Namuwongo Kids

My jetlagged brain of mush registers flashes of red, blue and yellow whipping around the classroom. I remember that I’ve just arrived in Kampala and I am here to volunteer with the holiday program that protects the kids of the Namuwongo slum.

They are running riot.

“Teach them a song”, says the teacher. Songs! I think. I know songs! Back home I’m a singer and my partner a musician. My sleep deprived brain racks my internal rolladex for something to teach them.

It comes up with nothing.

I try again.

Nada. I cannot think of a single song in the entire world.

I turn to my partner, Hanson and tell him to have a go at the internal rolladex. He looks dazed for a second and then announces:

“Please Mr Postman”.

I momentarily consider the possibility that he’s perhaps already contracted malaria, but then realise that Mr Postman is probably the best we’re getting today. We quickly split the kids into two groups and in minutes they’re singing choruses.

So began our journey.

Eventually we settled into our new roles. By day three we knew half of their names and personalities, had remembered most of the rules to elastics and could quite comfortably round the lot of them up and get them to listen when needed. An unfortunate side effect of this was, now anytime Hanson wanted me to do something, he clapped his hands at me.

But it wasn't all rosy. One day one of our kids collapsed in the playground. She walked the two kilometres to the nearest doctor in the dust and the blazing sun without a whimper of complaint. Diagnosis: Malaria. One of our kids was diagnosed with a tumour behind her eye, most of our kids had third degree burns from falling into cooking fires. All of our kids came to us each day with a clean t-shirt and a huge smile. They were my heroes.

They were also just kids.

Now I look at the old “Happy 1st Birthday!” card they doctored for my farewell gift. And I just hope those crazy little kids get to see many more birthdays than that.