Encounters by Possibility

I had been losing hair. Not in huge, alarming clumps as if pumped with a high dose of chemo, but too many strands were covering my pillow in the morning, sticking to my wet hands in the shower, falling across my shoulders throughout the day. And my head was like the Prince William Sound circa 1989, I was half expecting to find slick black pelicans and seal corpses in its depths. I had bought a couple of brands of African shampoo; clearly none were made for muzungu tresses; the cleaning agents just waxed my head, sealing in the grime and pollution.

“Muzungus! Muzungus!” I called to two young American-looking women I saw across the street beyond the lorries and taxis that choked the road. The unusual light figures in long colorful dresses disappeared behind a slow moving semi. I needed a consult about my hair. The women were fast-moving and obstructed by careless African vehicles; a break in traffic, I dodged to the other curb feeling as usual when crossing thick African roads like Froggert.

“Hi!” I exclaimed running up beside them, trying to tamper the inherent awkwardness of the situation: rushing to strangers on the street, out of breath, looking slightly desperate, needing to talk to them simply because they were white. They paused slightly surprised to see another muzungu in Lugazi, but only faintly distracted from what seemed to be an important task. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“I’m Natalie. I’m staying here in Lugazi. My hair is falling out. I think it is from the plaiting. Have you been losing yours?” I looked to the taller woman who had woven long black braids into her scalp, conveying authentic Africaness, making her light blue eyes even more striking.

“No. But I just got this done.”

“Oh. And I can’t find any shampoo. Where have you been buying your shampoo?”

“We brought enough with us, but there is Pantene at that Gapco over there. I’ve seen it.”

“Really!? Great! I’ll go there and get some.” I was so relieved. They smiled and asked what I was doing in Lugazi. They were with HELP, an international volunteer organization.

“Oh. Well. I am here by myself. I am staying with a family of a friend of mine over there.” I pointed to my building on the other side of the road, at the edge of the clearing about 150 meters away. “I am looking after some orphans I found. What are you doing here?”

“We are working on a few projects in town. We are coordinating with a local youth outreach group and the town council.” The African infused woman was holding a large corrugated box. She shifted the heavy item in her arms against herself stomach. “We are sort of on our way to the hospital. Can we walk and talk?”

“Oh! Yes. Sure.” I took the opportunity to further explain how I came to live in Africa and how five orphans came under my care. I didn’t stop talking for several minutes; it was the first time I had interacted with Americans in person for a few months. I could hear myself rattling on, rattling on; not realizing how much I wanted to speak familiarly, without cultural misunderstandings, ironically with people who were just strangers.

“Why don’t you come and see the work we are doing sometime?” The non-braided woman asked.

“Yes. I would love to,” I gushed. I looked at the business card she handed me; her name was Melissa.

“She’s Kristen,” Melissa said pointing to the other woman as she walked a few feet from us about to enter the hospital property.

“Great. Well. Thank you. I’ll call soon.”

A few hectic weeks passed. I was enjoying African tea and fried eggs on the veranda of my Kigali guesthouse. Chiba and I were leisurely taking in the already brilliant morning, relaxing before heading to the congested taxi park to board an African bus flying over African roads for ten hours; a mild form of torture. Then a familiar pale face emerged in the shade, the bright early light flooding behind her.

“Melissa! It’s me! Natalie. I met you in Lugazi a few weeks ago. I am the one that ran to you about my hair falling out.” She looked back in amazement, smiling, recognizing me.

“I can’t believe you’re here!”

“I know! What a strange coincidence! Of all the guesthouses in all of East Africa .” We spoke about our projects for a few minutes then Chiba and I rushed off. It was decided between us muzungus that we would see each other once back in Uganda .

The HELP muzungus were already nearing the end of their four month service in Lugazi. I only visited their large gated house once before the evening they were returning to America . Kristen decided in her final days that she wanted to start a non-profit with some of the widowed and vulnerable women in town; it would be a beading co-op and the community organization she had been working with that summer, The Youth Outreach Mission (TYOM) would manage it and ship the finished jewelry for her to sell in the U.S. I told her I was willing to help her during the remainder of my stay.

“Great. Can you take some pictures of the women and interview them?”

Of course.

So on the muzungus’ last day in Africa, I moved through town taking pictures of the women in their co-op and attended an event they organized under the shade of the vast mango tree in the town centre; it was a launch of a new product: ABLE soap. The soap was made by a local group of disabled persons with the proceeds helping them meet their special needs. Another NGO has been contacted and was providing free wheelchairs; white, plastic lawn chairs fitted within black aluminum bars attached to durable wheels resembling mountain bikes were lifted from the back of a large lorry and set in the grass; persons pulling their lame limbs with thick wooden sticks, or using their hands to guide their disfigured frames across the ground gratefully climbed into the new devices that would lighten their heavy lives. The turn-out for the event was impressive; dancing, smiling, ease; it was an African gathering.

Unloading wheelchairs at ABLE Soap launch

This is where I first met some TYOM members. I would meet more at the muzunugs’ going-away party that evening.

It is interesting to reflect on first encounters with people who change your life, to recall the moment when they were a stranger whom you thought would pass like most, as an indistinguishable guest in your journey, but with whom you would eventually develop a special, indelible, remarkable relationship of growth, understanding, and nurturing between each other; sparking the same within yourself.

I don’t remember anything in particular, any words or glances exchanged that were memorable, any clothes, facial expressions or actions that stand out, but my impression of this group of young Ugandans was that they were deeply committed to serving their community, and that they were genuinely kind; the muzungus gave farewell speeches to TYOM members their final night in Africa; we would be friends for a lifetime; we have learned so much working with you; we have been so inspired by your passion and compassion. The Americans words were sincere and heartfelt, painting a picture of a group of Ugandans who were gentle, but hard-working; compassionate, but strong; busy, but committed; in need, but sacrificing; ambitious, but honest; assured, but humble; idealistic, but reliable; they were a group of big dreamers with big hearts driven to make a big impact.

I met with TYOM members the following week to coordinate the work I was doing for Kristen. Falling into a navy blue plastic chair in their cramped office I told them about my own project: my children. What was I going to do with them? I didn’t think I could afford to build them a home. What project could I create for them in Uganda to sustain them?

“Natalie. You know. This is what we do. We help the community. We started wanting to help the children,” Robert, a TYOM co-founder and orphan himself, explained to me.

“Yes. If you could help, that would be wonderful,” I said, thinking they might assist in raising the chicks that would be a part of the poultry farm project I was just beginning to pull together; I didn’t realize the extent of the young volunteers’ capabilities.

“We have business proposals. We even have ones for a poultry farm and a snack shop, we were working with the muzungus this summer on the plans,” Robert said, a permanent easy grin etched on his dark face.

“Really? That’s great. I would love to take a look at them.”

Over the course of the next few days, Robert, James, Godfrey, Sandra, Paul, Dennis and Wilson surprised and impressed me over and again; their business plans for a snack shop and chicken farm were thorough and detail oriented, including prices for every possible variable and fixed cost input; some of the TYOM team even lived in the village of Enkoko, which is Luganda for chicken, they lived and breathed the poultry business; they created coordinated, efficient and sustainable business proposals with thoughtful management structures; and, what’s more, they were fantastic with the children; Godfrey often gave them a few hundred shillings to buy sweeties; Robert fawned over them; Sandra danced with them; James tutored them; TYOM members loved children, especially mine.

Sandra hugging Rachel in village

And the kids have returned the affection. All of the children, the two little ones, Beatrice, Peanut, Richard and Agnes are ecstatic to spend time with their uncles, usually hanging around the TYOM office until the evening before having to return home for supper.

“You are their favorite people in the world,” I said one late afternoon to Robert and Godfrey as the girls ran to greet them shrieking and crawling on them. “Honestly, they wouldn’t be as happy to see Alicia Keys or Barack Obama.” The young men started laughing; they knew it was true.

I am especially pleased about the uncles’ relationship with Richard. The boy is friendless and surrounded by women; his life is saturated with estrogen; he has African and muzungu mommies, five sisters (including Peanut), and all of his neighbors are women or girls. The young men at TYOM serve as important male friends and role models to the boy who casts off his clingy shroud of anxiety and unease when in their presence; I look over at Richard when we are at the TYOM office, or moving through town with our posse of uncles; the boy’s face is relaxed; he seems safe; he looks joyful.

Richard smiling at Robert

And so it was these series of chance encounters, prompted by a bout of dirty, breaking hair that lead to my finding exceptional people to entrust with my children’s financial and general well-being; to my meeting a group of young idealist to help me develop sustainable projects for my little orphans and to possibly, and very probably, serve other vulnerable children in Lugazi sometime soon. I marvel at the twists that have lead to our paths crossing and at the potential laying at our feet; just yesterday Robert described his vision for our projects merrily, but very seriously: “We want to do something extraordinary.”

Richard playing with my little girls