Robyn deGroot of Lethbridge, Alberta and a student of Redeemer University College in Ancaster, Ontario spent 10 weeks in Uganda in the fall of 2007. Her role as an orphanage school assistant for Umoja Orphanages was especially appreciated as she shared her gifts in the area of music.
It’s still dark when I get up, though the birds can sense morning is coming and they are singing already. The last of the fireflies are dancing away to their resting places. Soon the kids will be coming, smiling, happy, though I would kill for another hour’s sleep.
Breakfast, then out the door. Ketty holds my bag and Somalia, my guitar. It’s about as big as he is, and he is proud as he trudges along with it on his back. I love the mornings here. Cool, fresh, billions of tiny droplets of water on every leaf, every blade of grass, causing them to sparkle with the pink glow of the sun. Every sound seems to hang, frozen, in the perfectly still air. The song of every bird, every distant 'good morning' and child's laugh, all joining together, the highs and lows, and every note in between: a beautiful chorus welcoming the day.
We trudge down the rocky path, past the eucalyptus trees with the monkeys, past the little shops being swept out, prepared for the day, past the women doing laundry, kids cleaning up their breakfast, and down the road, past brick homes, and uniformed children going to the other schools, past the men on bikes bringing their goods to town, and women with water jugs on their heads, coming back from the well. We have to run off the road when the trucks pass to avoid being covered in the fine red dust.
As we walk, more and more children join us, till we are a crowd, laughing, talking, singing, marching towards the school. We arrive and we are greeted by more, running towards us. Big white smiles, a kneel, take my bags, “you aw welocome madame”. They take my hand and lead me up the hill to that school like you see in the movies. Brick, no windows or doors, wooden benches for desks, and smiling children in their plaid uniforms. They are poor. Many of them have no shoes, and their torn uniforms are their only pair of clothes, but they are happy. Happy to learn, happy to be with their friends, and happy as they hope for a better future.
The children argue about which class I should sit in and I pick one. The whispers, the notes to friends, Wooli from P7 peaks through the hole in the reeds separating the classrooms and jokes to Ojok. They are just like kids in Canada. Tea time with the teachers, sitting in some different classes, lunch of posho and beans, then music lessons; today is P6. We sing a few songs with the guitar, the kids all take turns trying to play it themselves, then somehow a dance party breaks out. Ogom on the guitar, Kevin on the drums, and the girls organizing everyone into song and dance. Kids peek in from the other classes wondering what’s going on.
At games time we play netball or football with the balls I brought back from Kampala; the best purchase I ever made or ever will make. They are so happy. I join in and they are astounded that I, a mujungu, or white person, can run. I show them that, not only can I run, but I can also play. Our team wins the match.
Then after school it’s back down that red dusty road, past those coming back from town or school, the bikes and the kids and the dogs and the women carrying stuff on their heads. Past the busy shops, and men lounging in front, the herd of long-horned cattle, and the weathered old women visiting. Smiles, waves, shouts: “Mujungu! Mujungu!”, small children running after me, then hiding when they get close. We see the rain coming and have to run, barely making it home before the wall of water drenches everything.
Soon it will be dark, the billions of stars will come out along with the fireflies, and Amote, my African mother, will have prepared supper. So for now it’s goodbye and goodnight. Until tomorrow when it all begins again.
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