Collision

by Stefne Miller

  “All right,” she said with a shrug. “Come over when you’re ready. We’ll see if we can cook something up.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Yeah, I’d be there. It would just be a matter of holding off long enough to show up at a decent time instead of at the crack of dawn. As it was, I’d have to keep myself entertained for several more hours and the majority of the next day.

  Trudging back into the guesthouse, I swept the binoculars off the ground, sat down in the large chair, and waited for nature to put on a show.

  C H A P T E R

  5

  When I walked in for dinner the next night, Kei had pulled out a jar of spaghetti sauce and a packet of noodles. I made a mental note to make all future menu selections myself.

  We talked while making dinner and discovered that we had some things in common. We both liked history—she, European and African; and me, American. We also both loved music, but she was more into older pop type stuff and I liked the newer artists. She vowed to sway me to her kind of music. I told her she had her work cut out for her.

  She told me she traveled back to the States every year for a few months during the summer and a week or two over Christmas holiday to visit Oliver and his family, but this time, at last minute, found out that Oliver and his wife, Mariah, were stuck in Japan on location. A monsoon had passed through and delayed filming and they weren’t sure when or if they would make it in time to see Kei during her visit. Instead of losing the money on her ticket, Kei said she decided to go ahead and come anyway. It would be a chance to relax and contemplate her future.

  Apparently we had that goal in common too.

  “A part of me wishes I would’ve just gone to Japan to visit them. I’d love to travel the globe, and Japan would be fascinating.”

  “Where’s the one place you want to visit most,” I asked.

  “All of Europe.”

  “All of it? That’s not really one place.”

  “I beg to differ. It’s one continent, isn’t it?”

  “But I didn’t ask which continent you wanted to visit. I asked—”

  “Start in Ireland and travel all the way down to Greece. I’d take all the time I could, soak in every moment of it and see everything imaginable.”

  “I still argue that it’s not one place, but I hope you get a chance one day.”

  “Thank you.” She looked me up and down. “You know, it might take a bit of effort, but you should try to raise the money to come to Africa sometime. I’m certain you’d love it.”

  I shook my head and laughed, and when I did, it looked like she was watching my hair.

  “Why are you looking at my hair?”

  Her face flushed a little. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to ogle. It’s been awhile since I’ve been around a man with that much hair on his head. And it’s blond, no less. I have to keep myself from reaching over and running my fingers through it.”

  I laughed and leaned the upper half of my body toward her. “Feel free.”

  “No, no. I don’t want to frighten you off.”

  “I’m not sure you could.”

  “Not that it’s anything creepy. It’s only that people keep their hair extremely short at home.”

  “So you consider Uganda home?” I asked before pulling a string of spaghetti out of the water and putting it in my mouth.

  “That’s where my heart is.”

  “Why?”

  “It simply is.”

  I looked at her and scowled.

  “You honestly wish to know?”

  “Yeah, I really do.”

  She put the lid on the spaghetti sauce and sat down at the table. “When I was a child, we lived in several different places in Africa. But once the story of Northern Uganda leaked out, my parents felt called to relocate there permanently, so we did.”

  “Will I sound stupid if I ask what the story is with Northern Uganda?”

  “Not stupid. Uneducated or too privileged to bother possibly, but not stupid.”

  My ego bruised, I dropped the tongs on the counter and shrugged.

  “I was teasing. Hardly anyone in the States knows about it. Trust me. You aren’t alone. Believe it or not, men, women, and children being massacred by the millions doesn’t seem to be worthy of much news coverage in the States. It largely goes unnoticed.”

  I sat down across from her, with my hands on the table. “So then, enlighten me. What’s going on over there?”

  “Ugandans have been at war for approximately twenty years with a rebel army led by a man named Joseph Koney. He calls his army the Lord’s Resistance Army, LRA for short.”

  “So they’re Christians?”

  “They’re heavily into witchcraft, among other things. Some people over there say they’re Christians, but they worship a lot of different gods, so I wouldn’t really classify them that way. The general consensus is that they aren’t Christians; they just call themselves that.”

  “Who makes up their army? Other Ugandans?”

  “Yes, but they’re mostly children.”

  I sat back with a jolt. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. They raid villages and grab the children and kill the adults. The children are forced to become soldiers and are murdered if they don’t comply.”

  I didn’t respond, which seemed like it made her uncomfortable. She looked down at the table and picked up a fork. “I’m sorry. Where was I?”

  I leaned forward. “Children are forced to kill…”

  “Oh, yes.” She set the fork back down and looked up at me. “Entire villages have been destroyed, and God only knows how many people killed. There isn’t a family in Northern Uganda that hasn’t been affected by the loss of a loved one.”

  “The government doesn’t provide any protection?”

  “They try, but the LRA is a guerrilla army. They hide out in the trees and grasses and then show up out of nowhere.”

  “There’s nothing that can be done?”

  “One of the ways they’ve tried to help is to create what are called IDP camps.”

  “What does IDP stand for?”

  “Internally displaced persons. They’re essentially thousands of huts squeezed into a small area. The thought is that if they combine people together, they are easier to protect.”

  “Is it working?”

  “To a degree, but the problem is that people live by the land. Most families had to leave their homes and their crops, and now they have no crops to tend. Most of them have lost their homes, much of their families, and their purpose, not to mention a way to provide for themselves.”

  “When can they go home?”

  “Things have calmed down to the point that they’re trying to get people back to their land, but once they go back, they realize that their homes have been destroyed. Their crops are dead, and it’s too difficult to rebuild. Many families have been forced to return back to the camps. It’s a vicious circle.”

  “So what does your family do there?”

  “We spend a lot of time in the camps, doing whatever we can to help. We provide medical care, pray with people, help other mission groups that are there, whatever needs to be done. And then, of course, we perform church services, introduce people to Christ, show them that with him comes hope, even in their circumstances.”

  “And they’re welcoming to you?”

  “When we first started going into the camps, it was odd because most of them had never seen white skin. Add that to the fact that I’m a carrot top, and I’m beyond rare. The children were especially shocked to see me. It’s hard to explain, but no matter where I go, people stare at me.”

  I sat back and chuckled.

  Her brow crumpled. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m not saying they stare because they think I’m attractive. I’m just rare. I’m not being prideful. I’m not high on myself or anything as such.”

  I shook my head. “I wasn’t thinking you were.”

  Obviously embarrassed again,
she stood and walked back to the stove to check the noodles.

  “Keep going. I want to hear more,” I urged.

  “Enough about me. What about you?”

  “Nothing to tell. Come on. I want to hear more about what it’s like for you over there.”

  She turned off the burners, threw the colander into the sink, and poured in the pot of pasta. “Are you going to snicker at me?”

  “No.” She gave the colander a shake. “I really want to hear more,” I said.

  “Well then…I can’t go anywhere without mobs of children following me.”

  I put two plates on the counter. “I bet it’s pretty overwhelming.” It certainly is for me.

  “Yes.” She ladled the pasta onto the plates, and I added the sauce. “It’s especially overwhelming, seeing as how I know that I’m nothing special and I don’t deserve that sort of attention. Someone else has told them there’s something special about me or it’s that I’m mzungu. It’s not because of who I am as a person.”

  “Maz what?”

  “Mzungu. It means ‘white person.’” She grabbed the plates and put them on the table. “I don’t know if any of this makes sense.”

  “It does,” I said as I handed her the fork she’d picked up earlier. “It makes a lot of sense. I think it would suck to have people staring all the time or expecting something out of you. I’m sure it can be a burden.”

  “A burden? I suppose that depends on how you look at it.”

  “Maybe. So what’s that?” I asked, pointing to a plate.

  She looked at me, her right eyebrow cocked. “It’s a plate.”

  “I know it’s a plate. I mean what’s it called in the other language you speak?”

  “You mean in Acholi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Plate is san.”

  “San?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this?” I asked, pointing to the table.

  “Mesa.”

  “Mesa. Mesa. How do you say, ‘I’m hungry’?”

  “I presume one would say, ‘Kech nega’; which means, ‘I’m starved.’ And I also presume that when they say it, they actually mean it, unlike most of us who say it when it’s been three hours and we haven’t stuffed our jowls with snack items. But then, why get all serious and depressing? I suppose we should just ignore that reality for the moment and enjoy our mounds of pasta. And for the love of all that’s holy, in this very moment, I’ve come to realize what an absolute downer I am and that I take life far too seriously and need to lighten up a bit. You asked me a very simple question, and I turned it into a lecture about starving people. I would gather that you’re very sorry you even asked the question at all and further regret ever asking me to join you for dinner.”

  “Nope. I don’t regret it at all. This is by far the most interesting conversation I’ve had in years. And for the record, I don’t think you even took a breath during that entire explanation.”

  “I tend to be long winded.”

  “I see that.”

  “My brain literally moves at the speed of light sometimes, and my lips simply struggle to keep up.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “I’m thrilled that somebody thinks so. Most find it annoying.”

  “Not me. So anyway, go on.”

  “Where were we?”

  “You were talking about people staring at you all the time.”

  “Oh, yes. As I stand there in the villages, all these little eyes look up at me, and I feel completely helpless. There really isn’t anything thing I can do to change their lives; but in reality, the children don’t want anything from me but a smile or a touch. The children are filthy. They have no running water to bathe in. No loos…toilets…or toilet paper. Their clothes are falling apart, and many of them have scars all over them or ringworms. There’s no telling what all I come into contact with, but I can’t resist touching them. Honestly, who on earth could?”

  “How do they respond when you do?”

  “Some giggle and run off but then turn right back around and reach out again. Others smile real big. One time, I started out just touching their hands, and then a little girl who was so precious walked up. Without thinking, I rubbed her cheek. As soon as I did, all the other children started pointing to their own cheeks so I would do the same thing to them. Honestly, I’ve never felt anything so powerful in my life, and as soon as I leave, I miss their little faces. I’ve probably taken ten thousand pictures and hours upon hours of video of just children.”

  “It sounds amazing.”

  “For certain.” She stuck her fork in the middle of the pasta and started twisting.

  “It’s no wonder your cousins tried to corrupt you. You sound too good to be true.”

  “Trust me. I’m not.”

  “No?” I asked before taking a bite. “And how do you say ‘no’?”

  “Dawe.”

  “Dawe. Dawe is no. And what’s ‘yes’?”

  “Ee.”

  “Dawe and ee.”

  “Right. Would you like to hear something dreadful about me?” she asked.

  “Of course. It’ll make me feel better about myself.”

  “I take a day off every week to lock myself inside our home and get away from people. I don’t know why, but I feel like I have to be on all the time. People are always watching me. They want me to talk to them or touch them. There are times when I simply don’t want anybody to see me because I know I’ll feel obligated to respond. So I hide inside. I fanny about all day while people are starving or needing help just outside our gates. All those people out there are needing love or help of some kind, and I’m hiding out because I don’t want to have to be on.”

  It was so strange to hear someone saying exactly how I felt. And such a relief to hear that I wasn’t the only one who had to escape it all every once in a while, just to keep my sanity.

  My silence again seemed to make her anxious. “I know. It’s bloody selfish. I—”

  “It doesn’t sound selfish at all. I’d feel the same way.”

  “I don’t know why I told you that. I’ve never told anyone before.”

  “Maybe somehow you knew I’d understand.”

  “Possibly.” She shoved her plate aside, leaned against the table, and rubbed her temples with her pointer fingers. “Nothing makes me feel more insecure than when hundreds of eyes are looking at me as if I’m somebody special. It makes me realize just how insignificant I truly am.”

  “But you love it?”

  “I love them. I don’t know about all of it, but I know I love

  them.”

  “And that’s why you call it home, because of the children?”

  “As horrible as it sounds, after living with that all of the time, it’s hard to come back here and be nothing special. I come here, and life’s about money and power and how you measure up with everyone else. I’m simply another person who doesn’t truly serve a purpose other than taking up space and oxygen. There, my uniqueness gives me the ability to help people or to love them with no strings attached. No preconceived notions, no expectations. They simply accept my love easier, and they give it back tenfold. It’s the total dichotomy of feeling like no one but someone at the same time.”

  “It sounds like it makes for an interesting life. Does it ever get lonely?” Mine sure does.

  “Oh yes. But it’s more feeling alone than being lonely, if that makes sense.”

  “I can imagine. Thousands of people around, but a complete feeling of being alone, nobody to really share your stories with.”

  “Only a few people my age or that I can relate to. I believe that’s why my parents have me visit here occasionally, so I can live a somewhat normal life with my cousins who are closer to my age.”

  “But when you’re here, you still don’t quite fit in because people still see you as different?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “Brilliant guess.”

  “I’
m pretty smart.”

  “Speaking of which, I’ve bored you enough banging on about myself. You still haven’t told me anything about you.”

  I looked down at my plate. Now I was the one who was uncomfortable. “You said you wouldn’t ask.”

  “Oh yes. You’re right. Consider the topic closed.”

  “Good.” I looked back up at her. She was smiling, not at all fazed by the fact that I didn’t want to tell her anything about myself.

  The smile slipped off her face, and she stood up. I was instantly afraid she would disappear again. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?” The words came out of my mouth before she could take a step.

  “I don’t really enjoy watching films, actually.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I find them rather pointless, and my uncle says the actors are completely self-absorbed, pompous pricks.”

  Ouch. “Sounds about right,” I muttered.

  “Do you play pool?”

  Relieved that she wasn’t making more of an effort to part for the night, I looked up at her and smiled. “I will after you teach me how.”

  “All right then.”

  We left our dirty dishes on the table and walked downstairs to the game room.

  “Grab one,” she said, pointing to the rack of sticks.

  “How do I know if I have the right size stick?”

  “It gets the job done. That’s how.”

  I think my face flushed this time. “If you weren’t a missionary, I’d think you were being a little naughty and messing with my mind.”

  “Who’s to say I’m not?”

  “I assumed you wouldn’t know about sticks.”

  “I know more than you think. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve witnessed.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sharing.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No. You won’t tell me one thing about yourself. Why in heavens would I want to tell my best stories?”

  “Fine. Who do you think I am?”

  “You want me to guess?” she asked as she chalked the end of her cue.

  “Yeah. Let’s see how close you come.”

  “Will you tell me if I get any of it correct?”

  “Maybe.”

  I studied her as she leaned over, lined up her shot and took it. The balls scattered around the table.