Home Coming

“You know the kids’ father hasn’t come by Namengo recently and at least the last two times he has come, he hasn’t brought food. In fact, he’s been eating the kids’ food.”

“That’s not good,” Stephen replied vaguely, focused on rushing out the door. I stood next to the breakfast table staring at the flask of steaming African tea. It was hard to find time to speak with Stephen; most of his days are spent in his village near Jinja; farming the land, managing the help, remodeling the house. He often leaves early and doesn’t return until late, sometimes just in time for our midnight suppers.

“And I’m worried the kids will lose their land. You know the father could die or disappear and we wouldn’t know it and his family could steal the land the children are supposed to inherent.” Lawless Africa meant such things: stolen inheritance, pilfered land, unprosecuted crimes, muddled justice.

“Yes. We need to get a will,” Stephen confirmed, searching the room fervently for misplaced items. “I told him he was to bring the children food when we first took them.”

“I know, but it’s been at least two months since he’s brought anything.” I hoped my words resonated, that our conversation would lead to imminent action.

“Okay. I will go and talk to him,” Stephen assured me as he grabbed his muddy gumboots and fraying sac and disappeared out the door.

A few evenings later Stephen wound through the sugar cane on the back of a boda to the children’s father’s village; Stephen arrived on the remote plot after nightfall; the father’s mud house stood in the dark silence; the father was nowhere to be seen. After ten minutes the father appeared with paraffin in hand, apparently not thinking to get the needed fuel for his lantern during the day; the man had nothing to look after but himself, and still he was hopelessly careless and irresponsible.

“You bring food for the kids this Saturday,” Stephen had directed him. The man claimed he had been doing so. He insisted he brought his children a bag of cassava.

“Yeah, he did bring cassava. Like two months ago,” I rolled my eyes to Stephen when he recounted their interaction to me; I wasn’t letting the father get away with his usual manipulation.

“I also told him to come and see me Sunday and we will discuss how to handle the children’s land,” Stephen said; words ushering in a great deal of relief.

The children’s expenses were mounting. It was costing more to look after them than I had anticipated. And what was I to do with them when I returned to the comforts of America? I couldn’t possibly send back all the money they needed. How could I develop a sustainable project for them? Who could I entrust with its management? Ugandans are infamously corrupt. Here is a culture of stealing. I could invest in a piggery or a poultry farm and leave it with someone who exuded honesty, who smiled genuinely and sincerely assured integrity, who appeared to care for the children and be dedicated to running the business for their profit, but find after several months the investment looted, the manager gone and the children shillingless.

But it had been a week of breakthroughs: I had found the Youth Outreach Mission (YOM), a local community organization, to develop and manage the sustainable projects for the children and to assist in looking after the children’s general welfare; and, I was on the road to securing the father’s land as the children’s food source and inheritance. Weight lifted.

The father did come the weekend after Stephen paid him a visit; the imprudent man actually arriving with food in hand as golden Sunday afternoon light flooded through the Balaza’s thick, dirty windows. Stephen reclined on the yellow couch, speaking with the father at length in Luganda then turning to me. The father had two pieces of land: the one he resided on, which would be passed onto Richard upon the father’s passing; and an undeveloped plot nearby his homestead, which would be given immediately to all of the children.

“I told him to go back to the village and mobilize. Get everyone there this Saturday at two,” Stephen told me. It was decided we were to host a village gathering at the father’s house to introduce the children’s new caretakers (Ester, YOM members and myself) to the villagers (the local counsel, village elders and children’s relatives), to firmly establish the children’s plots as their rightful inheritance and to make clear that the undeveloped land would be farmed beginning immediately exclusively for the children.

The next few days were spent organizing; food stuffs purchased, plates and cookery secured, transportation organized, YOM schedules cleared for a full Saturday of cooking in the village; firewood would be fetched; water gathered and boiled; large, flimsy, metallic pots filled with posho, rice and beans would be stirred over open flames; food preparation without any modern conveniences for fifty people is time-consuming, back-breaking difficult work.

Sandra, YOM volunteer, cooking for villagers


About eight YOM members arrived in the children’s village early that Saturday morning to begin preparation for the afternoon meeting. The gathering start time was standard for villages; enough time to finish before dark and sufficient time for villagers to finish their morning digging, a chore they couldn’t allow to go neglected, ensuring nourishment for the coming months, otherwise people could go hungry.

I arrived in the village under a washed out sky packed next to Beatrice on the back of a boda; Ester shared a small motorbike with the two little ones and Peanut; Aggie and Richard were squished together on a third bike. Most of the villagers were already gathered around the father’s mud clearing, some men resting on the benches, most women and children lounging in the dirt; some women in traditional gomesi; most of the village’s half clothed children running excitedly through the fields, staring at me, giggling; soft Buganda greetings were exchanged. Olyotya. Jendi. Kali. Nawe.

Children and old women at village gathering


The crowd grew together after almost an hour, the local council chair intimating he was about to speak. As he spoke in gentle Luganda, Ester translated in hushed tones at my side. The father then stood to offer his words about the children’s inheritance, followed by Robert, who spoke of YOM’s commitment to helping manage the children’s finances and well-being. All of the speakers acknowledged the children’s development; they looked much better; thank you for your care. All agreed that the children’s due land would be passed onto them.

Richard (in red) addressing the villagers


Finally I spoke, telling the villagers of how I came to help the children, and what I intended to do after returning to America. I didn’t say we took the children because their father was too ignorant, selfish, dim-witted and callous to properly look after them; I said it was too difficult for the father to raise them after their mother passed; I can only guess the villagers understood the truth of the matter, that they were familiar with the father’s character and his negligence; just earlier that week some of the villagers saw Sylvia and Rachel in town and began talking to them, I had asked Ester what they said to our girls and she replied, “They said their father was just sitting in the village doing drugs.”

Our party then rose and followed the father as he led us away from his house towards the undeveloped plot some 300 meters away. We walked across the thin dirt road, behind a decrepit brick house, through a serene wide clearing and down a lush jade slope. The father stopped and gestured to the land at our feet, sweeping his hands to the top of the hill. This was it. This was the land all five children would inherent. It was about two acres and to my untrained eye, hinted bountiful potential. The YOM members, Ugandans, therefore inherently knowledgeable about farming, eyed the plot, already initiating their plans to develop it for the children. They assured me my assumption was correct; yes, the plot is very fertile.

We headed back to the father’s house where the father and local council would document in writing the dimensions of the plot and the children as its rightful owners. I leisurely strolled through the sweeping countryside with my children, taking photos of them and their village friends reunited after weeks apart, many smiles, skipping, laughter. Filled with a sense of gratitude and accomplishment, I took in the juxtaposition; my now joyful, healthful, scrubbed, loved children set against the same village setting I first encountered months ago.

Rachel posing in the field near their plot


We continued to walk. Pallid grey-blue squeezed heaven and earth, rendering the atmosphere indistinct, nearly surreal; but, the mood was one of tranquility, tenderness and security. The children and I relishing the afternoon’s sense of peace and its promise of the fruits to follow.

My Kids, Big Sky!


Rest of the Village Meeting pictures here.