We are at the end of our time in Africa, and perhaps more daunting, at the end of our time on the World Race. Our squad is currently in Jinja, near the source of the Nile, where we’ll spend a few days debriefing this transformative year and fitting in as much time together as possible before we go our separate ways on Monday.
Choosing what to write about is always so challenging, and this time was no different. Initially I wanted to write about what it’s like having white skin in Africa. (It means hearing boisterous shouts of, “MZUNGU! MZUNGU!” anywhere you walk. Mzungu is a Swahili word for traveler or foreigner, but these days, it just means, “white person.” It means always paying more for boda boda rides and produce. It means being identified as a remnant of the colonialism that wreaked havoc on most of the continent. Always being singled out, for better or for worse, because of my skin color in Africa, has deepened my understanding of what it must be like for minorities in America. I don’t fully understand…but I have a glimpse of how it feels to have everyone around you make assumptions about you solely because of your skin color. It’s unfair.)
But with everyone writing about race, I thought it futile to add another voice to the conversation, which brings me to the next topic I considered broaching…Donald Trump and the American presidential election. It was surreal to watch the election unfold from afar…to hear Ugandans, Rwandans, Ethiopians, Iraqis, Romanians, Kenyans, et al discuss the conundrum in which we’ve found ourselves. One thing is sure – this result impacts the entire world. As our host explained, “As America goes, so goes Uganda.” But again, adding to an already-exhausting choir of voices felt obscene.
Then I met a eighteen-year-old girl called Brenda, and I knew she was it. Her story in her words would be far more moving, more Spirit-filled than all of my musings about what’s going on in the world.
First, some background: it’s estimated that there are about 10,000 children living and/or working on the streets in Kampala. It’s hard to know the exact number, because it is constantly changing and is on the rise. “Children living on the streets face violence and discrimination by police, local government officials, their peers, and the communities in which they work and live. Some left home because of domestic abuse, neglect, and poverty, only to suffer brutality and exploitation by older children and homeless adults on the streets. They often lack access to clean water, food, medical attention, shelter, and education.” (Human Rights Watch, 2014) The organization we served with this month, Save Street Children Uganda (SASCU), is committed to rescuing, rehabilitating, reintegrating, educating, and protecting these most wonderful of humans. Getting to serve with followers of Jesus around the world who are changing their communities and bringing light into the lives of the least of these has been one of the great gifts of my life.
Last week, we spent an afternoon in a Kampala slum, zigzagging through corrugated metal and mud structures, through narrow alleyways, stopping in to visit with families. Our objective was to assess which children were most vulnerable and might need the assistance of SASCU. Many of our visits ended with prayer over these beautiful people and their homes. One of our stops that day was Brenda’s home. Brenda lived at SASCU for many years and has now been reintegrated into this neighborhood, where she lives with her auntie. We left her home in awe of her faith, resilience, and gumption.
While we were with Brenda, she read us a portion of life story from her journal. A few of us shed tears as we listened. As we left, I asked her if I could share her story in her words with my friends in the States. She was ecstatic and said that if anyone would be encouraged by her story, she would love to share it.
Tomorrow, I’ll post her story in her words. It’s beautiful. Stay tuned.
