Reuniting with the Orphans

This fall I reunited with the orphans and their caretaker Ester for the first time since leaving Uganda over five years ago. We speak frequently, but seeing each other after so long was thrilling for all of us. The three remaining girls in the program - Beatrice, Sylvia, and Rachel - were happy to tell me in person about their school, friends, and dreams.

 

One thing Ester and I wanted to do while I was there was buy the orphans supplies for their upcoming semester in boarding school. As part of attending boarding school, the children must come with everything they need for the semester. This includes paper, pens, and other schools supplies. They also need to have their daily necessities, such as toilet paper, mosquito nets, and bedding. Ester has to buy these supplies for each of the orphans three times a year before each semester.

Ester and I went to several stores to get everything the orphans needed. In fact, we got so many supplies that we loaded up two boda bodas (motorcycles) after just one stop at a local store. The young men driving the bodas were a little amused seeing an American with bags of school supplies in the middle of Uganda, speaking to them in Luganda. (Yes! I actually remember the language!)

Once we got home, Ester handed out the supplies to each of the girls. Beaming, the girls filled up their metal back-to-school trunks, excited about their last semester in this grade. They are very grateful to be returning to school. They know that their schooling, school supplies, rent, and everything else they own is entirely bought with donations I collect from friends in America.

Beatrice, Sylvia, and Rachel

Beatrice, the eldest girl, is studying hard to one day be a teacher. Beatrice is a workhorse, cleaning and cooking for her younger siblings - always with a smile on her face - and being an all-around enormous help to Ester, who now has three of her own children. Sylvia, the middle sister, hopes to eventually follow in her sister's footsteps and become a teacher when she grows up. Just as I remembered her to be, Sylvia is the tenderhearted one in the family. She is a little shy, but very sweet and nurturing to the younger kids in the neighborhood. Rachel, the "baby" of the family, is now nine years old and wants to be a nurse eventually. Although the youngest of the three girls, she is - as ever - the most animated and fearless.

Richard, the girls' only brother, is turning nineteen soon. He decided a few weeks before my arrival that he was ready to end his studies, and has accepted a job in another part of the country. Unfortunately I did not see him while I was there, but I understand that he is enjoying working for a mechanic and that his leg is still strong and healthy.

The girls were as grateful as ever to get their school supplies, but they were over the moon about the gifts I brought them. Before I left to visit them, many of you donated clothes, accessories, toys, and art supplies for me to bring them. I ended up with three suitcases filled with everything from candies and nail polish and balls, to stickers and pens and books, to shoes, track suits, and dresses - and more! These are cherished gifts that they would never have enjoyed if it weren't for your generosity.

During our visit, we also took the orphans, Ester, and her children on a couple of local sight-seeing trips. The kids got to see the source of the River Nile at Lake Victoria. We hired a private car to travel the short distance from their town of Lugazi to Jinja, Once we were at the river, we got into a small boat to take us the quick trip from the shore. This alone was a big deal: getting in a car, and then getting into a boat. The girls were a little nervous about the boat at first, but quickly got used to gliding over the water. The guide explained the local birds and plants as we cruised toward the nexus of the lake's end and the river's beginning. When the guide pointed to the gurgling water, saying that it was an underwater spring and considered the source of the great river, Beatrice broke out in a massive smile. In African culture there is a great deal of allegiance to where you are from, and she was clearly very proud to see something so powerful and important near her home. 

The kids also loved seeing the Mabira Forest. This forest is only a ten minute drive from their town, but they had never been before. A guide took us on a nature walk and taught us about the wide variety of plants, many of which serve important functions within the community. Some plants are made into medications, while others into goods like paper or matting. The kids also got to see some rare birds and heard, but unfortunately did not spot, some of the rain forest's monkeys. 

Returning to see the children was as surreal and moving an experience as I could have imagined it to be. In most ways, the children's lives and the town they live in is amazingly similar to how I remember it over 5 years ago. The girls are just bigger now, more mature, and speak better English. At first I found it a little strange to go back and see just how little has changed, but I quickly realized that this was a very good thing. The girls are as happy and healthy as I remember them to be. Ester is doing a tremendous job taking care of them. It is heartwarming to see how they have grown and to imagine where they will be as they continue down their paths. It is also a major accomplishment that our work has saved Richard's leg and has given him the schooling and tools he needs to be a successful adult.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you again for your support. It has allowed these children to live joyful lives, and they look forward to promising futures.

Front right to left: Peanut, Jill, Ester and her son Jayden
Middle right to left: Sylvia, Rachel, me and Mike
Back right to left: Ester's stepmother, Carol, Beatrice, Ester's nephew, father and brother

Before and after pictures.... The first photo in each before and after set below is from the day we found them in the village in June 2009. The second photo is from September 2015, after we have been caring for the orphans for over 6 years.

The three orphans

Sylvia

Rachel

Beatrice

Love Letter

Dear Friends and Family,

I am very happy to inform you that Richard Ogola has recently completed a successful surgery for the chronic infection in his leg and is recuperating at home. Based on a check-up he had yesterday, the doctor says Richard is healing well and should make a full recovery. Because of your kindness he has been receiving treatment at the best hospital in Uganda.

Without your continued assistance, kindness and support this surgery would not have occurred and Richard's life would not be so drastically improved. The children and Ester are well aware that I am not the only one helping them and are constantly telling me to thank all of you. In addition, I would like to extend my personal thanks for your patience. Coordinating this procedure took much longer than expected, and I am sure all of you are as relieved as I am that Richard has finally received the treatment that he so desperately needed.

Also, your continued compassion and involvement have meant that the children are now attending a boarding school. This is significant as boarding schools are the preferred form of education in Uganda due to their more rigorous curriculum. The children are very excited about their new school and know they are being better prepared to realize their dreams of becoming nurses and teachers.

Again, I cannot begin to express how grateful the children, Ester and I are for your support and how much it is profoundly improving their lives.

Thank you again.

Sincerely,
Natalie

A Case for Charity

It’s now been a little over two years since Ester and I rescued kids.   Rachel was just three at the time. Now she is six.   Sylvia had never been to school.   I still easily recall the look of frustration and embarrassment on her little face when the teacher asked her to count to ten during her admissions test and nothing came out of her mouth.   Now she is in P2 (second grade).   Beatrice and Richard didn’t know the alphabet two years ago.   Now they are half-way through primary school.   Agnes could barely speak English back then.   I ran into her on the street a couple weeks after her mother passed and she mumbled something to me.   I heard mother...dead.   Now Aggie speaks English almost fluently and is in secondary school.

The kids are growing up so fast.   Ester sent me this picture of them last week; it made me happy, proud, and sad.   I try to forget how much I miss them.



I keep in contact with Ester and the children regularly, and I am as proud of Ester as I am of the children.   This project has been successful mostly because of Ester’s constant and hard work.   She has managed to look after the five orphans and her own child, Peanut, and keep the Snack Shop up and running all on her own.   It is very difficult to establish sustainable projects in developing countries and the credit now really belongs to her.

Ester has been managing the shop well enough to make enough of a profit to cover her and the children’s everyday living expenses, like food, clothes, transportation, basic medical, etc.   It is not enough to cover their rent and school fees though, so I send money back to her quarterly for these expenses, which are relatively expensive.

Whenever I call about money or to see how they are doing, I hear the children laughing in the background.   It brings me such joy to hear their health and happiness.   Everyone is doing well except poor Richard.

The infection is Richard’s leg has recently worsened, the ooze and pain returning.   Ester sent me this picture last week and I wanted to cry.



Ester has taken Richard to one of the best hospitals in the country for treatment upon my request.   They said he needs another surgery and will meet with the surgeon this Saturday, August 13.   I suspect he will go into surgery a few days later.   Ester’s friend, Moses, whom I’ve met, will accompany her since he has medical background and can hopefully provide assistance.   I have also asked Ester to give the doctor my email as I would like to stay on top of his treatment firsthand.

I remain hopeful that this surgery will be the final treatment for the boy, but unfortunately it is impossible to say.   A friend recent saw the photograph and asked if it were better if the leg were amputated.

Forget what you know about sidewalks, ramps or ADA compliance.   Imagine a place where you walk only on hard, undulating red dirt, or through thick, gunky red mud that sometimes swallows your feet to the ankles.   Imagine that same place with clinics and hospitals that only hint at modern medicine, there certainly are no wheelchairs or prosthetics.

If you are disabled in Uganda, you literally pull yourself over the dirt to get around.   If you are able-bodied in Uganda, you may have a few opportunities to earn a living.   If you are disabled, you have none.

An amputation is out of the question.

We really need your donations to help cover the cost of Richard’s treatment.   As always, there is no overhead for this project and all money is sent directly back to Ester and the children.   All costs are also scrutinized closely.

Also, I am happy to say that donations of $100 or more are now tax deductible!

The Kiwanis Foundation of Tierrasanta (the community in San Diego I call home) has agreed to accept, manage and distribute funds for this project.   Everything else, including the operations and fundraising, will remain entirely my responsibility.

I am very excited about this development.   It came about rather flawlessly and I believe the charity's financial mangement will help make the children’s futures more secure.

I only wish there were something similarly simple that could be done to make Richard’s health also assured.

A Work Of Art

Time and space in another world - a world so modern, fast and shiny - have caught me up again and sent me flying forward. I have been swept out of this spring and summer's sulking limbo, readjusting to life in the US. In the autumn I got a job; then I got a phone; and then I got so much more: car tune-ups, dry-cleaning, monthly bills, gym sessions, new works clothes, rush hours, happy hours, a medical plan, a dental plan and a 401k (okay, come the new year). I am here again, finally. But as something new, something more complete. I have far greater perspective - as if the lens that once perceived the world has been adjusted into place, having always been askance.

Today I attended a memorial service for my former mentor, an extraordinary man swiftly and heartbreakingly taken by pancreatic cancer. At the service I saw many former colleges among the hundreds paying their respects to a great, but humble man who undoubtedly impacted thier lives as positively as he did mine.

Thus is the time for reflection.

I speak with Ester and my African children as often as I can still, still looking out for their well-being despite the obstacles between us: their lingering in undeveloped, inefficient Africa and me moving at the speed of light some 13,000 miles away. Might as well be another planet, I tell people. Ester is still managing the snack shop, although it's not doing as well as I would like, but more importantly, the kids are happy and grateful. I can hear them shrieking and laughing in the background whenever I call, and see in my mind their bouncing off the bunk beds, running barefoot on the concrete floor, Rachel and Peanut ganging up on Richard in play fight while Sylvia smiles watching, B2 reads and Agnes cooks on the charcoal stove.

I have been told by Ester and the the hospital that was treating Richard that his health has improved, but he is still not quite well. The hospital has said they could do no more for him, so I ensured that he was taken to another reputable orthopedic surgeon in Kampala. After checking him, the new doctor says that Richard just needs some medication to dry up the leg and special bandaging, a treatment course that should just take a few weeks. So we will find out shortly if he will finally be healed, but I reamain cautiously optimistic, this is Africa, I tell myself and others.

So they - the kids and Ester - are there, and I am here, and God only knows when our lives will collide in person again, and God only knows if things will work out with the project as I envisioned, and God only knows if I will ever become accustomed to straddling the vast divide between our two staggeringly different worlds. But like most significant things in life, there is no clear end; new situations and new people and new emotions surface and fall with the passage of time; we collect; we throw away; we rearrange; we hold onto what is most dear and continue like an artist molding our own works of art.

Reality Checks

I am slipping back more and more into the life I once knew, knowing I will never quite be the same again, but I have once more grown accustomed to traffic and paved roads; the selection of a hundred cereals and dozens of cooking oils at the store; news, music, advertisements, cell phones, laptops, televisions and pdas a constant affront to my senses. I am getting a little impatient again, and a touch ungrateful. Expectations are swelling, so is my sense of me: I want to do this; I don't want to do that. The aura of duty and service dwindling. When will I get a job? When will I get money?

I spoke with Emma this morning. She is my Ugandan cousin, my Aunt Vinnie's daughter whom I stayed with often in Kampala, sometimes running around together in the capital going to muzungu bars and waking up the next morning with headache thinking, man I'm old.

There was a boy that stayed with their family, one of their cousins. He often parked himself on the couch next to the T.V. in the large sitting room, watching Ugandan music videos, dubbed telenovella or maybe a pirated DVD rented from the shop around the corner. The boy rarely spoke, sitting with his jaw always ajar, his eyes dully watching the world around him. He didn't like going to school, preferring television and video games. Emma told me he stayed with them because he was good friends with Derrico, their youngest sibling, and because he would attend classes for his kind Aunt Vinnie.

And then one morning I awoke at their house some months ago to find all the younger kids gone to school, but Joseph still sitting in front of the TV.

"You should go to school, Joseph. Just cause Aunt Vinnie isn't here today doesn't mean you shouldn't be in class," I yelled to him from the kitchen. He didn't even look at me, still watching the T.V. with his mouth agape. What a weird boy.

Emma sort of laughed behind me going in and out the kitchen to make food on the charcoal stove outside.

"He doesn't like to go because he' sick," she said softly so he couldn't hear. "He says there's no point because he is going to die."

"What?" I asked, although I needed to further explanation.

"He's got HIV."

She told me the boy was very sick and actually older than Derrico, although he looked two or three years his junior. After that I watched him more, noticing the sick child smiled around his cousin, I think the only time I saw him smile, laughing while thoughtful and ebullient Derrico played video games. I saw Joseph and Derrico together all the time the first several months I visited Vinnie's, but then around the holidays or maybe it was after the beginning of the year, Joseph was noticeably absent from their sitting room, the seat next to the T.V. empty.

"He's sick," Emma responded when I asked about the boy. "He went back to stay with his father. Mommy couldn't take care of him all the time."

And I never saw him again.

And then this morning, thousands of miles and moments away, I got an email from Emma. She'd been busy with exams, she hadn't heard from my kids. Oh, and our cousin Joseph had passed away about three weeks ago.

I called her immediately.

"He kept getting better then falling sick again," she said.

"Was he taking his medicine?"

"Yes. Mommy was taking care of him. But one day he just closed his eyes," she explained plainly as a red-tailed hawk flew overhead casting me in its shadow, while I sat by my parent's pool that rests on a hill overlooking swaying eucalyptus trees in a chaparral canyon, cars on well-paved roads below us going to work, dropping children off at schools, the things I was growing accustomed to slamming into the things I could easily forget.

"Derrico cried," she added of her little brother. Ugandan men and boys never cry, she didn't have to tell me. I hung up the phone feeling shameful.

I don't have any pictures of Joseph, but I wish I did. Here are some pictures of Aunt Vinnie and Derrico in their backyard the morning of a solar eclipse.

Blissful Convergence: The Fourth-Graders

The fourth grade class was the next I presented to the day I went to my sister’s elementary school. Paired with Beatrice, the children had sent dozens of heartfelt correspondence to my 10 year old. Here are a few of my favorites from the second set of letters (the first set can be found here):

Dear Beatrice,
Happy Valentine’s Day! It has been a long time since writing a letter. Valentine’s Day is something we celebrate of love and kisses. I wanted to write/say how are you doing? Oh, and what are 20,000 shilips [shillings]. By the way how is Uganda? Beatrice you are a fun person to write to. I hope you study. Again, Happy Valentine’s Day.
Your Friend,
Emily Peralta

Dear Beatrice,
My name is Joseph. I would like to ask you questions about you. What is your favorite food? What is your favorite sport? What do you do with your family? How many brothers and sisters do you have? I have two brothers. One has twelve the other one has three. The little one bothers me too much. The big one always plays. I am a terrific student.
Sincerely,
Joseph Castro

Dear Beatrice,
How are you? I am fine. Today was rainy here. Was it good in Uganda? I think we will be good friends. Is your country grassy or sandy? I want to know about you and your country. I am an only child. Are you too? I like to go outside. Do you? What are some of your traditions? What is the name of the language you speak? What remedies are there in Uganda? Are the flowers pretty? Do you think we will be friends? What do you like?
I hope you write back.
Sincerely,
Anthony

Dear Beatrice,
Hi how are you Beatrice? I’m fine. I am so happy writing to you. I was wondering of a song you told me about. I think it is bread in butter. I have two questions for you. What is your favorite food? Also, if you like animals. I love animals. I was wondering if you could send me a picture of the animals in Africa. I hope you write back.
Your Friend,
Jasmine

I began the presentation by giving each of the children Beatrice’s replies. They stared wide-eyed at the papers, leaning over each other comparing answers. Then I played the video on everyday Ugandan life, and like in the second grade class, the children discussed their impressions afterwards, little voices telling me they noticed Ugandan children had to fetch water, didn’t have desks in school, played with trash because they had no toys and ate food they grew in the gardens. I made it a point to explain during the slide show when a picture appeared of children leaning to the ground cleaning a school hall with rags that there were no janitors at Ugandan schools. I heard a room full of gasps...especially from the teachers. How would you like to go out and clean the halls now? The teachers gruffed to their children.

I then passed around jewelry from Uganda, explaining that some of the beads were made of paper, which women painstakingly rolled, dyed and varnished. I showed them the wallet made of bark and the earrings made of reed. We talked about the clothes Ugandans wore. I explained they either draped themselves in traditional African cloth with vivid patterns, or more commonly, put on Western shirts and pants. I glanced around at nicely dressed children behind wide white desks.

“What do you do with your clothes when you don’t want them anymore?” I asked.

“We give them to charity.”

“Right. And do you know what happens to many of the clothes you donate to charity?” The kids looked at me expressionlessly. “They get sent to Africa.” I paused letting it sink in. “And guess what? Africans have to buy them – usually at open markets where the clothes are piled on the ground. They don’t pay much, maybe 25 or 50 cents for a shirt, but for them sometimes that’s a lot of money. You might even see a T-shirt from this elementary school in Africa.” I pointed to a girl in a bright pink and sunshine flowered shirt. “Someday you may get tired of that nice shirt or too big for it, and you’ll give it to charity and a girl in Africa might end up wearing it.” The kids all looked down at their clothes.

I couldn’t speak for long; my presentation was limited to about fifteen minutes, but I knew how it would end.

“Jasmine. Which one of you is Jasmine?” A round faced girl in the corner giggled and raised her hand. “Beatrice told you in her first letter she wanted to sing you a song called Bread and Butter. Do you remember?” Her brown mane flopped up and down. I turned to the rest of the class to explain. “The song is about friendship, how friends go together like bread and butter. Beatrice liked having Jasmine and all of you as friends and wanted to show it.” I turned back to Jasmine. “Before I left Uganda, I recorded Beatrice singing the song so you and the rest of the class could hear it.”

A hushed anticipation swept across the little crowd. Then Beatrice’s sweet voice filled the room.

Blissful Convergence

“The kids are going to freak out when they meet you,” my sister said to me as we passed through the gates of the elementary school around the corner from USC. “They’ve been asking about you for weeks,” she added smiling.

I looked out the window mimicking her expression, eyeing the impressive compound located in one of LA’s tougher neighborhoods, pit bulls yelping across the street, weeds usurping gardens and pavement cracks. I was excited to meet the children. I felt I already knew them from my sister’s descriptions and from their letters - they had been pen pals with my African kids for the last several months.

I had read each of the little Angelinos’ amusing letters, which were filled with insightful questions (Do you walk? Do you know about camouflaging? ) and served as portals into their young minds (I like math because when you get older you have to make sure when you buy something you have to give them the right amount or your going to have less money in your bank account). But most of all, it was touching to see how the children, mine and my sister’s, connected with each other from opposites sides of the globe. One American wrote to my ten year old Beatrice: I’m sorry about your mom. My dad passed away too and then my grandma and grandpa in the same year.

I was to give four presentations that day, one to each class that wrote my children. The first class was paired with Sylvia, my eight year old. Melanie knocked on the door just after the first bell rang and a boy struggled to push open the heavy door, first seeing my sister then me. My sister and I bear a strong resemblance; he had to have known. His tiny mouth dropped and his wide eyes glowed.

“Wooow,” he gushed, his back pressed against the door in disbelief as we walked past and the rest of the second graders turned around; soft squeals filled the room.

“Class. Ms. Crane is here with a guest,” the teacher said introducing us, but apparently we needed no introduction. They knew my sister from the talks she gave on Sylvia and me. They sat mesmerized through my sister’s presentations as well as mine, which included a slide show on life in Uganda followed by Sylvia’s answers to their most recent round of questions to her.

“Mariana. Which one of you is Mariana?” I asked the group of doe-eyed intent faces staring back at me. A little girl raised her hand. “Mariana, you asked Sylvia, ‘How do you feel on Christmas?’ Sylvia said she feels ‘burungi,’ that means good in Luganda. She also says that she likes swimming on Christmas.” Mariana’s eyes grew to saucers and her mouth spread to an exaggerated grin. (I grinned too, but remained silent about little Sylvia likely not ever swimming as her village was not immediate to a body of water.)

“Adriana. Who is Adriana?” Another girl’s arm shop up. “Okay Adriana. You asked Sylvia, ‘Do you have libraries? Do you go on field trips?’ Sylvia said, ‘No, we don’t have a library, but Maama Muzungu bought some books for us to read’.” I then explained that Sylvia didn’t know what field trips were because she has never been on one before.

I continued to go through the list of questions and answers, the children listening, interest sketched across their small faces. Then I asked for Rebeca.

“Rebeca. You asked Sylvia what her voice sounded like. She said she didn’t know, but I recorded her so you can see her and hear her voice for yourself.”

Rebeca couldn’t even smile; her face relaxed into suspended disbelief. I reached over for my laptop, pressing play for the queued video.

“Here, Rebeca. This is for you and the rest of the class.”

The God of Small Things

Since I've been back many people have asked me all kinds of questions about everyday life in Africa. How do they wash clothes? What are the schools like? What are the hospitals like? Do they have cars? How do they cook? What are their homes like?

Below is a slide show illustrating the details of everyday life in Africa. Hopefully it will answer some questions you may have about typical African living conditions as well as explain how the smaller aspects of life influence African culture and behavior. Enjoy!

Out of Africa

It’s hard to believe I returned from Uganda six weeks ago. At times a part of me still feels afar, strolling along red dusty roads, staring through screens of verdant matoke leaves; it is clear not all of me is here, my mind a bit unfocused and hazy, meandering and distant like a wandering stream in a hidden meadow. And yet the piece of me far away is fading, the memories and emotions of Africa losing their shape, the edges softening, the colors not so vivid; the details of my exotic rhythms losing themselves in the folds of my modernizing mind. People here will occasionally ask me about my time there and I eagerly recount beautiful moments, but I am beginning to feel slightly disassociated from those events as if I speak of another – maybe a character from book or film.

Maybe that was Karen Blixen. Maybe it wasn’t me in East Africa living among Africans, working with them side-by-side on a farm and setting off on adventures deep into the bush gapping at grazing wildlife, in step with men in colorful garb clutching iron spears and ancient traditions. Maybe that was a memoir of someone else attending to the locals’ ailments, navigating social schisms, skeptical of assumptions and convention; another silhouette against the expressive African sky.

As I straddle two worlds in my fuzzy head, I watched yesterday for the first time Out of Africa, feeling at once nostalgic and comforted, understood and vaguely envious. I am not sure why I never saw the movie until now, the genre one I particularly like, the character a certain source of inspiration, and like many, I am an ardent admirer of Ms. Streep; but, strangely, I missed viewing the Best Picture award winner until after living in Africa. Watching the romantic epic unfold before me against the paradisiacal plains of East Africa, I recalled my time riding through those sweeping vistas and long grasslands dotted with acacia trees, the excitement in spotting my first lions (they weren’t hunting me, but, more preferably, mating), and I again felt my feet sinking into the soft, springtime earth of the magical land of the Masai: the Mara.

The scenery, motifs, sentiment and characters of the film were recognizable and enchanting; I was captivated by the passion between woman and man, and woman and land. But the film reminded me most of the fascinating people, indigenous and transplants, I met: the gorgeous Africans living refreshingly in the moment, welcoming me with wide smiles and arms, their curiosity of me and I of them, remembering how those ties strengthen over time while I watched the woman in the movie tirelessly work to secure land for her tribes people, reminded of African youth and their delight in my novelties while I watched the local children in the film burst into giggles as the cuckoo emerged from the clock; and I also recalled all the backpackers and overlanders and aid workers taking up residence in Africa, disillusioned by Western notions on how life should be lived and what you should do and where you should go and with whom, meeting again in my mind the menagerie of expats and dreamers following their ideals, their passions, their morals, their hearts.

And amidst all this familiarity, all these people and ideas I came to understand this past year, the movie made me realize something else I learned during my time on the restful continent, a knowledge I acquired without fully appreciating it until watching the theme explored in film: the idea of ownership; that objects and people, knickknacks and relationships, land and souls, absolutely anything and exactly everything, cannot be possessed, that, in fact, nothing can be owned beyond that which creates and comprises you as an individual in ways meaningful and unique – our spirits, attitudes and memories.

And so now I try to remember more fondly all the people and adventures, good and bad, I came to know through my African life, and, just as importantly, I am trying to see more clearly that which I seek to experience next, that which I desire to call my own.