Of neighbors, age, names, and hope

We entertained our neighbors last night, the third night in the last week we’ve had neighbors or friends over for Christmas, part of the fun and the challenge of living out the holidays here. In spite of many years of this, cross-cultural entertaining remains more challenging than the comfortable camaraderie of team mates, the uncertainty in the little things. For some we introduce elements of our own culture (mashed potatoes instead of matoke); for others we sense it is more loving to stick with theirs. Last night I knelt in front of our guests pouring water from a pitcher over their outstretched hands for washing, letting it drip into a basin, the normal way of hand-washing before eating here, in spite of the fact that we have a sink in the kitchen. Most of their conversation centered on our Christmas tree: not the ornaments so much as the fact that I had draped a beautiful local kikoya cloth around the bottom to conceal the bucket that held it up. Yes, Jennifer even dresses trees they shook their heads in wonder, finding my eccentricity entertaining. These neighbors have been part of our lives since we moved here. John Mukiddi is aging, suffering from hypertension and heart failure and arthritis. We live about 30 yards apart but Scott drove our truck to pick him up since he could not walk that far with his hobble and crutch and breathlessness. He’s a patriarch of the community in many ways, respected but moving to the sidelines, his sons gaining prominence. The picture is not all good. One son has taken a path that brings his father (and us) grief, the path of the “big man” here, where education and power lead to drinking, abuse, broken marriage. The second just moved back home after leaving the rebel movement that plagued us for so many years, a bright and ambitious young man who also sought success in the wrong places, yet now speaks of peace and forgiveness as he takes advantage of the amnesty. This is Africa where yesterday’s enemies can be reconciled. His charming young daughter thanked me for the food and played basketball with our kids, a reminder that the vague “rebel” menace has a human dimension. A third son is one of the students we sponsor, Luke’s age-mate and Caleb’s classmate now. He used to toddle around the mango tree playing trucks in the sand with our boys; now he’s a muscular teenager out kicking the soccer ball with them. We pray that he will have the grace to take a different path than his brothers through life. John and his older wife Yodesi remind me of my parents in some ways: their names are the African equivalents which is part of God’s sense of humor, their ages similar, their generosity, and their loyalty to me a small reflection of my parents’. I’m grateful for that, and dread the grief of their mortality.

In spite of seeing the growing frailty of my neighbors, age is a good thing in Africa. The holidays are actually called “bhilo bhikulu”, days of importance. But the root of the word for high or important or honored is “old”. What a contrast to our American culture of youth.

Names are NOT an important thing in Africa. This morning I admitted Simeo, a four-year-old with dayglo yellow eyes, a protuberant belly, and sticky limbs. He was brought by his paternal grandmother: it seems that her son (the child’s father) joined the army, so the child’s mother remarried. After a couple of years her new husband must have told her to return the other man’s child to his family, so the mother one month ago appeared at this grandmother’s house and dropped off Simeo. The grandmother knew nothing of his past history but as he became more and more jaundiced and ill she decided to bring him to my home today, and we brought him to the hospital. As I wrote up an admission paper I asked her his name. She looked flustered. She had no idea. I wanted to ask him his name but he was not speaking to me, in terror. So in her bag we finally found a little blue immunization card that had “Simeo” written on it. So Simeo it is. Diagnosis pending—could be sickle cell, or AIDS, or TB, or chronic hepatitis. I can barely imagine being 4, abandoned by both parents, and hospitalized in the care of a grandmother/stranger who does not know my name.

Lastly, a glimpse of HOPE. Hope is the name of a new ward in Kampala’s best hospital. An Irish missionary who survived the turbulent 80’s in Uganda then survived cancer back at home (he’s written his story in the book The Man with the Key Is Not Here) decided to come back to Uganda and start a high quality hospital in the capital city. The International Hospital is where Caleb had his appendectomy and Julia her broken arm set under anesthesia. This month we were there to get some immunizations for the kids and I noticed publicity for the new “Hope Ward”, an effort to get local business to sponsor care for the poorest patients. Yesterday I finally got through to the doctor in charge and received permission to transfer Asimati, an 8 year old girl who came with a limp but turned out to be twisted in pain from a grossly enlarged kidney. Praying she will receive expert care and surgery possibly from a urologist. The possibility gives me hope!

Rather disconnected thoughts today, but that’s how we’re spending our Christmas week. Boys pounding the soccer ball in the yard with our kids, reading the books they got for Christmas, seeing patients, spending time with neighbors, trying to advocate for the needy where we can, trying to enjoy our little place in the world and the Kingdom here in Bundibugyo.