Tour de Kisugu

With six, ½-kilos of sugar in my backpack, I was ready for my night out with my youth.

For months they had been requesting for me to visit their homes and the time had finally come. 

Most of my youth live in Kisugu, one of the surrounding slums of Kampala where you find overcrowding, little infrastructure, no social services, and minimal access to water.  Amongst all this though, you find smiling faces and a warm welcome into a place that they are proud to call home. 

Overcrowding at its finest...

A local water source for many...

Two of my girls picked me up at my house and from there we set off.

After a 15-minute walk, we made it.  The streets were dark.  People lit their shops and stands with local kerosene candles.  The hum of generators was peaceful, allowing discotheques to play requested songs, not so peaceful, and salons to operate.  Aromas of roasted chicken and greasy rolexes filled the air, as did the occasional trace of an uncovered pit latrine.

As I made it to house number one, I was greeted by the enthusiastic squeals from my youth.  They were so excited to have me.  I was also flooded with the onslaught of children from all corners of the slum… Touching the muzungu skin and eager to see someone so different in his or her community.  Either they had never seen someone of my color before or the ones they had seen had given them money, probably due to their poor living conditions. 

Slum residents occupy up to 64% of the urban population, estimating numbers at around 2.1 million people.

Traditionally homes are a small one-room place that serves as a bedroom, kitchen, living room, and dining room… And by small I am talking a space of about ten feet by six feet.  Their bathrooms are outside.  These spaces are shared with an average of five other people. 

The homes were bare bones… Walls made of bricks and a tin roof.  Plastic sheets found in garbage piles covered the gaping holes to give privacy to families. 

The inside though… That was filled with love.  Pictures of family members and blankets to snuggle under on a cold night.  Flasks of hot water to warm the soul.  Worn down couch cushions that when sat upon was like being embraced by an old friend.

This is simply the only way that people can afford to live in the capital city with a minimal income.

It is why these areas are so overcrowded.

Maneuvering through the dark alleys with the help of the small torch on my phone and my youth safely guiding me, house to house we went.  I was warmly welcome at every house.  Given food, tea, hugs, and more.

It is a big deal to have visitors in Uganda and it seems that no matter the situation, they go above and beyond to welcome you.

Example.

At Rachel’s house they offered me milk tea and bread.

At Apio’s house I was given rice, beef, beans, and boo, greens pasted in odii.

Zulaikah’s house prepared for me a homemade rolex and a cold Coke.

After visiting Hamuza’s house I was given tangerines.

Phionah’s had prepared coffee and bread.

We ended the night at Mercy’s house with tea, yams, and groundnuts.

Needless to say, I was stuffed. 

I was humbled.

I was beyond words for the hospitality I encountered.

With every home I entered, I was given a seat while others moved to the floor.

With every home I entered, we had genuine conversations about the strengths and struggles of life, the past and the future, and how to best support one another.

Time and time again I was told how thankful they are to have me in their child’s life.  The guidance and support I have given.  How much they will miss me when I go back.

Humbly, I acknowledged.  I shared that I can still emotionally support them from afar.  That truthfully, this is just the beginning…

I then explained how their children and these visits have had more of an impact on me then any bag of sugar could give them.