Global Youth Service Day -Uganda

Backpacker

Saturday 26th April
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I thought I would be joinining my young friends for this morning’s clean-up activity but it shall not be so as I have to attend to urgent matters in the city -which if left unattended would actually cost us a lot over the course of the service project- so in a way, I shall still be serving the youth service, albeit, from a metropolis location this morning. Hopefully I can be back with the children and youth in a few hours to participate actively in the community clean-up exercises to eradicate malaria.

When I’m finally done, I have to cross from one end of the city to another -literally miles apart- with a bag on my shoulders that weighs about the same as two AK-47s. In the name of global youth service. As I cross one road, I get a chance to see a reflection of myself in one of the many glass windows that make up some of Kampala’s skyline. I think I look like a tourist -complete with backpacker, waist bag, dirty jeans and sweat on my brow. I had only gotten into the city to meet one person and provide my signature on a few documents but it has now escalated to meeting at least 10 people. All of them service providers. Over the past week I had to memorise 50 names replete with their corrresponding faces. In this line of work, it is an added bonus to have such a good memory. When you can refer to people by their names, you overcome the first obstacles other people have to deal with in breaking down that personal barrier during communication. However, now, again in the city with so many service providers -most of them also new people to me, I think I shall save my mind’s memory space for more daunting tasks; I decide to refer to them as I save their contact numbers in my phone by the service(s) that they offer. Perhaps at another point, I shall be able to get their names too, but surely not now. A few examples from my call long now include: t-Shirts lad, music lad, printery lad, food lass, etc… The irony is that they all refer to me by my name -some my full name- whenever we are talking. Of course, I am saved by the bell, in this case the native vernacular, which leaves us room for refering to people by various titles. To me each of the males becomes, “Mukulu” and the females, “Mama”. Matters don’t get any better when some of the former perhaps embarassed by the flattery title choose to call me, “Loodi”, a variation of the English term, ‘lord’. Now wouldn’t that be the epitome of flattery, of course except to a few people such as the rag-tag LRA in Central Africa Republic that really think of themselves as ‘lords’ of some sort.

It’s fast approaching 10 o’clock and I have to get back to that little village. After setting things together, I call one of my colleagues, Tom and let him know of my progress and a few things that I would like for him to follow up on later that same day in the city. Tom seems to be only getting out of bed; he sounds quite groggy and tired on the phone. I’m sure he had a long day the day before. It’s only fair that he has gotten some rest. I am also assured that he will certainly be in great shape tomorrow during the culmination event because there, everybody will need their energy! While we talk on the phone, I jokingly tease him about missing out on the youth service today, and more especially for him, taking a bit of the village delicacy with him back home. The locals lightheartedly refer to it as: “mutambuzadembe” (he who walks peacefully), or ‘pork’ for the uninitiated! Over the past 3 weeks whenever I’ve travelled over to Muzinda with Tom, he’s been true to going back home with not less that a kilogramme of the prize item. And when he does, I decline to travel with him back. My reasons are only personal; among the group of children and youth that we are dealing with in this village are a few muslims. The whole group looks up to me as an inspirational patron-of-sorts. I would surely sacrifice a few things to set a good example and keep them together -including staying away from pork for the benefit of the muslims. The children and youth are not only just members of a club/group now. They are also my friends. And already, there’s a level of trust that we have mutually entrusted into each other. Each of them now has also gotten my personal phone number written down somewhere. To some of them, it’s treated as though it were some kind of exquisite relic -this I say because only last evening, I saw in a book that belonged to one of the children, it was written down somewhere at the back and decoratively adorned with various designs and caligraphy. It’s quite interesting how such a simple thing can mean so much to someone. Surely, I am every bit happy to have been a part of this activity. When these thoughts flow through my mind, suddenly the backpack I’m carrying seems not heavy anymore. And to think that in another 120 countries on each continent around the globe, there’s someone going through about the same as I am, all in the name of Global Youth Service, I’m reassured that indeed the world will become a better place. We are in this together.