African Journal #9: Kampala: Crossroads of life

Africa Journal #9: Kampala: Crossroads of life

I am nearly convinced that I would die if I could not journal. Over the years it has become the lifeblood of my heart and soul and one of the only places I can really pray. I know I talk a lot in person, but the internal dialog is profoundly different and even faster. This amounts to an incredible need for processing. I am an “external processor” and so in lieu of human-to-human conversation this is where I turn. I am never without a journal, especially here. Whether it is in my physical journal or my 300+ page long computer journal, it is visited often to write what I feel and in so doing, discover who I am, what I know, and, most of all, what I believe. Few times has journaling been as important to me as it is today…

Today was probably the best day I’ve had since being here. It was an incredible journey through the various aspects of being immersed in Ugandan life. Its culmination was found not 45 minutes ago where I found myself atop Namirembe Hill, just a kilometer to the East of where I live (in Mengo), looking over the lit-up city. I just looked at it and remembered. Kampala has been, for better or for worse, the crossroads of my life. I likely could never capture the incredible changes that have occurred in my heart in this very city. When I walk down its crowded streets they remind me of times when I was so very different. A lot has changed since the last time I was here in August of 2008. Unfortunately the mosquitoes still remain. But I am a different man today then I was back then and as I stood atop Namirembe tonight I just cried in a confusing mix of joy and resignation. I think that hill represents, to me, the very real struggle for my soul. That nagging question finds me here: whether the hurt in my heart that has been surfacing over the years bodes well for my spiritual and emotional health, or if in the end it will kill me. That is why I am here, writing, being more honest than is probably wise.

Kampala is where I really started to take a look at my life and what it was being used for. Kampala is where I broke down crying on Rubaga road one night because I could not fit the complex reality that surrounded me into my head and heart. Kampala is where I fell in love in more ways than one. Kampala is where some of the best men and women I’ve ever known call home. Kampala is where I watched a government systematically deprive justice to a group of Congolese refugees I cam to love. Kampala is where I have been angry, scared, joyful, alive, sad, and painfully alone. Not every moment here, of course, is an example of Dan’s emotions running the gamut. But in the moments where I sit down and think about it all I am overwhelmed. I believe that cities sometimes inhabit a realm that is otherwise untouched when one is removed from the writhing, busy mass of people. But here humanity is all around you. It is here, amongst the throngs of people going about their business that I feel most acutely alone. This is a constant thread, or so it seems, of these letters from Africa. I do not yet have words to describe what it is like to come “home” to a place that is so singularly alienating and inviting. All of life is a paradox and it seems all the more apparent here in Kampala. Perhaps I spiritualize too much something as inanimate as a group of buildings that happen to be filled with humans, but when I am moving from city to city I adapt and assimilate and contest not just to the culture, but also to something wholly other. Phoenix affects me differently than D.C.; Kampala differently than Nairobi; Hong Kong differently than Dubai; Augusta, Kansas differently than Oklahoma City; San Diego differently than Amsterdam. I do not know if this makes sense, but in my hyperactive heart and mind I perceive subtle differences in the collective whole that are not easily named or identified. I have theories as to why this is, but I have not come to any conclusions. And yet understanding a city’s effect on me is an important endeavor for this city is where my heart must learn what it means to survive. There is more to say, but that will suffice for now. What a day it has been.

…. And this day began in the African way: Digging. Uncle Peter and I spent sometime digging to remove the weeds around the guesthouses where I stay. They are a pesky lot, but a huge hoe has the final word. I wasn’t very talkative this morning—which is often the case—and Peter asked me what I was thinking. I didn’t know. He said, “let us take tea.” So I gathered my things for Kampala and headed to House B for tea. When I got to House B Kamara, one of the young men who work the land here, asked me if I could help him set up a facebook account. So I did. It was funny asking him some of the questions because you could tell that he was unsure of their importance. Political ideology? He just said, “Uh…I love God.” You have to love Africa! We set up his account and then Uncle Peter checked his email—a internet-connected computer at the house is an in demand commodity. As Uncle Peter read his email, Kamara and I talked about being in our late 20’s. He said, “ah! You need to get marriage. You are too old! For me, I will get marriage in 3 years. Why are you not married?” This deceptively simple question has literally been asked of me dozens of times since being here. Granted, marriage is basically a social necessity. This was explained by Kamara when he said, “If I do not marry, my family will not respect me.” To which I asked, “what if your wife dies?” He said, “then I will find another wife.” We talked a little further about what marriage meant to him. Suffice it to say, for whatever reasons are most salient to the each of us, we have quite different hopes and expectations out of marriage. Kamara remarked that I did, however, need to find a wife soon, as 28 was “too old!” In the past I’ve attempted to put dating and marriage into cultural context when the topic came up, explaining what different factors are at play in the West when two people are “in love.” This is usually a somewhat fruitless endeavor, but my African friends usually ask, and I usually am willing to explain if they are willing to listen. Something that is notable is that I have a number of Ugandan friends who have spent a considerable amount of time in the US and it sticks out that they never ask these kinds of questions. I did not want to talk about me and so I quickly just asked him some questions about what he would like in a wife. He was only too happy to answer and offer projections about when he could “find” (select) a wife. I will never cease to be amazed at home much pre-planning men in this culture put on finding a wife. It seems wholly removed from the inherent nuances and individualities that one finds in a person when they actually know them. But I suppose the rhetoric of “finding” a wife explains all that needs to be explained.

Then my boda, “Brown” as we call him, arrived at the house and he and I drove off to Kalule so I could catch a taxi in to town. I was blessed to get a front window seat, so I put in my earbuds and jammed to Anberlin all the way to Kampala, thinking about some of the questions that have plagued my heart these past few weeks. In Kampala I took a boda to Mengo and met up with Shawn at the house. He’s such a rad guy. We love to sit around and talk about Land Cruisers and adventures, and today was no exception. He also loves meat. He’d never been to the small “restaurant” in Kisenyi outside of the goat slaughterhouse. So we rectified that. The meat may have been even better this time! Shawn and I discussed what we viewed as the crux of Ugandan politics since we as of yet have been unable to ascertain what are the actual substantial differences in policy/ideology between the long-ruling NRM (Museveni’s crew) and the opposition. It is easy to make light of Ugandan politics when you’re used to the overly stark contrast drawn in the shameful spectre of American politics, and we recognized that and sought to be charitable to Uganda’s political beliefs. It was a wonderful conversation with a wonderful man over some wonderful food. It was a good day.

Then one more boda ride and we were in Kivulu, the other major slum in Kampala. We played some football—a sport I doubt I’ll ever be good at—and then I gave a devotion on the story of The Good Samaritan. I had been laboring over how to articulate the concept that the Jews were the enemies of the Samaritans, and thus the power of the story is in Jesus’ sweeping assertion that your neighbor is anyone, up to and including your enemy. The villain in the hearer’s ears would have then been shown as hero. The first, after all, shall me last. But what could draw my young, non-political listeners to an understanding of the gravity of Christ’s words? The answer, of course, is football; soccer for all you Americans. Shawn can be thanked for this nugget. So in my retelling of the Good Samaritan story I had the first person to walk by the bleeding man be a preacher too busy to concern himself with the hurt, distraught man. The second man being an MP (Member of Parliament) who pretends someone calls him so he can avoid eye-contact with the bleeding man. I then note that the blood from the beat-up man is falling onto the man’s new Manchester United t-shirt. This man was a—almost literally—dyed-in-the-wool “Man U” fan. For my American readers, Manchester United is one of the premiere football clubs on the planet. If I am not mistaken David Beckam plays/played for them. For my Samaritan I have another man walk up to the beat up Man U fan. This new man is a fan of Arsenal, which is by my limited knowledge, one of the biggest rivalries in the sporting world. The analogy worked. The kids howled at the concept that these two would help one another. And so went the story as we really tried to understand that Jesus telling the young lawyer that your neighbor was anyone in need, even the enemy, was an incredible statement. Oh how I hope this foundational truth was able to sink into their hearts. How much we all need to wrestle with the demands of such a truth as this.

From there the A Perfect Injustice team headed to an Ethiopian restaurant on Rubaga road. I’d eaten there a few times, but it had been years before. Not much had changed. It was still dark, menu-less (which is basically all of Africa), and refreshingly Luganda-free. Amharic was of course the language of choice. They didn’t have meat that day, so we had huge plate of njera with assorted vegetables. If I’m not mistaken, these are known as wats. So I carefully tried to remember to keep my “unclean” hand, the left, underneath the table and I dug it. It was incredibly tasty and it’s a great meal to share with the incredible company I was with: Gina, Amy, Abby & David, Uncle Lawrence, Uncle Eddy, Shawn & Sarah, and a Ugandan friend of Abby’s. These are some of the incredible folks I am blessed enough to spend much time with here in Africa. An interesting, educated group of people for whom faith is a call to serve and act. I am thankful for them all! Unfortunately I had to leave early as I had an important event to make!

Jumping on a boda I finally got down to 3,000 shilling I made my way through the continually hellish central-Kampala traffic to 1,000 Cups, and coffee shop catering to tourists and wealthy Ugandans. This place is a place of memories for me. It had been the only real coffee shop that I spent any considerable amount of time at the last time I was here. I was also looking for a very special antique coffee grinder that had been there 4 years ago. I could not find that exact grinder, but I did find one like it. This, however, is a story for another time, another place. I ordered a mocha and sat down and started to journal the flood of feelings and memories that had rushed into my head and heart. The words bled onto the pages and I wonder if anyone saw how oblivious I was to the world, barely drinking my decent espresso drink. I was ruefully drawn from that place when two of my favorite people walked in the room: Abbey Lutaaya and his wife, Sandra. I cannot even tell you the joy that jumped into my heart when I saw him! I immediately wondered how it had gone so long since I’d talked to him! We embraced and smiled and the years of history started to flood back. Abbey (a short name usually given to men named Abdul) and I had lived together in 2007/2008 the first time I had come to Uganda. We had a modest, single-room flat just off Rubaga road near the heretical Miracle Center Church. I loved that time of washing clothes on the roof, overlooking the verdant city, walking to the internet café, and taking bodas for 700 shilling to the small house on Rubaga where Lutaaya’s organization, African Hearts was located. Those were simple, humble times that I feel blessed to have been a part of. Lutaaya and I quickly because fast friends and when I returned to Uganda in the summer of ’08 we picked up right where we’d left off although things had changed considerably better for Lutaaya and his boys. There was now a new home being built, Ssenge, for street boys and a home for the original “Mengo Boys” that were in Lutaaya’s charge. We had the best of times that year. We had amazing American interns, cool experiences, and when I got back from a short jaunt to Congo, a lot of work completed at the new Ssenge house. There are so many fine memories. This was all back when Lutaaya and I used to talk a lot about his love for Sandra. My, how times have changed.

Sandra, Lutaaya, and I all sat down and endeavored to catch up. It was a whirlwind ride. So much has gone on. The stories of miracles and triumphs were almost too much! Abbey and Sandra recounted the traumatic birth of their daughter, Nevaeh, in which Sanda, technically speaking, died during the childbirth but then came back to life. Seriously. What an incredible story, one that was remarkably close in certain details to my niece’s traumatic birth. I told them that story as well. Lutaaya told me about some of the boys I used to know and how Musa Musoke represented Uganda in a football club in South Africa and is now the captain of the team here in Uganda and should be able to get a full-ride to many schools of his choosing throughout the English-speaking world. Incredible to think of this hilarious, fun little boy who used to call my brother “teem” as a 16-year-old on his way to perhaps study economics in London and being the captain of a football team. God is good. The three of us just sat there and laughed and remembered and just caught up. It was amazing and we made plans to make sure we spend more time together even though they are a busy family and African Hearts has grown considerably in size and scope. When the power went out in the part of Kampala we were in we just kept talking, using the light of the laptop to carry us on. Eventually we had to leave and the Lutaaya’s dropped me off in Bakuli so I could catch a boda to Mengo, just over the hill. It was here, however, that I decided to walk. My heart was so full with the events of the day and I needed to process, cry, and just be alone. I walked through the bustling city at its best time: Friday Night. I smelled the roasting goat meat, exhaust, and various stewed vegetables. I saw a Muslim man muttering a prayer, and lovers holding hands against the backdrop of the hilly, lit-up city. I was home and I began to indulge in the emotions that I’d long held back and I started to cry for both the beautiful and the mundane, for both the epic and the awful. I stopped by my favorite grocery store, greeted some folks and picked up some water, The East African newspaper, and some snacks. I then just continued to walk. I was almost home when two men approached me asking me for my email address. They wanted to come to America. I politely told them that I could not help them. One man gave up and walked away, the other, as is characteristic in these conversations, tilted is head slightly to the side as he beseeched me to “give [him] 1,000”. I told him I could not and I carried on my way, greeting the boda drivers at the corner near my Mengo home. My heart still had so much that needed processing. When I arrived home I immediately walked in the door and fired up the computer to get this all down. Some many hours later, after an intermission with my housemates in which we watched an episode of the BBC’s Top Gear, this letter has come to an end.

I recognize the number of folks who have waded through this deluge of tedious writing are probably few. For those who read this sentence, thank you for listening. Goodnight.

Dan