We have asked the members of our leadership team to answer ten questions about their lives. (If you’d like, share your answers with us as well.) The AidChild magic is created by the efforts and partnerships of so many. We hope these will offer you insights into the layers and nuances of our work. (Look for more soon, and see Henry’s below.)

Ssenyonjo Martin
Senior Accountant 
(Pictured in AidChild’s Headquarters Offices in Masaka)

1.  What is your earliest childhood memory?

Joan Mutesi
Nurse Practitioner, Nkumba Clinic and Home

1. What is your earliest childhood memory? 

I remember when I was about four years old, my mum asked me to pretend to go for a nap after lunch–with my elder siblings.  She had a party that she was going to. But since she wanted to take only me, and she didn’t want the others to complain, she asked me to then sneak out of the house quietly so that none of them noticed, and we went.  I had so much fun at the party, but going back home everyone was annoyed and none of them was willing to talk to me.

2. If you had the choice to eat anything in the whole world, what would it be? 

I would eat matooke [Uganda delicacy of steamed plantain bananas], rice, and chicken.

3. You are happiest when you are doing what?

Praying, worshiping, fulfilling my obligations especially at my work, and when I meet my goals.

4.  Whom do you admire most in this world, whether living or dead?

I admire my mum for she has been a role model of strong woman and of what a loving mother should be to me.

5.  When power is off, what do you like to do most?

If am around people, I like to tell stories, but if am alone, I dose off.

6.  When power comes back on, what do you do first? 

Watch movies, listen to music.  I switch on the television or radio immediately.

7.  What do you most value in a friend?  (What traits or characteristics?) 

I always value friends who are honest, kind, trustworthy, faithful, truthful and loving.

8.  What talent would you most like to have?

I would like to be a flight attendant.  And why?  I always admire it for opportunities to travel around the world, meet new people with different cultures.

9.  Tell us one of your best memories about something that happened with one of our kids.

I remember the first time I arrived at our Masaka home, I met this incredible child name Kawalya Joseph, aged one year and half. On our first eye contact, something amazing happened as I held him in my arms.  He felt so comfortable as he lay on my chest even though I was a stranger to him.  It was so touching that as I carried him on my laps, we had a special bond.  In just a few minutes, he had started to sleep off.

10.  What did you have for breakfast this morning? 

I took coffee and bread.

Jjumba Henry
Lead Educator, Masaka Center (pictured here with our dear Simon Peter).  

1. What is your earliest childhood memory? 

My earliest childhood memory is following my big brothers to primary school and studying in Primary 1 classes without the knowledge of my parents.  I was supposed to be in nursery school.  This went on for a month.  The teachers later persuaded my parents to let me skip nursery and I remained in Primary 1.

2. If you had the choice to eat anything in the whole world, what would it be?

I would choose to eat game meat for a whole month!

3. You are happiest when you are doing what?  

When I am involved in an activity that is going to positively change or influence those around me and society.

4. Whom do you admire most in this world, whether living or dead? 

I admire Nelson Mandela for his commitment to change.

5. When power is off, what do you like to do most?

To play a game like football or rugby.

6. When power come back on, what do you like to do first?  

To listen to loud music indoors.

7. What do you most value in a friend? (What traits or characteristics?) 

I value honesty and reliability in a friend.

8. What talent would you most like to have? And why?  

I would like to have the talent of speech because speech has the potential to change people and society.

9. Tell us one of your best memories about something that happened with one of our kids. 

I remember little Cathy, 5, standing up one day during an interaction with all the kids and telling them to each take their medication on time like she does.  Most of the big kids were surprised that Cathy would say that (I inclusive).

10. What did you have for breakfast this morning?  

With the kids, I had a boiled egg, a banana, bread, soy porridge with milk. And it’s been another bright day!

From the early pages of our founder’s journal:

I’m not sure how I feel about something that’s happened.  Something that is happening.  I don’t know what to do with it in my heart.  My mind.  Inside.

There is definitely a positive side to it.  On the one hand, if feels very special.  And good.  On the other hand it is very disturbing to me.  Unsettling.  Not really good at all.

How do I feel about this?

With this issue, like so many, I find that my processing mechanisms are off.  The realities of life here seem to daily challenge my heart’s spirit in new ways.

I think.  I react.  I overreact.  I respond.

And then I don’t.  Don’t respond.  Don’t react.  Don’t think.

Yet emotion forever moves within me like the distinct, quiet steps of a horseman on the cobbles of a street in darkness.

I wonder, am I going mad?  I just don’t know what to do with this.

Should I be proactive?  Should I stop it?  Should I address it in some way?

Or should I leave it alone?  Let it go?  Continue?  Mature?

Or fade.  Develop as it will.

For now, it is stretched on the floor of my heart-garden like a drying carpet.  Or a picnic blanket anticipating a feast.

No teacher has prepared me for this.  No sacred text I have read seems to articulate morality’s answer.  And my memory doesn’t re-hear the sensible voice of an elder speaking to just exactly this.

Not that I am the only person to have ever encountered this.  Surely not.  Still, what should I do?

It all started during lunch when the teachers were telling the rest of my staff and me about their morning. Cute anecdotes and special stories often provide the final, savory dimension to our noontime hour of flavor and sounds on the dining-porch.

“One thing that has always surprised me,” Sarah said, “is how the children conclude their stories during show-and-tell.”

“What do you mean?” someone asked.

Sarah’s reply was the trumpet sound for my pensive-charge.  “Well,” she answered, “they always summarize by saying, ‘And if it weren’t for Daddy, I would not still be alive.’”

Oh God, no.

Oh God, please.

Who told them this?  Why would my four-year-old feel the need to say this?  My ten year-old?

While I am hugely gratified, and adore a heart grateful for life, what do I do with the realization that children, my children, are contemplating life and death?

And me.

After much thought, I may have decided to leave this untouched.

Like tiny yellow daisies sprouting in a lawn.

Or a breeze billowing the curtains of an open window.

Whispers from the girls’ room in the wee hours.

Newly fallen petals from the centerpiece.

Like teardrops on the pages of a letter.

I think this must be left alone.

Thirteen years ago this month, we started providing care for children living with HIV/AIDS in Uganda.  And we’re still going strong thanks to your support.  

As we celebrate precious life and real hope, a donor has pledged $13,000 in matching funds, meaning every dollar you donate will become two!  Can you help us get to this much needed $26,000 (13,000 + 13,000)?  

Medication, food, comfy beds–these are the ingredients of hope that your support will provide.  We thank you.  It’s as easy as clicking here.

Emotions churn.

Passion does his dance.

Anger billows.

Joy with her contagious laugh.

I cry.  I dance.  I scream.  I laugh.

            Again.

                   And.

                          Again.

I awoke this morning to sunny skies.  They have replaced the mist-filled valley.  For now.  Our special home is perched on a small rise.  Near the hill’s brow.  Below are many farms.  A small eucalyptus plantation.  Bananas.  A swamp.

The kids skip and run down the hill to school.  Then comes Isaac, a little slower with his arthritis.  Last is my sweet Balikuddembe.  Very weak.  But eager.

On his way.

People are starting to ask me, “Which of the children is your favorite?”

My gut would say, “I love them all the same.”  But then my conscience challenges the response.  My heart moves through a slideshow of their faces.  “What about Ojos?” I’m asked.  She was my baby.  My baby girl.  For so long.  “Or Abraham?”  My baby now.  “Or Janat?”  The youngest girl.  “Or Patrick?”  My oldest.

One by one, I see their faces.  I hear their giggles, laughs and sweet voices.  My mind’s eye zooms in to their little smiles.

“Each is my favorite,” I decide.

Again, I am challenged to truth.  “Surely one must stand out?”

“Yes.”

Milo does.  Did.  He’s gone now.  He was my favorite.

Then Ivan was.

Then Mzee.

Prisca.

Isaac.

Nasaka.

All have passed through my arms.

On.

My babies.

My favorites.

“Whoever is weakest,” I admit, “is my favorite.”

Not because they are pitiful and sad.  Not because of despair and its call for sympathy.

But because of this great sense that they are superior beings who are carefully treading through that gloriously arduous zone of passage.

To forever.

To the Divine.

To what’s next.

I want to be close to them.  To listen for a whisper.  Search for a sign.  Catch a glimpse.

And they seem to need courage.  A courage we can give.  By kissing their forehead at night.  Singing a lullaby.  Greeting with a smile.  Patting a shoulder.  Or by holding a hand.

The thought answers the question.

This is the hand of my celebrity.  My encounter with Greatness.

This is my favorite.

(Written circa 2002.)

(From the early pages of Nathaniel’s African Journal.)

So my little Janat (age 3) is convinced that true survival requires a constant intake of nourishment.  Yes, she loves to eat.  Always.  I could swear this was a genetic hand-me-down from Daddy.  Oh the pleasure of happy taste buds!

Abraham (age 2) also shares our food-fetish.  If these two see me eating, they feel it is quietly emergent that they join me, that we must conquer the raging plate together.

So far, Abraham is winning in the packing-it-on department.  His big belly really works for him.  Still I worry about the tottery-ness of his unbalanced physique at times.

But then, he is a toddler.

Anyway, the other day, I was feeling a bit eleven-o’clock-ish (as Winnie the Pooh would say), so I decided to sit down for a quick piece of toast. With peanut butter (for its essential protein content, of course).  And honey.  (Because life just needs honey sometimes.)

Upon commencement, I carefully surveyed the area.  No sign of my taste-buddies.  Today, I would be alone as the man-of-devour.

I was up to the task.

But then out of nowhere came my little demolition team.  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”

It was amazing.  They didn’t even need help up to my lap.  They quite naturally and fluidly climbed into place.  A little elbowing, but not much.

And…begin!

Janat dropped her first piece.  Never mind, I could see her think, I’ll get to that later.  I made my own mental note to get to it first, and to dispose of it.  Three-years-old or not, our gluttony-gang must have standards.

We proceeded with tenacity and satisfaction.  Very nice indeed.

At the table with us was a visiting friend.  Later she commented that Abe and Janat must have considered it such a treat to sit on Daddy’s lap and eat.

Little does she know, I thought.  This is our modus operandi. 

With that, I went for the dropped-piece.  And guess what!  Janat had beaten me to it.  I pretended to be frustrated, but was really quite impressed.  Girlfriend’s fast!

“A treat?” I said. “I think they’d be used to it by now.  I feel like our life-clock is forever set on dine-time.”

My friend smiled.  Then she said something quite simple and precious: “No matter how often, I think it must always be a treat,” she said, “to sit on Daddy’s lap.” 

Other early  entries from Nathaniel’s African Journal:

• In the Shadow
• That She Might Dance
• Pray for Bob, Daddy

Below is another early entry from Nathaniel’s African journal.  It very much relates to the first we offered here a few days ago, called: “Pray for Bob, Daddy.”  Perhaps you would like to read the former before reading the below…if you have not already done so.

——–
The car window framed an evolving portrait of Ugandan life.  Leafy banana fields and papyrus-filled swamps waned into the bustling city streets of Kampala.  They, in turn, faded into sugarcane plantations, and the soft, rolling hills of the tropics.  A bridge crossed the River Nile.  On any other day, this masterpiece that is Africa captures my being’s heart and soul; presenting a unique gift of inspiration, peace and nourishment.  Today, I barely noticed the beautiful canvas outside because of what I was feeling inside; because the pickup ahead of me held my little Ivan.  Or what had been Ivan.  His spirit, now in a new home, was with us in a different form as we traveled to lay to rest his former vessel—near his parents’.

He had died a peaceful death. At nine years old, he had lived longer than most children with AIDS in Africa.  Longer than hoped.  Longer than he would have outside my home.  For that I was grateful. 

And one day, Eternity will reunite us, and we will dance together again—like we always used to.  And his steps will be freer and more beautiful than ever before. And what music!

Until then, though, there is a season of mourning—and a season of fighting. We will keep going.  We will continue to help children to live longer, to suffer less, and to be at peace.

The pickup pulled off the village road.  My taxi followed.  I stepped out.

“This is Bob,” someone said to me. 

“He asked for you just two weeks ago,” I’m amazed. “We didn’t know where to find you.”

I guess Bob to be about seven years old.  He sat next to me throughout the funeral.  He wanted to hold my hand.  I wanted to hold his.

As we left our seats and moved towards the grave, little Bob squeezed my hand and spoke my name.  I looked down into his eyes.  Ivan’s eyes.  His tears. “Thank you for treating Ivan,” he said simply.  “You are my friend. My real friend.”

We went together to say goodbye.

The grave was nicely prepared.  This hasn’t always been true for my other children who have died—children who had no one.  But it was so disturbing.  So small.  Tiny in fact. 

Surely graves were never meant to be so little.

We sprinkled flower petals on top of the simple casket.  Some men from the village sealed the grave.  Bob took my hand again, and we walked back towards the small village hut.  The family’s land was filled with graves.  We carefully stepped over them. Around them.  Many of the sepulcher mounds too small.  All of them, I had a sense, had been dug too soon.

As usual, people crowded around me after the service.  Many to say thank you.  Others to get a closer look at my fair skin.  Most came with desperate questions about their own HIV situation.  Their children.  Their orphaned grandchildren.

I lingered.  I answered all the questions I could.

Finally, I had to go.

The next morning, my little Mzee died.  Also nine years old.

The process repeated itself.  Another tiny grave.  Another suffering body put to unmatchable peace.  And rest.

Two days later, Prisca died.  Also nine years old. 

The next day, I gathered all my children and my staff in our backyard.  In the shadow cast by our house.  And by our sorrow.

Again, the masterpiece that is Africa framed each of us as we took a turn to stand and talk about our precious sons and brothers.  Our Prisca.  Our Ivan.  Our Mzee.  We cried. And we laughed.  We shared secrets.  We shared tears.

I had prepared a basket filled with flower petals taken from blossoms from the yard.  Our yard. 

“Let’s form a circle,” I said.  From the inside of the circle, I presented the basket to each staff member, each child, one-by-one.  “Take a handful,” I quietly instructed.

“These flower petals,” I began, not sure what I would say next, “though now in a different shape than they were when on the stem, remain beautiful.”  Still inside the circle, I slowly turned and looked into the eyes, the souls, encircling mine.  “Even more beautiful, some may say. Though their form is different, though they are no longer ‘living’ in the way that we normally recognize, they are still with us. And they are wonderful.”  Every eye, each soul, was looking back at me, at mine, in understanding.

“Ivan, Mzee and Prisca are a lot like these precious flower petals. Their form is now different, but they are still beautiful, still lovely.  Still precious.  And they are with us.”

We then took our handfuls and lofted them into the heavens—and said farewell. “Until we meet again.”

The gate’s buzzer used its startling voice to join the moment.

The gatekeeper excused himself from the circle.  He ran to the gate.  There, he found a small child.  Another soul.  Another opportunity to make a difference.  Another chance to make last days more comfortable, life more precious and hope more real.  

And so it goes. 

(Another early entry from Nathaniel’s African Journal, circa 2002.)

Kids.

Everywhere.

Perched on the arms of the sofa, spinning on the desk chair, sprawled on the floor, and just generally dangling about.  We were all in my sitting room watching a video.  Some have it memorized.  Others laugh and play in a distinct little world mysteriously inserted into this one.

Suddenly, Maria walks up and pops Deus a good one.  He instantly retaliates. Daddy moves in.

There’s an apprehension.

I pick up my little girl.  In my mind, that dreaded parental thought: What is the most appropriate response?

While I consider my options, I carry her to the porch and sit down.  Still in my arms, she begins to cry.

I know instantly, somehow, that this is not an expression of anger.  These aren’t her infamous faux-tears.  And she doesn’t want me to put her down.

Something about the dearness of her cry shows me that my little girl is healing.

Too young for a heart-to-heart.  Too tender for therapy.  No girl-talk.

Just Daddy’s arms.

She cried.  Not loudly.  Not passionately.

A precious weeping-balm of the heart.  For the heart.

I held her.  I used my voice to communicate a sense of peace.  I’m not sure I was successful.

She cried.

And cried.

“Do you want down, Baby?”

“No.”  Nearly voiceless.

More tears.

Absorbed by my shoulder.

I hope.

This person has been through so much.  Mommy and Daddy saying goodbye to her, to this life, forever.  No aunts.  No uncles.  Just her six-year-old brother and her three-year-old sister.  While a woman in their village took them in, she had eight children of her own, and a husband who resented my little ones because they were consuming his resources.  He knew that they were living with AIDS, and wrongly assumed that they wouldn’t survive to care for him in his old age.  His resentment revealed itself in physical violence.  Abuse.  Burns.  Punches.

And pain.

Little Maria has been here for awhile now.  She is processing, I think, all that her short days have seen.  She’s getting older.  She is trying to…

To what?

To get over it?

I don’t think so.

To survive?

No, more than that, I think.

She has been surviving.  So how is this different than yesterday?

I see that her heart is finally ready to replace sorrow with joy.  But inside she is frustrated.  She knows that her scabs must first become forgotten scars.

It is as if her spirit has heard the faint sound of a perfect melody drifting in from the next room.  She presses her ear to the wall.  She must hear all the notes.  Every one.  Her heart-feet finally slip into their toe shoes.  At last, she will know harmony.  Tears are the precious yield of her labor to weep-open a passage to the music.

That she might dance. 

(From the earliest pages of Nathaniel’s African journal, circa 2001.)

I am quickly developing a favorite time of the day here.  It comes at the end, at what we call Tuck-In Time.  Not because it means the kids are quiet (well not only for that reason) but because I find them especially sweet as they prepare for sleep.  It is a special time for the soul to be alone with thoughts, dreams and worries.  I get to know my kids most at this time.

Every night, my staff and I go through the routine of tucking in the covers and pulling the mosquito nets down over the little beds.  Then, I go back for individual goodnight-rituals with each child.  With my precious three-year-old girl, Ayine, I stick my head back in and under her net to steal one last kiss.  And she always pretends to try and get away from me, but her giggle on contact gives her away every time.  And, after I turn out the light in the boys’ room, eight-year-old Ronald always says, “Daddy, come back.”  So I creep back through the darkness to his upper bunk where, every night, I find his lips pressed against the inside of the net.  He insists on his goodnight kiss.  They are all different, and all wonderful.  And I am never more keenly aware of that than I am at bedtime.

Last night, after all the little rituals were complete, I turned to leave.  Then I heard another voice.  It was Ivan’s. (We don’t know how old he is. No one does, but we guess him to be between eight and ten.)  The little voice in the darkness said, “Pray for me, Daddy. And pray for Bob.”

Bob? Who is Bob?  I started to ask.  We don’t have a Bob.

Then I remembered Ivan’s small file.  One of the few pieces of information it does contain is the name of Ivan’s little brother: Bob.  I wondered where he was that night.  I wondered how he was.  I wondered how long it had been since these precious little brothers had seen each other.

My heart did a quick rewind to my own bedtime thoughts as a child. 

My worries. 

My dreams.  

I remembered worrying about my little sister, Hannah.  And how I would contemplate the anger I felt for those who had teased her cruelly.  Or how I would laugh to myself about my own big-brother-practical-joke of the day.  Sometimes, I would dream about her future, and hope that it would be wonderful.  But never once did I wonder where she was.

My children are so needy.  Their bodies are losing a war against a vicious disease while their hearts are aching because of the horrible losses already suffered at the hands of this killer. 

Some people say that my willingness to help these children is amazing compassion. 

If they could be with me at Tuck-In Time, though, they wouldn’t see it that way.  They would see it as I do: as a simple, logical response from one heart to another, and as an extraordinary blessing from God’s hand to my life.

That’s what it is.  A blessing.  A dream come true.  I now know that when the Divine drops a vision into your heart, all you must do is act.  I have often said that, in the beginning, the reality of AidChild was on the opposite side of a river of impossibility.  But once I made up my mind to find a way to cross, I easily located the stepping stones that would lead me to my vision.  The stones were many, but they were there.

All I had to do was move.

I was never more grateful for those stepping-stones than I was last night, now on the other side of the river, standing in the dark room of our home.  I breathed a simple thank you before I walked back over to Ivan’s bedside and knelt down.  As I laid my hand on his little head, I cleared the emotion from my throat, and then quietly said,

“Yes, Ivan. I’ll pray for you.”

He opened his nearly blind eyes, and looked directly at me as I added, “And I’ll pray for Bob, too.”