After the Journey: July 18th: The Victims Circle

And so it happens that exactly one week after Rose’s Journey, I return to Bamunanika to lay to rest, another step mother. The sadness I have is not for her but for her children—my step siblings—whom I am supposed to meet today. My heart aches...I can imagine their sorrow and grief; I have been in their position many times. It is heartrending to lose a parent. In the car to the funeral, I spend much time thinking about that. Thinking about what Brian, Allen, Julius, and Vincent must be feeling ( I mentioned their Mother in the previous Blog). I know they lost their father, my father, at a time when they were much too young to comprehend the magnitude of that loss. But not now; now they are a little older, and now they are true orphans. My brother Tom, his wife Hilda, and Hajati (my Brother Robert’s wife) are all in the car with me. I have most of this dialog in my head and heart, I say very little to my companions…

We stop at Sure House (central Kampala) to buy a wreath; I think it is an appropriate gesture for a woman who was part of our lives even in a small way. At the flower shop, the gentleman asks me to write on the card before sticking it to the cover of the wreath. He asks me who has died and I say to him, “Our step mother.” He says, as if to correct me, “So it’s your mother...!” I know what he means, there is no classification when it comes to family in Uganda—your father’s wives are all your mothers, and all his children are your brothers and sisters. I know this, so I do not argue with him...

When I have the card, I stop long enough to think of what to write, long enough for the flower-shop-man to say to me; “Write, Farewell Thee Mother…” It is not the words that I am looking for, although that is part of it, it is because for the first time since I was told she was dead, I chock up pretty badly. I hate saying these kinds of goodbyes, I doubt anybody likes them! I finally write, “Farewell Maama, we love you, all your children.” I don’t recall if my own mother had a wreath, so it feels right for this mother to have one. The flower man reads it and says to me in correction...“It is supposed to be farewell thee Mothe…” He is making me impatient, I am impatient when I am grieving...so I say “It is ok” in an effort to cut him off; I hope that I am not being too unkind to a stranger...but I write what I want it to be, I think. I write it on behalf of my siblings who I am meeting later that day, and I write it on behalf of all of us who were under her care for a short while. I remember that she was young and kind and probably a bit lost when she married my father…

We arrive at the funeral shortly after 11AM. There is a crowd and among them, several of my siblings, step uncles, another step mother (Maama R, the only one left of my father’s wives—of the ones he married), villagers I don’t recognize and the like. We take our mat to where Maama R and my sister Florence are seated. We greet everyone in earshot and settle into uncomfortable positions as we wait for the hour of the funeral. It is uncomfortable because I don’t remember the last time I knelt these many times to greet people, and my knees are screaming something I must obey…

In the mean time I make inquiries about the children. Florence points them out to me one by one...that is Brian she says, and that there is Allen…and so on. The children look a lot like most of my father’s children, and this likeness helps the way I feel towards them…mild kinship...I feel guilty that I am not feeling more...Brian is the first to come where we are seated; he greets us and calls me “Baaba” which is a respectable and appropriate way to address an older sister. I am not sure what to do or how to encourage and console him. His sense of loss and grief is palpable…I know he is going through the motions of greeting people. As I watch him, I think, “It is not fair for others to expect a child to greet them at a time like this!” But I know it is expected, and because it is expected, Brian has no choice but to adhere to the perfunctory customs...I watch this child, my brother and my heart breaks...small pieces of it...where is my anchor...?

My Uncle K calls a quick meeting. We all know what it is about, it is about collecting money—contributions towards funeral expenses. I get up grudgingly…I resent this...I resent the fact that I have to contribute money when someone is already dead and not before…but I voice none of this…perfunctory customs! People expect me to have money…you see I live in the United States, and anyone who lives in the United States has money! I have long given up explaining that none of that is true…partly because I know I could talk until I were blue in the face and no one would believe me…actually I still try...and I must examine how blue my face gets...

“We need money,” my uncle announces as soon as we gather around him. Instead of saying “how much” which is what is expected, I say “whatever for” in a nicer tone in Luganda and regret voicing my objections out loud. He is patient with me, this Uncle. I recently bought him a shirt and tie and this pleased him a great deal...there was a reason for the shirt...

He fires of several things we need money for…meat for one, matooke for other, rice et cetera. He then says that he and Fred had already gotten these things on credit…what was now needed is money to pay for them! I think, “This is not practical, why meat? We could have beans, they are less expensive.” I do not like being the only disagreeable person present, so I voice none of my objections…I have learned to choose my battles. One by one we check our pockets. My Uncle is the first to pull out a 20,000/- note, then MM, then CN, then Juda, then Tom, then Fred, Florence’s husband gives us 30,000/-, then Cissy, and finally, me. I know I am expected to give more, but I don’t have what is expected. We each hand in either a 10,000/- or 20,000/- note and by the end of the meeting we have 180,000/-. It is just enough to cover everything on the list which is, quite frankly, a relief…

Just before 4PM, the children are called inside the house to pay their final respects and wash the face of the dead body. I have not seen Maama Muto since 1996, at my father’s funeral and I don’t recognize the face I see when I step inside the house where her body is laid. The body is not treated…I note this. I note this because I am a nurse, one who is ridiculously sensitive to offensive smells. I note it too because it makes the final washing of the face even more nerving. I remember these kinds of smells…I know I am being judged, I stand out, I am the one he family threw out...people point their lips in my direction...I concentrate on the task at hand...

I scan the room to keep my mind occupied…I hate this part of the funeral proceedings. I remember it well. First, it was my mother, then it was my father, then it was my step mother, then it was Isaac…then it was Paul, et cetera, and now this step mother! Faces one never forgets: cold faces, unresponsive ones, and faces of our dear parents or relatives we would rather not encounter! Why do we do this? I wonder. Is this not a horrid way to remember someone? But I ask none of these questions out loud. Instead I do what is expected …

Allen cries none-stop shortly after the washing of her mother’s face. I hear her cry and it pierces my heart deeply, but I am not able to attend to her. I am still waiting in queue for my turn to wash my step mothers’ face for the final time. Allen continues to wail, and Julius follows her example, while Brian walks out as mechanically as he possibly can. Others in the room, including the mother of my step mother are crying quietly. I look at my step grandmother and note with sadness that she too will be dead soon. She will be dead soon because she too is HIV positive and has been poorly for the last few months. I know this from information passed on by his sons (my step uncles) who were among the people I had greeted outside on arrival. My sadness and sorrow deepens with each thought of her, as well as the thoughts of my dead step mother who lies in room, and the four children who are now orphaned…

When it is my turn to wash her face, I am determined not to fall apart. I am given a tiny ball of fresh banana fiber to wash her, and I am shown the technique which I am already familiar with. “Start at the fore head and down to the chin,” the woman who is sitting near the dead body and whom I do not recognize instructs. I do as instructed: I wash the cold, unrecognizable face of my step mother and in a small way honor her and say goodbye…

Outside, the wailing has stopped. I look for Allen and find her lying down with her head in Florence’s lap. I ask her if she needs anything…headache medicine, something to drink, something to eat…to which she says no. I suddenly have an overwhelming need to fix something…to do something, anything…and realize quickly that there are things that cannot be fixed, not today at least, and not by me either. I know that besides telling their story, I can pray for these children…I know that in some small way I can offer them up to the God I believe in, to one who rescued me and keeps bringing me back into these relationships, into this victims circle. I later look for Vincent and Julius and find that they too have stopped crying…for now…

At the grave site, we each throw a handful of soil over the casket and walk away. I follow Fred’s daughter, Proscovia, (Fred is my step brother who was neighbors with Maama Muto; and for Proscovia, this is the grandmother she has known all her life) who is now inconsolable. I cry with her and offer her the only thing I think appropriate, a companion in sorrow and grief. I quietly pray for her and hold her…it feels as though it is not enough…not enough to cover or fill the depth of sadness and loss consuming her heart and small body, but I pray anyway…

I am at home…life is raw…life is short…it is the way back home…

My step mother, the man responsible for announcements had said, was 43 years old; she is survived by four children; she was once married to Silvester Luyombya Kyobe...et cetera. Her homage is short, much like her life…

Much later, after people have eaten and most have left to return to their homes, my uncle K calls another meeting. Once we are gathered (my brother CN…heir to my father, Cissy, Fred, Robert, Tom, Florence, MM, R, Andrew, Juda and I), Uncle voices what had been on our minds all day long, “What happens to Brian, Julius, Allen and Vincent?” I think, “I knew this was coming, it is the reason we should have bought beans instead of meat...”

Someone interrupts my condemning thoughts by mentioning my name. They suggest that maybe I should take the children to the Orphanage I volunteer for, and another suggests we pay tuition and school fees for them. The meeting goes on like this…one idea after another with no concrete plan…

I keep wondering internally what my responsibility in all this is, how it all now becomes my responsibility! I try not to think of the past, I think instead of the future...

The sense of helplessness from everyone in the meeting is overwhelming. Everyone has a problem big enough to warrant help from other people, no one is able to comfortably take on added responsibilities. I start to feel guilty…I am single and without children of my own. I am unemployed but live in the United States, and attend one of the most prestigious colleges in the world. I am adopted by an Irish family who are well-off by Ugandan standards, and I am an activist for women and children. From the look of things, I am the only one who seems to have no problems, besides the fact that I am not able to take four children to live with me in my apartment in New Haven…

We end the meeting with no concrete plan, but to ‘think’ about the problem…When it is time to leave, I look for my siblings (Brian and team) to say goodbye to them. I know I am breaking another custom…one does not say goodbye after the funeral…one just leaves. Well aware of this, I still look for my siblings. I have, in the past broken customs and replaced them with the Grace of God. In this circle of grace, I am confident of God’s protection over my life and that of others. When I find them, I embrace each one not knowing when I will be seeing them again, not knowing what the future holds for them, and not having a concrete plan for their welfare. In parting, I make one promise, I shall return to see you, I say. Be brave, I say again, and God bless you, I finish. I know that is a promise and a prayer I can keep…

In the car, on the way back to Kampala, all four of us are silent for some time. Conversations are forced and labored…Brian, Julius, Allen and Vincent are on our minds. What will happen to them, I wonder and so does Tom and his wife. We are quickly distracted by Kampala traffic 35 minutes after we leave Bamunanika and just as easily, our thoughts quickly shift to the task at hand…how to avoid sitting in traffic for the next hour or so, and how to avoid being killed by mad taxi drivers! I am saddened by the quick turn of events and how quickly life shifts, how full of distractions, and how quickly we forget…Gayita Kukibi Negaseka, my mother said…

When I get back to my house, DJ is there, having cancelled his trip to the north. He inquires about my day and I his. I give little feedback about mine and I finally say, as if to sum up everything I am feeling, that I am exhausted. This is the answer I give to Helen as well; my host and a VSO volunteer currently staying in the house. It is a true descriptor of how I feel; I have been so busy before and after the walk that exhausted seems like an understatement. I eat a mango and retire to bed...

Once alone, I finally feel the sadness and sorrow of the day, the life history of all my parents weighs heavily on my heart; their short-lived romances; the chronicles of shifted blame—children to parent, parent to parent, and parents to children; their pain and despair as they lay dying…each knowing what they were leaving behind; their shame, guilt, and humiliation as a result of their actions, especially when the consequences became too public an event such as impending death; the stigma of HIV that most people have forgotten...as if it does not exist any longer: their pride and efforts to save face, to hide their fears; inherited patterns of behavior I now witness among some of my siblings, and of lessons not learned; the pain, shame and humiliation we have had to suffer as a result of our parent’s choices; the weight of the expected responsibility we have to each other; and numerous parentless children left behind…a family in shambles, always in turmoil, a victims circle...!

I weep at, and because of these things. I pray quietly even as I ask…when will all this end? At what point will the pleasures of adults cease to be more important than the welfare of their children? I receive no answers…I pray still…When I become president--if ever--I predict I will be one of them who cry!!!

We journey together, through and in these places; we journey for and because of people locked in and out of victims circles…and we hope still…our solidarity is noted, a permanent imprint of one hundred and forty four thousand steps…

“Lord, be the goal of my pilgrimage and my rest by the way." -St. Augustine

Rose Photo by Jeff Scroggins: http://www.jeffscroggins.com/

After the Journey: July 17th: The OG of Luteete Primary School drops in for a visit

Thank you all for your feedback on the blogs. For many Ugandans, I know some of these do not "hit close to home" as the cliche goes, they hit home! I am inspired by the stories I hear back, keep them coming...after a couple more of these stories, I will update you with news of Susan and Akiror, plus a little more of Rose's Journey on television. In writing the blog, I hoped to draw everyone into the experiences of life as it happens in Uganda at least--the mundane parts, the not so glamorous bits, the ordinary ways in which people are inspired...to get up and get on with it, ways in which the road ends and then it starts, and hopefully ways in which each of us can find an anchor to face the storm...sometimes, may be more often than we think or experience, this is the way of life for many people. We journey through these together...

Six days after Rose’s Journey I get another call from my brother Juda. Juda calls me to say hi sometimes, but quite often, he is the bearer of bad news. I sense something is up as soon as I answer his call. He says to me after the greeting that Maama Muto has passed away. I am not shocked by the news, it is expected, and we have all been expecting it. Maama Muto has been sick for a while…sick with HIV/AIDS, just like our father, the man she had been married to at the time of his death. Maama Muto (the young mother) is what we called her to distinguish her from the rest of our fathers’ wives. True, she was the youngest—only six years older than I when she married my father; that was around 1988 I think, I was coming up to my sixteenth birthday and she was barely 22! The name stuck until she had her first son, my step brother Brian. She then became Maama Brian...

Her passing means there is only one left of the five wives my Father married, plus one other woman with whom he had four children, but never married…I know, hang with me...it is if confusing. Maama Muto is the 4th to die, and now only one woman (well plus one other—technically two women) remains before the history of my Father’s loves comes to an end. We have buried them all; starting with my mother who died in child birth many years earlier and at a very young age; She was barely 37 when she passed; followed by my step mother (the mother of 8 other children, one set of step siblings), and another step mother (mother to Fred and Frank and a sister I hardly know) and now Maama Muto ….ok, if you have gone through that section without sighing...bravo...

When Juda calls, I am in the middle of planning a trip to Bamunanika with my friend DJ who is still here after Rose’s Journey. DJ is the president of Narrow Road, an International NGO based in Breckenridge Colorado, and I am one of its board members. We are supposed to go to Bamunanika to film there—part of Rose’s Journey, the Documentary. The news delivered by Juda alters my plans for the day and the day after. How can I pass through the village, camera ready when my step mother lies dead a few kilometers away from Bamunanika? It would not look or feel right. After some soul searching and deliberations, DJ and I decide to go to Bamunanika and visit my former primary school—Luteete Mixed Primary School—and then stop at my sister Florence’s house for lunch. We do exactly that and manage to stay inconspicuous for the most part…

In the car and on the way to Bamunanika, my brother Tom (who offered to drive us) and I reminisce about the old days. He asks me if I remember bringing cow-dung to school for smearing the black boards. We both laugh, of course I remember. I remember that I (I notice I say so and so and I a lot--I never remember the correct grammar--sorry mother) would forget to collect it the day before and that I was always one of those pupils who would be ducking into somebody’s garden to get the required banana leaf, and then I would furiously look for cow-dung on the way to school—in a field, anywhere. Once located, there was always the trouble of scooping it up and nicely wrapping it up before finally and proudly presenting it to the teacher! Quite a saga…We talk about several other experiences weird experiences (I will spare you those) of growing up poor and in a village, and how we never even realized how very poor we were...how our poverty and tragedies seemed to be universal…

When we pass the former soccer field which looks un-kept, I remember that there used to be a cattle dip right opposite it. I tell Tom and DJ of the day I fell into this cattle-dip filled with tick-cide (what we called coopertox), and how my uniform stank so much I had to sit at the borehole while other children pumped water over me for hours. We thought this was a great intervention and that mother would probably not ‘smell me’ on return, we were wrong...

We arrive at the primary school at lunch time and when we get out of the car, I start pointing things out to DJ. Look, there are the pit latrines where I used to hide during PE time. I explain the reasons for hiding to DJ…he listens intently without interrupting. DJ is a thoughtful man; I never quite know what he is thinking. Sometimes, long after we have had a conversation about something, DJ will say…so Rose about that conversation...I have learned to wait for that “So, Rose…”

I point out class four (P.4) which barely exists now. A little bit of the old structure and its foundation still exists, however, the building itself, from the look of things, must have collapsed a few years ago. They have not managed to rebuild any of it; instead, they moved the old offices as well as classes, to another rundown structure across the road. I tell DJ and Tom that I spent a night here once, the day the family threw me out. I wrote on the backboard--thanks to all the cow-dung--"stay alive" as the first order of business...!

Tom shakes his head, he is sad to learn more of the truth now and although I have spared him and others the hurt I felt, I know that he knows the truth of that too. With Rose’s Journey, he has had discoveries of his own. So has Steven, my other brother who walked with me on July 11th. Both men (for they have grown up from the children we helped raise after mother’s death, into sensible men) have felt a little of what I felt, they have had memories of their own, and I hope that this is as important to them as it is to me. We journey together, we remember together. We try to be Ugandans who are making a difference. We each know that this…the retracing of our journeys…will not leave us the same…

Several children are out playing, most teachers are off to where ever they have their lunch break, and there is only one adult to talk to. The children point us in the direction of the new but run down office, which is where the only adult present is standing. He invites us inside. We enter a very crammed and dusty office and I ask the gentleman, as I squeeze myself between two tables to get to an empty chair, if it is ok for us to sit down. I get a rapid yes, and yes to the inquiry. I ask him if he is the headmaster and he tells me he is the head-teacher. I have forgotten what that means so I don’t ask for fear of appearing ignorant. His name is Frank. I introduce myself and tell Mr. Frank that I am actually an “Old Girl” of the school. To this he smiles knowingly as though he suddenly remembers who I am. He probably does—every child must look the same to the teachers. I look out the window and think…yeah I must have looked like any other child here, scrawny, shoeless, mug in hand for my breakfast, mute in classes just like I were expected to be, and only in trouble occasionally for forgetting to pickup cow-dung for the yearly blackboard smear, or failure to attend PE due to the embarrassing strings around my body…

We sign a guest book, which feels like I am doing something I am not supposed to do (like I am breaking a rule), and leave Mr. Frank to get on with his job. Outside, the children gather around DJ who is holding a camera. I, on the other hand, forget that I am an adult. I think I regress back to my childhood, which surprisingly, gives me much freedom now than it did then. I enjoy the company of these, my counterparts. I scoot down and start looking at their mugs to see if they are doing the same thing I did—mark it with my name. Although very territorial, it was not the reason we marked them--we just did not want anyone to steal the mug, most likely the only mug one had for use at home as well school—and sure enough I find what I am looking for. We chat about their life, what subjects they prefer in school...they shout them out one by one…Mathematics, English, Social Studies, Sciences, PE, Religious Education et cetera. I say to DJ. “They are the same, nothing has changed at all.” A group of girls edge closer to where we are and I spot a jump-rope made out of banana fibers. It is an absolute pleasure to join the game for a few minutes. When we leave the school, I cannot help but wonder how many of the kids I met will make it; and how many will specifically make it to a place like Yale…

We arrive at my sister’s house much later than we had anticipated. I am not worried, I am home and here, one frets less and less about time and the passing of it or there being less of it to waste. When the subject of Maama Muto comes up, which is fairly quickly after the greetings, we embark on a long discussion about our father’s wives and children. We all disagree as to how many he had. Tom has a different figure, so do I, and so do Steven (Florence’s’ husband) and Florence. I say, “Its 36,” and Tom says, “No its 37” and Steven says “I thought it was only 30,” to which we all exclaim “No No, that is too small a number, it is more like 40!” DJ is amused and sits quietly in the room observing all of us engage in a rather unusual family chitchat. My family makes an interesting case study, someone once said...they meant well! We finally start counting…wife one, these many children, wife two (my mother) 8, wife three and so on and so forth. When we get to Maama Muto, I say “Definitely two” and I get an evil eye from Florence who quickly corrects me, “Its four,” she says; “There is Brian, then Allen, plus Julius and Vincent.” I am flabbergasted, at what point did she have all these children? I remember then that I must have been away from home by that time…

On the way back to Kampala…my thoughts shift back to Luteete Primary School and the statistics of how many of those children will live beyond their pre-teen years, how many will go to college (Luteete, as dismal a place as it is, being a prep school for them as it were mine), how many will escape the cruel injustices planned against them by others around them, how many will have someone to sing, rejoice over them, and cheer them on, how many will have opportunities to be shaped into leaders of our beloved country…how many will have someone to say “we will hold on to you,” how many of their stories will be told around the country or the world, how many of their voices will be heard and not heard, and how many will later on smile as I do when I return to Luteete and I think, “I was once here, I am still here because you are, and I thank God Almighty I survived…you too will…hope comes alive...!”

I remember that on July 11th, we journeyed together—the children and others and me—believing in the healing of communities, one child at a time…

Note: Photos by friends. "She got to see her self" by Citizen Camera

Two weeks before Rose's Journey: The Way Back Home

Three days after I arrive home, one of my brothers calls me to deliver sad news. “Aunt Jane has died,” Tom says, “the funeral is tomorrow, he concludes.” I am still fighting jet lag so it takes me a while to process the information. Aunt Jane? Yes, Aunt Jane, I hear Tom repeat the information. I know who she is, a sister to my father, and one I have not seen for many years. Tom also tells me that a week ago, someone had pronounced Aunt Jane dead, and that several family members had gone home for the funeral only to be told that actually the deceased was still alive, but not well. She had only gone into a deep coma which was mistaken as death…a very honest mistake. Following his call, Juda, another one of my brothers, calls to deliver the same news and tells me that this time Aunt Jane is really dead. It is not meant to be funny, but the way he says it, is funny, so we both nervously laugh. Someone dead cannot be any deader…

My father had five sisters and four brothers. Out of the ten siblings, five have died of HIV AIDS, among them; my Father, his brother and my Uncle James, as well as his sisters: Aunt Regina, Aunt Nalubuga, and now Aunt Jane... The men were handsome, and the women gorgeous and good-natured, especially Regina…so full of fun and humor...

One by one they have fallen…leaving behind a history of sadness and numerous parentless children who are creating legacies of their own. News of their deaths is often not surprising, but it is not any less painful. We often know the truth of their illnesses, we pray and wait; we look at each other knowingly—a look that is so familiar and recognizable—the secret language of a family in turmoil; then we hope and wait; we call each other with news of who is ill and where they are, and then we wait again; we encourage treatment especially with those with whom we are close, and wait; and then one day…the dreaded telephone call…she/he is dead, no more! The telephone call has become the wind that takes out the last hope; that blows out the candle light; and one that halts all other plans. The collective family often finds its way back home after one such call…

I worry about my extended family as much as I pray for them. I worry about our collective legacy. I worry about lessons not learned. I draw family trees and count the ones who are dead, and I worry about history repeating itself. The way back home for us is always littered with loss, with pain, with sorrow, with blame, and with grief. I often wonder how this (our) history mirrors that of hundreds and thousands of other Ugandans around the nation, I wonder about what should, or must be done to break the cycle, and to change the “mood” and “view” of the way back to our respective homes...I take comfort in Psalms 23 and wonder how many of my counterparts feel or lack this comfort…

On the day Aunt Jane dies, I find myself on the computer looking for statistics on the Uganda Ministry of Health website as well as the WHO (World Health Organization) web site. I am compelled to look at the recent mortality rates…I wonder out loud…will my aunt ever be represented by a number in these pages? Perhaps and most likely not! Many Ugandans die in their homes and their deaths are never reported. My Aunt died in her home, so I figure readily she won’t make the mortality rate index. I still peruse through the pages looking for something I am not sure of…Statistics from the WHO site include but are not limited to: Life expectancy at birth m/f (years): 49/51; Healthy life expectancy at birth m/f (years, 2003): 42/44; Probability of dying under five (per 1 000 live births): 134; Probability of dying between 15 and 60 years m/f (per 1 000 population): 518/474; Total expenditure on health per capita (Intl $, 2006): 143; and Total expenditure on health as % of GDP (2006): 7.2 (http://www.who.int/countries/uga/en/). Depressing…so many years of life lost to HIV! Perhaps, I should be doing something more constructive and encouraging…!

So I ask myself a question that most people hopefully ask themselves, “How do we change the context of our banner?” A good question to consider as I embark on Rose’s Journey. I think of other ways I can bring hope home and share that hope. I know it is easy to see the stretch of the road, its endlessness and the litter in it… the statistics, loss, pain, sorrow, despair, blame, and grief. But I also know it is possible to see hope, to feel hope, to walk through this road with hope, to find a place where hope comes alive and continues to fill the way back home! I think of the litter and I pray Psalm 23…The Lord is my (our) shepherd, I (we) shall not want…

At 2PM the next day, at our funeral home in Kakuba, we lay Aunt Jane to her final resting place. I see many of my relatives and hustle each one with personal questions, I have no shame…have you been tested for HIV…if you are sick are you on treatment? They all look at me with that familiar look; it says “What concern is it of yours…or sometimes…are you crazy...or others are just puzzled! But often others respond truthfully and are glad someone is asking. I want to scream…most of the time anyway…an internal scream “wake up my people, wake up..!”

A collective experience of life in these places and others not noted here, and of memories of my life in Uganda, take me on the road this summer…take me back home. I am doing something, even if it is just walking...changing the context, displaying courage in the face of the sum of the litter…

Note: Road Photo by Citizen Camera:http://citizencamera.synthasite.com/