About four years ago my grandfather died. It was the single
most devastating blow my young mind and heart then had ever gone through. I had
not been there in the hospital when he was sick believing he would be fine. He
was always so strong and bounced back faster than a rubber ball.
But he would not be coming back from this one, at least not
alive and not on his feet. He succumbed to cancer of the throat. He could not
eat. His throat was so brittle it came apart at the slightest nudge.He
literally starved to death.
For the second time in my life I stepped into a catholic
cathedral and for the first time in my life I got onto a bus to head to my mother’s
village.
We were packed like sardine or close to that and the ride
was long, very long. The roads were terrible and it was slow going most of the
way after; we had left the miles of tarmac closer to the central region behind.
I struggles with my grief and thoughts of rebel ambushes.
While it had been a couple of years since ambushes were common place it was still
a real threat and here we were in the dark, in a slow old bus. The headlights
did not stretch far but with each pothole they shone light onto the tall
elephant grass which very easily was a higher than a grown man standing.
Something else was caught in the dim headlights. I kept
spying this row of kids ranging between 7-15 or over walking along the side of the road. I kept
wondering why on earth they would be out in the dark in the middle of nowhere.
In some places I saw small lamp lit kiosk fronts and heard the stray squeaks of
battery powered hand held radios. I was beaten. There was nothing out here but
someone still had the audacity to set up shop. My small kampalan mind was in
knots.
It was only on my return journey that I fully
understood. All along the road sometimes
for several meters were these displaced persons camps stretching as far as the
eye could see. It was now in the light of the morning sun that I could see why
so many children trudged along a lonely dark road in the “middle of nowhere”
only this was not nowhere, for them it was home.
I cannot begin to explain what that sight did to me but
something inside died, or broke or was awaken or all the above. I saw in the
eyes of those kids my fellow countrymen but more than that my people. For while
I may have grown in Kampala most of my life I an Alur and my mother is Madi. My
roots straddle with ease the width and breadth of the conflict that was the LRA
war and for many years I could not visit my ancestral home because of the insurgency.
I have heard all or at least most of what has been said and
I have my own conspiracy theories but one thing is for sure I shall not throw
stones or careless words at the Invisible Children initiative. They have tried
hard to do what I desire to do. I may not like their methods or question their
motive but when a hungry, dying man, woman, boy or girl is given food, they do
not ask where it came from and why they are being given the food. To them
hunger is a bigger deal and getting fed is welcome regardless of who gives it.
Of course there are several sides to this story and the
politics behind it is diverse and a little abstruse but I hope, I sincerely
hope that one day I could do something for those that I call my own and for now
I shall start with not criticising
where I have not participated.
