orphans and street children.  Uganda is known as ‘Ground Zero’ for the HIV/AIDS Pandemic.  There is only 1 doctor for every 80,000 to 100,000 people with little to no medical supplies.  Yet, I have been blessed with an education so far by my guardians and sponsors who love to see change.  Thus, I am also eager to learn more and see my world improving each day.

I am growing in a society where kids like me do not have the opportunity to go to school, no hope of being successful people. I believe that if I had an international education, I would be able to gain the knowledge required to solve greater problems for the people of Uganda.

One of the reasons I want a better education in an international school is because traditional schools here in Uganda do not offer such better education due to low levels of academic standards and it’s because I want to affect other people’s lives and the world at large.  I want to finish high school well, and go to university, so that I may be involved in the world’s economic activities. I want to be part of changing that for all of Uganda.  I love technology, and I love studying software engineering and I look forward to using everything I learn to help more children like me live in a better place.

Africa is my home and I love it, but I also have great hopes for it being a better home.  Here in my community, insufficient healthcare and constant hunger are just some of the root causes of our oppression. In my developing world, people die of preventable diseases every day; we suffer extreme poverty and we have no access to quality education or employment. Now, all of us go to school at the RUHU orphanage. I know Education is the answer. I want to witness more of this growth in Uganda towards the first world. A chance to study at an international institution offers me that education that can help me change my community, because I believe the opportunity for a great education will allow me to change my own community even more. I want to see my continent become a better place to live both economically and socially.

I believe a true Global Citizen uses their education and advancement of new technology for the good of mankind.  Although I appreciate the concepts and discussion of ‘equality’, I know too well the effects of Inequality and Injustice as I witness the daily deaths of Malaria and all the curable diseases.  I see poverty and starvation within a fertile land where anything is able to grow and sustain its’ people.   Yet, the lack of education is our barrier.  The corruption in our hospitals limits progress and life expectancy.  What would the value of the title, ‘Global Citizen’ be if I did not use it to change these facts?

I don’t want to live a life of complaining about Africa!  I want to live a life of change and inspiration to the millions of orphans and abandoned children who come behind me.  I value the title ‘Global Citizen’.  I hope to proudly accept this title as I work hard and focus on the future in order to achieve my goals of becoming an entrepreneur.  I am confident the next fifteen years will bring big change in our world.

Thank you for taking part.

Waupun, Uganda

I am in my Grandma’s green Jeep Cherokee in Waupun, Wisc., in the parking lot of my high school alma mater. I forget how big the sky is here. I am earlier than I want to be. I have no-where else to be, but it feels better to arrive, as if I am rushing from one place to the next.

I am coming from a game of Scrabble and a cup of tea with my grandma.  It’s only 10:00, but we’ve already fit in an hour of Scrabble.  It’s never too early for Scrabble.

I walk through the parking lot and up the white pavement. I mutter phrases to myself and speak through the outline that I have written in my little orange notepad.  I turn into the office and Mrs. Homan, the secretary smiles at me.  

Mr. Schut! She pronounces my name right.  She gives me a big hug and points me to Mr. Z’s office. I walk back and Mr. Z receives me the exact same way. Mr. Schut! He smiles and shakes my hand hard. He pumps his fist and tells me how well the Chili supper went.  They raised over $6,000.

That’s how it’s done in Waupun, Wisconsin--huge tubs of chili, the boys soccer team ladling out beefy, beany, hearty chili to an entire town.

David, Caleb, and I are walking to the schoolyard, passing a basketball between us. The road is burnt red and rugged, with deep grooves that bounce the ball unexpectedly away from us. Two of the RUHU boys are walking ahead of us, chipping clumps of clay with their feet. One boy is behind. We are a 3-on-3 squad on the move.

David is telling Caleb and I how much he loves OKC--the Oklahoma City Thunder. Kevin Durant. Caleb and I both love basketball, and we are also drawn by bright colors. The NBA has both, so we’re in.

I try to picture the three of us in a bar in the States, watching an OKC game. I cannot see how David would sit at the bar. I cannot see David outside of this--the red roads and his long, lean arms and his big smile.

It is the end of the day, and so the road is burning with sun. I’m tired. Caleb is tired. It is the end of a long day with the kids. It is a spent day, but David insisted we play (and we had promised), and his fake layup into the air convinced me it is worth the energy for us to head for the schoolyard.   

    We are walking along the side of the road, and on our left are the tin shacks and on our right is a deep rut and then the road. The boda-bodas zoom past, one man in a Chicago Bulls puffy winter jacket.

When we get to the schoolyard, there is a square building like a guard house and an open metal gate. We speak to the guard. He is short. He doesn’t look us in the eye. He looks beyond us, as if waiting on someone else to come, like, Next!.

David holds the basketball on his hip and asks politely if we can enter.

    The guard is agitated. He has sweat on his forehead. He shakes his head. He turns and gets on the other side of the gate. He tugs the bars to close them.
    “That’s not necessary, sir,” David says. “Please, sir. You don’t have to.”
    The gate is shut. We are outside. The guard is inside. There are students in their uniforms, moving in a pack. The campus is tropical--open-air buildings and the green, broad leaves of the matooke trees that wilt down and shade the main walkway through campus.

We are on the outside. We are eye-to-eye with the guard, except he still will not look at us. Next! He has proven to us that his word goes. He has locked us out of the school.

Mr. Z gives me the sport’s updates and the latest news as we walk towards the gym. In Mountain View, I am tall--often I tower.  But here, the boys are bred tall and I am looking up at blond-haired high school boys as we walk down the hallways.  Chapel is in the old gym--the gym where I played basketball; where I sat through chapels when I was 16.  Uganda has three indoor basketball courts.  Here there are two. We walk through the blue doors. The huge painting of a crusader is still there.  The basketball court is hardwood, varnished.   Bleachers are stacked on each side of the room.  Rows of chairs are set up facing a black stage.  We walk over to the chairs.

           A bell rings and kids enter into the gym.  Middle School and high school students take their places in the cold metal chairs next to their friends. The middle schoolers sit on the right side. They look young.  They are giggling and chatty, but then they quiet quickly. The high schoolers sit on the left.  Mr. Z introduces me as one of them. Then he prays and hands me the microphone.
           The first basketball game of the season is today, so I open with an anecdote about my basketball days, about getting benched. It is not as funny as I thought it might be. So I move quickly to Uganda.

My voice is shaky.  My hand holding the microphone is quivering.  I expected to be smooth--to be an impressive Alumni-Speaker-From-California, but my voice is breaking, as I trip over the first lines of my story.

It’s a school official, dressed in pleated black pants and a clean-pressed shirt and a loose tie who comes to our rescue. He points to us standing on the other side of the gate. He is not happy. The guard nods toward us and points to the gate. He is not happy. They argue.

    Then the guard is unlocking the gate. He focuses on the lock and when the gate is wholly opened, he stares beyond us.
    It’s a jailbreak for him. Unacceptable.
    We enter. A jailbreak! The campus is quiet, except for the bounce of the basketball between us. We pass by several of the school buildings, which look unfinished. No doors. Window holes. Cement floors. Cracked teal-painted walls. We are strangers in this foreignness.

Caleb and I know better.

Carpeted, well-lit air-conditioned air-treated air-heated school buildings; chairs, desks, computers. At the very worst, our teachers used pocket money to stock their own supply cabinets, loaded with reserve notebooks and Elmer’s white glue bottles with the twist orange cap and fat erasers pink like thumbs and pens and pens and pencils and pencils and colored pencils, markers, crayons, rulers, scissors, masking tape, duct tape, Scotch tape, sheet paper, graph paper, lined paper, unlined paper and boxes of butter cookies for the kids who forget a snack during snacktime.

    We just know better, and I cannot see David in a bar in Mountain View watching his OKC Thunder, and I cannot see Caleb and I as schoolkids here.

The basketball court is beyond a soccer pitch, which is doubling as a steer pasture. There is a deep creek bed at the end of the pasture. When we get to it, we leap across to the basketball court. The court is dotted with little holes, like breath holes. A group of students are playing volleyball next to the court. A steer watches us from just off the court, his head down, nibbling.

We divide into teams. The RUHU boys never play basketball. They are sure with their feet; not so with their hands. Tight with a soccer ball. Clunk with a basketball.

But we are here to play some solid 3-on-3 basketball.

The kids pick-up the game fast, at least, the passing. Pass pass pass. It is hard to get them to shoot. “Shoot! Go for it!” we yell. “Hit it!” “Take a shot!” “Have one!” “Money ball!” Caleb and I yell to encourage them. We leave our hands at our sides to give them a clear shot, not wanting to block. The kids play tentative and clumsy on offense; on defense, they are fierce with their bodies, shoving, weaving their long, strong arms to steal the ball.

We keep score, to keep it interesting. Some rules to keep it organized: out-of-bounds, check ball, no kicking the ball. Hey, no kicking the ball.

They never shoot basketballs.

And Caleb and I never play with a steer watching.

It’s a game as I’ve never quite seen it before.

Shoot. Shoot. Lots of misses. Backboard clunk. The kids are sweaty. They push. They laugh. Caleb and I rustle our shirts, cooling ourselves. We are sweaty.

Basketball is a new thing. They play hard. They play as if the only object of the game is to give your all, whatever you have. Hey, no kicking.

They give everything.

This is exactly what they do best.

       My voice becomes clear when I start telling the story of meeting Patrick and William. I get too quickly to the part where I tell them the stories of specific kids at the orphanage.  This is the best stuff I’ve got.  I tell them about Carlos, about Liz, and then about Zula and Aisha, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t use that story. The kids--they're the true story.
       Everyone is still paying good attention--decent eye contact, only a few teachers have fallen asleep.  The clock hanging on the back wall at the other end of the gym tells me it is time to wrap up.
    I close in prayer and dismiss everyone.  Mrs. T makes her way up the front. We hug.  She thanks me. We talk about life.  A young woman comes up to the group around me. At first I cannot tell if she is a teacher or a student.  Mr. Z introduces her--a senior. She is going to Hope College. She is planning on going to Uganda this summer.  It is a pretty significant happen-stance.  Hope. Uganda. Waupun Christian. I'm bad at the chit chat, but I smile and am impressed by all of our similarities.  

I'm just afraid that if I go over there, I won't want to come back, She laughs and I smile back at her.

Well, I think you should definitely go to college.

Yea, I definitely will, she responds.

Everyone eventually leaves and Mr. Z and I leave the old gym.  We stop by the new music room where high schoolers are singing scales. Mrs. T does an impression of them singing--everyone laughs and then sings fuller, louder, beautifully the second time.  Mr. Z and I talk back and forth about fundraising--chili dinners, auctions, parties. He wants an Ipad per student next year.  It's an ambitious goal for Waupun, Wisconsin.  We sit together and he prays for me--for the new house in Uganda, for the kids--it is an ambitious prayer.

It is a prayer he knows well.

      I get back in my grandma's Jeep and drive back to her apartment.  She gets up slowly from her green chair and turns to me,
      So.  How'd it go?
      I think it went alright.
      You hungry?
      Ummm...not yet, no.  
      She begins to tell me the lunch options as she opens the door to the fridge. I see the picture of Gavin smiling in his new clothes from our last trip to Uganda hanging by a round Packer magnet.
      I wish you could come to Uganda, Gram.
      Me too, kiddo. She tilts her head down, and I know that she would come if she could.
      Want to play Scrabble? I ask.
      She looks up at me and smiles.  Well, sure!

This House-A Lesson in Advent

In August, we left Uganda wanting to buy a house. It is perfect for the kids. The process of buying it has been a lesson in Advent-a lesson in waiting, and waiting, and waiting...


Me, in an email to Patrick and William on November 10th: We had our fundraiser tonight. It was such a privilege to tell people your story tonight. Please tell all the kids how much we love them and how proud we are of them. We are hopeful that we will have all the money needed for the house soon!

Patrick, November 13: Hello Caleb and Sonja, Today we had a meeting with a lawyer and Henry. Henry was kindly asking if we could do the purchase this week. thank you very much and we are so excited! God Bless you

Me, November 17: We would like to connect one final time before the purchase of the new house. Can we please skype sometime tomorrow?

Sunday, November 18 Skype with Patrick:
Patrick: Hello Hello!! How are you? How are you? How is mama RUHU?
Me: Hi Patrick, We’re doing well!
Me: How are things with the house? Have you met with the Local Council and the lawyer?
Patrick: We have met with them. They have been so supportive, you know. They had been wanting, you know, the children to have some more space as it was too little. So, yea, everything is going on so well here. We are just waiting for the funds now.
Me: Ok, well, if you have prepared everything with the Lawyer and the LC and the bank, then we are ready. The funds are here!
Patrick: Eeeee! Ya Ya, Praise God, Praise God! Ha ha. That is the best news!

November 19: We sent the money and waited to hear about the new house.

On Thursday, November 22nd-Thanksgiving:
In the basement of my grandfather in law’s house in Minnesota my phone lights up and the +256 prefix tells me that it is a call from Uganda. I slide to answer and Patrick tells me that he went to the bank and that the money was not there. The bank needs confirmation of the wire or something. I can’t understand Patrick. I say that Thanksgiving may have delayed the wire-they would probably have to wait an extra day. He tells me Happy Thanksgiving.

Patrick calls again later and asks me to send an email confirming the money. I typed up the most official looking unofficial confirmation letter I could.

Me, in an email on November 22: I have attached a confirmation letter for a wire transfer made from Beautiful Response to Raising Up Hope in Uganda, the authorized persons being Patrick and William.

Friday, November 23 In the Hallmark of the Mall of America: Patrick calls to tell me that the money has still not arrived. He is in Kampala at the main branch trying to receive the money. Can you please ask your bank to confirm the transfer?

I try because Patrick went into Kampala and is waiting, hoping, waiting. The least I can do is make a phone call. So I am on the phone with Wells Fargo in Christmas-Hyped-Hallmark on Black Friday in the largest Mall in the United States of America trying to get money to Uganda to buy a second house for a group of orphaned kids. I pick up bright birthday cards and chuckle at them-trying to blend in with the mom and strollers. All I can get is machines and transfers and odd stares from Hallmark employees.

Me, November 26 in an email: Hi Patrick, I’m sorry for all of the trouble this has been. I went into our bank today and talked to them. If you have not received the money yet, our bank will connect with the your bank to investigate the matter.

Patrick, on November 28: We last communicated when the money wasn’t here yet and since then we haven’t been there as I have been sick with Malaria. Please pray for us.

Patrick on November 29: Subject: funds are here!!! First I would like to thank you for all the effort you have put in raising this money and the love you have for these children, we actually don’t know how we will give you back to show you how much we are appreciated but we just give all glory and honor for God to who you are both in our lives here in Uganda. surely so many lives has been saved and given hope just because you came and showed sign of love in action!.

But...for some reason, the exchange rate was not what we had anticipated. We had sent a few bucks under what the agreed price was for the house.

Negotiating in Uganda

Patrick to us on November 30: just want to drop some few lines to tell you where we are about the purchase of the the land! today the committee and lawyer sat at around 12:30 due to people coming late and the heavy rain that was here. When we sat we told the meeting how much money we have got and henry said that he doesn’t get money installment he wants it full. we had no more money to pay.

so we were not able to purchase the house today i am sad very sad!
Our hearts are broken and we are very upset.


The seller wasn’t willing to wait on the rest of the money, and so the deal didn’t happen.

Then Patrick went to Gulu, up north, for a week on a service trip.

December 6: Sonja is sitting on a white carpet in front of a red fireplace and I am on a white couch. We are sitting around a coffee table with others in our young married’s small group. I am sipping a cup of coffee. My phone is sitting on the glass coffee table when it starts vibrating. It is Uganda, and we still don’t know what is going on with the house. I look at Sonja. She gives me the nod to take it. I miss the call-I slid too late. I sit back down and wait for it to ring again. Patrick and William always call more than once. Soon it lights up again.

William: Hello, Hello! How are you?! How are you?!
I slip away to the kitchen and talk quietly.
Me: I’m good, good. How are you doing? What is the news?
William: Yes, I’m doing very fine. How is mama RUHU?
Me: She is good. We are out at a meeting currently, but I really wanted to hear from you! Thank you for calling!
William: O! Yes, of course. I thought it would be good to give you an update on things here.
Me: Yes, that would be great.
William: Yes, because I think maybe we have not spoken in some time now, so you would want to know the latest,
Me: Right. Yes, thanks for calling. What is the latest?
William: So, we are just waiting, because, you know Patrick is up in Gulu. So we are still waiting.

We talk for a little longer. William is one of the best men I know, and I wish I could talk to him for hours, but nothing is new. Still waiting.

I sit back down on the couch and Sonja moves towards me and looks at me for a sign of news.

I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. She moves back in front of the fireplace and gets comfortable.

_____________________________________________________________________


(Post-script: William called yesterday. It looks like it may not happen until January now. He said he was calling because Patrick was too upset to talk on the phone.)

The Timeline

           We are planning for a fundraiser. It's pretty fun.  

I have some ideas about how to present some of the blogs. One could be on paper, one could be on an ipad, maybe one of them could even be hand-written.  Nice, right?

 I thought maybe we could do a timeline-to show how things have changed and where Beautiful Response has gone in the past few years. We’ve got some great pictures-pictures of the beginning, pictures of where we are now.  The tables will look really great.  Sonja is good at that. There are going to be colorful pieces of cloth and jewelry made by the kids. 

Bright screens with great resolution showing pictures of smiling kids.

Brilliant displays for brilliant kids.

We will tell some great stories and share some laughs. There will be food and drink. Sonja and I will walk around and talk to people about the great things that are happening in Uganda-about where we’ve come in the past few years. We want to raise $50,000 dollars because there is so much hope, so much further that the timeline needs to go.

We are planning for a fun evening, and you are invited-truly invited November 10^th, 4:00-6:00 Quail Lodge Carmel Valley, CA. There is so much hope and what God is doing at the orphanage is full of joy.

 

The other day I was working on fundraiser stuff and I accidently opened a word doc called Child Profile. I had meant to open a letter I am drafting to send to businesses.  I meant to open Business Letter for BR. I opened Child Profile.

Child Profile is a 46 page doc. Each page has the name of a child, the age they were in 2010, their picture, and their story.

I began to scroll down. I began to read their stories again.  Without food, badly beaten, parents died, unwanted, they had no one, AIDS, abused, alone on the streets. I saw their pictures and remembered the story behind each face. Couldn’t earn enough, mother was mentally ill, locked them in the house, left without hope.

It was their stories that got us in the first place.

`           It is their stories that get me today.
 

I read the stories again and remembered the tragedies that started our timeline. I couldn’t stop staring at my computer screen.  I couldn’t move on.

In the fun and the hope and the joy of the new things happening at the orphanage in Uganda I had forgotten the disaster-the wretched reality that some things will not be as they should have been.  I had forgotten that for these kids, the timeline has things on it that cannot be changed.

There are some hurts that no fundraiser will ever heal.  We cannot forget that.

 

But these kids, they sing about a God who rights all wrongs-a God who controls how the timeline ends.  We are following their lead.

So

The tables will look nice.

There will be food and drink.

We will laugh and tell good stories

And we will be full of hope in a God who ends the timeline so much better than it started.

Scenes From A Hat

by charlie walter

              

 

              Caleb loves Whose Line Is It Anyway. He is Colin Mocrie. In college, he played the part.

              Now he looks the part, too.

              Myself, I am a Ryan Stiles man.

              There is a game from the show called Scenes From a Hat.

              Just short scenes.

               

                I find it best when we don’t try to say too much.

                So, from Uganda,

August 2, 2012

                The last morning, we walk with our bags in tow. I am tugging a piece of wheeled luggage. It rollicks in the grooves carved deep by boda-boda motorcycles. All of the roads in Bulenga are red-clay that turns to mud-slop in the rain.

                When we reach the center of town, we walk single file--five muzungus, white folks, toting our packaged bags. The children stand and wave. “Bye Muzungus.” They will not see us again.

                Yesterday, the children were ready with a chant. “Bye Muzungus bye Muzungus bye muzungus!” They jumped and chanted.

                We walk single file through town. I stop at my favorite shop, which is my favorite because they understand when I say “Water. Big.” They give me water, big. Other shops hear me say “Warid. Big.” Warid is cell phone airtime.

                I want big water, not big airtime.

                We make our last walk by the chapati stands. I will miss the smell. At night, the chapati are lit in glass cases by a hot light bulb. Bulenga at night is alive and buzzing, with single light bulbs lighting bananas and chapattis and airtime cards and phones and shoes and sodas. The music thumps and you listen to one song as you walk, until that song blends with the song coming from the next stand. You hop from song to song.

                When we are just a few minutes from the orphanage, I push the handle down on my luggage and pick it up by the strap. For the last little bit, I want to be a bit less muzungu, with my rolling luggage. I want to be a bit more Bulengan, with my thin, lean arms that strain with long muscles.

                That is how the Bulengans are. That is how the children are--boys and girls. Long arms. Lean muscles. Veins running down their forearms. Their upper arms are no thicker than my wrist, but they are full of power, like,

                carry two jerry cans of water from the well down the road to the orphanage,

                like,

                drum for two hours, furiously beating palms into the skin of the drums,

                like,

 

                pick you up off your feet from behind and you turn, and who is it,

                it’s thin and brilliant Becca who has lifted you,

                like,

                we get to the orphanage with our luggage, and the kids shoulder our duffel bags and burden our backpacking packs and tug our rolling luggage away from us to stack inside.

                They are brilliantly lean and strong. Kind.

                And they can lift you off your feet.

 

July 25, 2012

                I am re-stringing a guitar for them, the only guitar, which was up in the attic above one of the girls rooms. It is black and has four strings.

                I poke myself with the tip of a string. A red dot of blood on my finger. I suck it. I continue with my work. Two of the littlest kids come to me. They pluck the one string I have on. They pluck hard. Thumpa-thumpa. I let them.

                I continue with my re-stringing. It is one of my least favorite tasks back home.

                A few strings later, there are seven kids. They all pluck while I work. Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa. The uncut strings at the neck of the guitar spider out wildly. The tips are so sharp, but the kids linger close. A mom would pull the kids away, Your eyes! Watch your eyes. A dad might tell them to go, Give me some space, geez.

                I’m like an Uncle. Hey, watch this.

                I work. They pluck.

                One boy pinches my knee and asks, “Where is Obama?”

                “He’s at home,” I say.

                “Obama,” the boy says again. It is his magical word.

 

August 5, 2012,

                D. has a kind smile and big eyes. He will flex if you take a picture of him with his buddies. They will all flex. Their muscles are long and lean and sinewy. They are so strong. So lean. They carry water in jerry cans two-at-a-time.

                It is what they have: long, lean arms. They are so proud of them. They all flex. They are so strong.

                And D. He is kind, endlessly, and he loves to play football, shoeless-ly, and he speaks soft, and he will flex,

                but only if all of his friends flex, too.

 

August 1, 2012

                Today, I start taking pictures. I am going to take one.

                Then it is two.

                Then it’s the children dancing. Them singing. Sitting reading, scrubbing bubble-soap shirts and then tossed on the clothesline running through the middle of the courtyard, fetching water, arms flexed and smiles big, littlest ones with their bellies pulsing under their t-shirts, barefoot brownfoot, shirtless and pretty flower dress and jean overalls no-shirt. Miracle.

                One picture turns into 54..

                I understand, now,

                how the orphanage is growing.