Join the journey with me.

It was June 2016. I was one of only eight people, all White, to board the small 8-10 seater missionary airplane outside Kampala to head north. The American missionary pilot led us in prayers for safe travels before departing. This taxi of an airplane made multiple stops on the way to Moroto, a route devised based on the weight and number of people deplaning and/or boarding at each stop. My stop, Moroto, was the last stop before the plane would return to Kampala.

I’m moving in just like the girls.

Kampala means contrast, Kampala the chameleon, Kampala the capital of the pearl of Africa.  But for me, here and now, it is the embodiment of the Queen of Katwe, the place where beautiful souls can blossom.

I found myself buying a knife I didn't need from an old man today.  

The vendor was a tall, thin but not fragile man wearing traditional clothing - a colorful textile wrapped around his midsection, clunky big sandals made out of old tires with the classic and colorful knitted hat decorated with an ostrich feather poking out the side. I didn't need the knife but it was a better option than the bow and arrow sets he was also showcasing.

Sunday night. The last night with my parents in town. I wanted to give my dad, in particular, a great last meal. So my friend lives at this apartment in Prati where everyday this group of sixty and seventy year old men hang out in the afternoons, play cards, and drink wine.