. . . . We inherited from the previous family who occupied this home, a swingset made by the locals. Recently we became the recipients of some swings from another mission family. Last night, two local guys helped us set them up. Afterward I watched, in the deepening twilight, as the twenty-something young man hoisted himself akwardly onto the middle swing and began moving his legs and jerking his body in an attempt to swing. The sight of this grown man who had no idea how to move a swing was awe-some to me. The kids and I cheered him on and he quickly got the idea and began pumping away a bit and moving forward and backward. . . . .
. . . . .Walking on a path I had not yet been on, through Nyahuka village homes, I smelled a sweet and distinct smell before catching sight of a large slab of concrete, covered with a thin coat of blood and with several animal tails scattered about. I had reached a village butchery. A goat, throat slit, body in grotesque position, occupied my main attention. It’s staring eyes and unnaturally tilted head horrifying and sickening me. Next to the slab was a small fence holding in a group of cattle who moved against each other uneasily in sight, smell and sound range of the death. . . . . . Several children sat on the fence, hovered just above the dead goat, oblivious. . . . .
. . . . .Sabbit morning, usually a no-visitor day, but an exception is made since it’s our first day back from our “safari” or trip. Akolimpe children en masse flock to our back “porchie” and look in our back door. A concert begins, the local African worship songs and a few songs learned by rote repitition in English or as they say “luzungu”. The singing went on for ten or more minutes as Naomi and I hung on the screen door and watched grinning, our hearts lit up. . . . . .
. . . . Walking through the market on a weekday afternoon. Things are quiet, and all attention is on the white woman who comes at this strange time. I usually market in the relative anonimity of the Saturday rush. The usual greetings as well as the expected remarks in Lubwisi accompanied by laughter, who knows why. I don’t feel frightened but I do feel vulnerable. I focus on holding my head high, being proud yet open. I catch one or two obscene gestures. And of course many calls from children, “muzungu, muzungu!!” One small child follows me, chanting this title, around the corner where the cloth is sold and into the fish section. As he reaches close enough to tug my skirt I turn to him. Again he calls “muzungu, muzungu”, all eyes are on us, but my eyes are locked in his bright ones. “How are you??” I demand, with my African accent. This tiny little one pauses for a long moment, thoughtfully and then shoots back ” I am foine!” If only you could hear the pronunciation of this one univerally known phrase. It is SO fetching. I respond with a characteristically African sound, an exclamation and a “webula luzungu!!” The market around us erupts in laughter. A universal appreciation for this plucky little boy. Ugandans love children. So do I.