Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games

by Lopez Lomong

  When I was little, as soon as my chores were over, I went out and played hide-and-seek with my friends. When the rains came and the creek filled up with water, my buddies and I swam until our arms gave out. Then we built little houses in the sand along the shore. We played house with those sandcastles, just like we did in Kimotong.

  By my fifth or sixth year in the camp, I did not have time for games, although I still played soccer. In Kakuma soccer is not a game but a way of life. The rest of the time, I took on more and more responsibilities. I was in charge of the ration cards for all the boys in our tent. To make sure no one lost his card, I kept them all together in a safe place. I also calculated our daily rations. The UN handed out food once a month. I had to make the grain they gave us last until the next distribution. It was up to me to take out just the right amount for each meal. If I miscalculated, we would go hungry. I made sure I never miscalculated. Every Christmas and Easter the UN also gave us a chicken, one for each tent. One chicken is not very much meat for ten hungry boys. Therefore, to make it stretch, we cooked it in a soup. Not everyone actually got a piece of meat. But by making it into a soup, we all got a taste of chicken. I made sure of that.

  The more responsibilities I took on, the more I wanted. I loved to work. I enjoyed taking care of the younger boys. We had to look out for one another to survive, and survival was the name of the game in the camp. But I wanted to thrive, not just survive. I looked for ways to do more for my family of boys. One of the many relief agencies who came in and out of Kakuma handed out some vegetable seeds. I helped plant a garden next to our house, and I carried the water to each little plant to keep it from dying in the desert sun.

  Slowly but surely, I was becoming a different boy. The way I saw life in the camp evolved, as did the way I viewed church and my relationship with God. When I was a little boy, going to church and singing praises to God was enough for me. I loved church, and I loved to sing. The boys in the camp became an informal choir. We passed the time singing and singing and singing. As a little boy, I sang in the tenor section. When I got older, I tried to make my voice deep enough to move to the bass section. The priest listened to me sing a note or two and put me back with the tenors.

  The longer I was in Kakuma, the more central to my life church became. It was my doorway out of the refugee camp and into a wider world. I heard news from the outside there. It was also our post office. But the best part was the worship. When I was at church, I did not think about hunger or malaria or any of the hardships of the camp. I didn’t pray that God would provide for me in the camp. I was just trying to survive, and going to church was a part of that survival.

  A turning point for me came a few weeks before Christmas when the priest announced confirmation classes were to begin the following week. “A baptism service will follow on Christmas Eve for those who completed the class and are serious about a relationship with God,” he said. His words touched me deep in my soul. I knew this was something I must do. Perhaps I was prompted by my growing up in so many other ways. I had taken on more responsibility in the camp and in my family. Now was the time for me to take responsibility in my relationship with God as well. I knew He had always been with me. Now was the time for a deeper relationship with Him.

  The next week when the first class started, I was there. Again, I did not have a Bible and no one in the class had any kind of book to read. Instead, the priest taught us from the Bible orally. I was used to this. My parents taught me the Bible the same way, and I also learned in school without books. In my culture in Sudan, we handed down our most important stories by word of mouth when we did not have a written language. Learning this way came naturally for me.

  Over the three or four weeks leading up to Christmas, the priest taught us many Bible stories. More than that, He taught us how to be close to God. That’s what I wanted. I did not have an earthly mother or father any longer. I wanted to have that Father relationship with God.

  The weeks of classes passed quickly. Christmas Eve service came. The priest went through the regular Christmas Eve mass. I was nervous. Very nervous. I loved Christmas. We did not exchange gifts or do any of the traditions Americans celebrate. I loved Christmas because of the meaning of the day. Here we were, Christmas Eve, sitting in church, remembering the birth of our Savior. I looked up at the night sky and imagined what it would have been like to be one of the shepherds out in the field on a night very much like this one. They were minding their own business when angels appeared telling them about the birth of Jesus. I was not waiting for an angel to appear on this night. Instead I was listening for the priest to call on me and the other boys who were to be baptized that night.

  Finally he did. “Okay, boys,” he said. “It is time.”

  I looked around at my friends and swallowed hard. I thought back to my classes and tried to remember what I was supposed to say and when I was supposed to say it. My mind went blank. About twenty of us filed up to the front and formed a semicircle around the altar. One of the attendants walked down the line, handing candles to each of us. I grasped my candle, thinking, but I still could not remember. I knew what was in my heart. I was standing here, taking my stand for God. Now everyone in the camp knew that I had made up my mind to follow Jesus. I was ready to take up my cross and follow Him, but I was not sure what I was supposed to say when the priest came to me and asked me the appointed question. What is he going to ask? I was too nervous to remember.

  The church was dark except for the candles on the altar. One of the workers lit the boy’s candle on the far right side. He dipped his candle down and lit the candle of the next boy, who lit the next one, who lit the next one, and on around the circle. I was just to the left of the middle. When the flame came to me, I bent my candle over and carefully lit it. I held my breath just a little as I turned to the boy next to me. The last thing I wanted to do was accidentally blow out my candle and mess up the night for everyone.

  Once all the candles were lit, the priest came up. I looked to my right, then to my left. The candlelight lit up the faces of my friends, like the faces of angels. The priest walked up to the boy on the far right side. Another worker walked beside him, carrying water and oil. My heart pounded in my ears. I’d thought about this night for a while and what it meant. For this to take place on Christmas Eve made it even more meaningful for me. What better time to express my faith in Jesus than on His birthday?

  The priest came closer. He stopped at a boy a couple down from me. I could not quite hear what he said. What are you supposed to say, Lopepe? I could not remember, but suddenly I did not care. Whatever he asked me, I would tell him what was in my heart.

  He stopped at the boy just to my right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the priest reach down into one container, touch the boy’s head, then reach into the other container and do the same.

  Then the priest stepped over to me.

  My candle lit his face. He smiled. I did my best to smile back. His right hand came up to my forehead. He traced the sign of the cross on me with oil. Without asking any questions, he baptized me and said, “You are now Joseph, and I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  It is hard to describe what came over me in that moment. Second Corinthians 5:17 says that if anyone is in Christ he is a new creation. All the old things have passed away and everything is made new. That verse came true for me that night. I was a new boy with a new name. In the Bible, Jesus often changed the names of His disciples. He changed Simon’s name to Peter and Saul’s name to Paul. Now He changed my name from Lopepe to Joseph.

  I stood in the night air, staring at my candle, thinking about what I knew of Joseph in the Bible. There are two well-known Josephs. One is the father of Jesus, a hardworking man who made a living as a carpenter. The other is found in the book of Genesis. Like me, he was taken from his home when he was young. He was carried away to Egypt as a slave. Later, he was thrown into prison even though he had done nothing wrong. Yet, no matter what happened to
him, God was always with him. Joseph did not sit around feeling sorry for himself. Instead, he went to work. When he was a slave, he worked so hard and proved himself so trustworthy, that his owner put his entire household under Joseph’s care. After he was thrown into prison, the chief jailer did the same thing. He knew Joseph was a hard worker who always kept his word.

  Standing in front of the altar, oil in the shape of a cross glistening on my forehead, my head wet from my baptism, I made up my mind that I wanted to live up to my new name. Joseph was not just any name to me. It was the name God had picked out for me in eternity past.

  This is who I am. I am Joseph, a follower of Jesus, trustworthy and hardworking. I am no longer a lost boy. I am a brand-new man.

  SEVEN

  A New Dream

  A buzz rose in the camp in the late summer of 2000. Everyone talked about a strange new thing. A word flew around the camp, a word I had never heard before. During school, it was the hot topic. Running my lap around the camp, I heard more about it. Out on the soccer field, boys went on and on about it like they were some kind of experts on this thing called the Olympics.

  “Are you excited about the Olympics, Lopepe?” someone asked me.

  “Sure,” I said, not wanting to sound ignorant. “Isn’t everyone?”

  “I know I am,” the kid said and ran off.

  I didn’t get it. I’d lived in the camp for over nine years, about as long as anyone, but I’d never heard of this Olympics thing before. I have no idea how anyone else ever heard of the Olympics, but that was pretty much business as usual in Kakuma. Some kid heard a news bit from outside the camp while hanging out near the UN compound; he told another kid, who told another, and in less time than it takes an American teenager to send a text message to all his contacts, the news was all over the camp. No one had to understand what was going on to get excited about it. The Olympics gave us something new to talk about and broke up the monotony of the daily routine in Kakuma.

  Other boys were all excited about the Olympics, but I found my own way to break up the routine of the camp. During one of my pre-soccer thirty kilometer runs, I noticed a farm not far from the camp. I’d seen the farm for years, but I never really noticed it until now. The farmer had a car, which made him a rich man in this part of Kenya. But that’s not what caught my eye. The grass around his house grew tall even though he had a cow nearby. His tall grass gave me an idea.

  I trotted over to the farmer’s house and introduced myself. “I would like to help you,” I said.

  The farmer gave me a look that said, You. What can you possibly do for me?

  “I am a hard worker,” I said. “I used to help take care of my father’s two hundred cattle back home. I can take care of your cow and cut your grass.”

  “I don’t pay people to do things I can do myself,” he said.

  “I don’t need much,” I said. “If I do a good job, just give me whatever you think is right. If I don’t, don’t give me anything.” For me, this was about more than money. I needed to find something to do, something productive. I was sick of Tuesday trash day being the highlight of my life. I needed to work.

  The man thought for a moment. “Okay, you can take care of the cow and cut the grass starting tomorrow morning.”

  “I will be here,” I said. I went back and finished my lap around the camp, then joined in the soccer game.

  Working outside the camp was against the rules, so I kept my job to myself. But that didn’t stop me from working as hard as I could. After a few days the farmer came out to where I was working. “Here,” he said and held out his hand. “This is for you.”

  He dropped a five shilling coin into my hand. I wrapped my hand tight around it. “Asante Sana,” I said, which means “thank you” in Swahili.

  “Karibu,” he said and walked away. That is, “you’re welcome.”

  I shoved the coin into my pocket and went back to work. Thoughts of all I could buy with my newfound fortune raced through my mind. The camp had an underground economy where you could buy bread or candy or paper and pencils or anything your heart may desire. All those things looked so good when I didn’t have any money. But now that I did, they didn’t look quite as attractive. By the time I returned to my tent, I’d decided to hold onto the coin for a while. I liked the weight of it in my pocket. Since this was basically the first money I’d ever had, I was in no hurry to turn loose of it.

  All the while, Olympics buzz kept building in the camp. One day while playing soccer, a friend came up to me. “Do you want to go watch the Olympics with us tonight?”

  “Okay,” I said, unsure of what I was getting myself into. “Who’s going?”

  “A bunch of us,” he said. He started rattling off names, which was not necessary.

  “Sure, sure,” I cut him off. “I’m in. Where do we watch these Olympics?”

  “We found a place. A rich guy said we can watch them at his house.”

  Later that afternoon, I joined a group of fifteen guys and we took off walking to go see these Olympics. I still had no idea what they might be. I knew it had something to do with sports, and since soccer was the only real sport I knew anything about, I thought it might have something to do with soccer. However, I did not dare ask more questions and make myself out as the only boy in the entire camp who did not know what the Olympics were.

  We walked five miles, out beyond the edge of the camp. I was very surprised when we stopped at the home of the farmer for whom I worked. One of the boys knocked on the door. The farmer opened the door with a suspicious look on his face. He looked our group up and down. “Okay,” he said, “you can come in and watch the Olympics, but don’t touch anything. And don’t sit on my furniture.” He opened the door wider and then said, “It will cost you five shillings apiece.”

  My heart sank when I heard that. The other boys all pulled out their money without a moment’s hesitation. I reached into my pocket and felt that wonderful coin. I had such plans for it. The other boys had already gone inside when I finally took the money out of my pocket. I started to tell the man, “Forget it,” and leave, but I did not want to walk the five miles back to my tent all by myself. And I really wanted to find out what made this thing called the Olympics so special that these boys would hand over their hard-earned money so quickly.

  The man looked at me. “Well?” he said.

  I dropped the coin in his hand and walked inside.

  Locals filled the farmer’s living room. Every piece of furniture had someone on it.

  “You boys are too dirty to sit on the sofa. There, sit on the floor,” the farmer said. We did as we were told.

  I looked around the living room. The Olympics was not what I expected. Apparently it consisted of a box with wires running out the back of it. The wires were connected to a car battery. This is the Olympics? I thought. What is so special about this?

  The farmer walked over and flipped a switch on the front of the box. Black, white, and gray images flickered to life. The box was not the Olympics. It was something else I’d heard about but never seen: a television.

  The farmer switched the channel and the Olympics came on the screen. The boys all cheered. I cheered with them. Unfortunately, soccer players did not run out onto the screen. Instead, the athletes stayed outside the big field in the middle, on a little road with white lines drawn on it. They took their places behind a white line. A man held up a gun. It fired. The guys on the screen took off running. Thousands upon thousands of people filled the stands around the track. As the men ran, the people screamed and carried on. When the winner crossed the finish line, the crowd cheered even louder.

  Watching people run on television was a revelation for me. Never before had I thought of running as a sport. When I ran, I did not think about conditions in the camp or the hunger in my belly. Running was my therapy, my release, my escape from the world around me.

  Yet in the Olympics, running was a sport. And judging by the number of people in the stands, it was a popular sport.
I was mesmerized by it. This was fascinating.

  Then came the highlight of the night for me. Runners took their places for a very important race. The announcers talked about one runner in particular, a man named Michael Johnson. I did not know it at the time, but this race was the 400-meter dash, or one lap around the track in a full sprint. Michael Johnson was both the defending Olympic champion and the world record holder in the event. I did not know that at the time. Nor did I know that this was to be his final race, the capstone to one of the most successful track careers of all time. All I knew was the camera focused primarily on one man, a man with skin the color of mine. Across his chest were three letters: USA. He was about to change my life.

  The runners took their mark. The gun sounded. Michael Johnson took off. He ran with a very distinctive style: head up, back straight, everything about him screamed confidence. Watching him run on the small, black-and-white television hooked up to a car battery in a remote corner of Kenya, he did not appear to be moving all that fast. I can run like that. I know that I can.

  Michael Johnson flew around the track. He ran through the string at the end before anyone else. The announcers said he’d just won the gold medal. I was not sure what that was. He took a flag from someone in the crowd, a flag with stars and stripes on it. He wrapped himself in that flag with pride; then he held it up and ran a victory lap with it. I knew this was a very, very special moment.

  Then something happened that astounded me. The top three runners took their places on a small platform. A man came up and placed their medals around their necks. Music began to play, and flags rose up from behind the men. As the music played and the flags went up in the air, Michael Johnson did something African men never do: he wept openly and without shame. I shook my head in disbelief and leaned closer to the screen. Why was he crying? I wondered. How can a man like this, a man who just won an Olympic gold medal, show such emotion? In my culture, such a display was a sign of weakness. Yet Michael Johnson had just proven his strength and confidence to the world. Why, then, did he cry?