Fruit of the Spirit

After working with the kids today, I came home and met up with my neighbor, Laurie, to go for our biweekly walk around our little community. She’s also a mzungu (white person) like me from America who has been a complete God send for me while I’m here. As we were coming back up close to the house I asked if we could stop at the near by little market/shop to see what fresh produce they had today. I had nothing at home but tomatoes and onions so I was hoping to at least find an avocado or two to make some guacamole for supper or maybe a few bananas to fill me up until I could go shopping tomorrow. The shop is a quaint little wooden shack tucked under a pomegranate tree just down the road. Disappointed at their selections today, I bought 6 green peppers for 40 cents and we headed back home. 

The sun was starting to set. The street, worn red from dirt, was bustling with people on their way home from work, school, or the rugby field. Among the crowd was a small kid with a large metal saucer of bananas on his head. We stopped him and asked the price. “200 schillings each (8 cents) but you buy this for 4,000 ($1.60).” He pointed to the biggest bunch of bananas on his display. Since I was buying the fruit only for myself I couldn’t justify spending that much money on something I knew I’d never be able to eat before they went bad. “I’ll take 5. So how much?” This kid was cute, and seemed sharp so I wanted to challenge his math skills a bit. “Umm... hmmm... 1,000!” I smiled and picked out 5 of the stray bananas off his plate. As I was finding a 1,000 schilling note in my change purse he spoke again. “I won’t eat.” A sad look came over his face. We asked what he meant but he didn’t say another word. I gave him his money and Laurie and I were on our way. “What did he mean that he won’t eat?” “I don’t know...”

We chit chatted the rest of the way home and then realized while unlocking the gate to our compound that we were being followed. “Mama?,” a little voice behind us whispered, “Some water?” Laurie went in her house and came out with a water bottle, but by the time we walked back out to the gate, the boy was gone. Turned left, turned right, nothing. Our askari (guard) helped us track him down until I spotted his yellow bananas bobbing down the next street. I walked up to meet him, my hands still full of the bananas I had just purchased. “Here you go sweet heart.” I handed him the bottle of water. Immediately he took the bananas off his head and sunk to the ground. Little hands shaking he opened the bottle and started chugging, tears welling up in his eyes. Before I knew it, I was also on the ground rubbing his back. “What is your name? You're called who?” I asked. “Mpooya Ashirifa,” he said through gulps. I asked where he was from and about school. “I live in Walukuba West. (About and hour walk.) I have one older brother and one older sister. I love school. I am 8 years and in February I will be going into P5. (5th grade. Bright kid!) I’m not going to eat tonight. I have to sell all my bananas and it is already getting dark. I can’t go home.” My heart broke as his trembling hands put the water bottle to his mouth again and the tears trickled down his cheeks. 

I’ve been in my share of big cities, other countries, and big cities in other countries. I’d like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character. I’ve seen many miniature con artists in my day looking to take advantage of your compassion and your wallet due to the color of your skin. Every part of me knew this kid was 100% genuine. I reached in my change purse yet again. “How many bananas can I buy with this?” I handed him 5,000 schillings ($2). His entire face brightened. “Mama, you can have them all!” He smiled and wiped his tears quickly, dug in the pocket of his apron and pulled all the money he had made for the day. He sat and counted it allowed, his voice getting faster and more high pitched as the number grew higher. “I have enough! I can eat. I’m going to eat when I reach home!” My heart melted. That when he told me his favorite food was rice and he knew his mother was making it for supper. I sat there for a few more minutes with little Ashirifa until I realized the journey he still had ahead and wanted him home before it was completely dark. I asked him, “Will you please walk with me back to my gate so I can get a cavara (plastic bag)? I can’t manage to carry all of these bananas on my own.” He hopped up and escorted me back to my gate. I tried to insist he wait there while I ran inside to get the bag but he was on cloud 9 and just giggled and smiled the whole way up to my front door. He stayed put there and I got a bag to fill with the rest of the bananas. I brought them back in the kitchen and frantically searched my cabinets for something small to give hime to eat since he still had a journey home. I found a bag of fruit snacks sent over in a care package from my mother. I had been saving them, for whatever special occasion you save fruit snacks for, but decided that they weren’t that special to me after all. “Here you go. You enjoy these while you walk home.” His smile grew bigger and bigger. He ripped open the bag and chattered all the way back down the driveway and to the gate popping one fruit snack in his mouth after another. 

I told him my name and shook his little hand. “We’re friends now.” I wanted to pick him up and hug him, kiss his little tear streaked face. How classic this scenario is in Uganda. An 8 year old is sent out, to walk miles, to sell bananas for his family. He’s paying for his supper and most likely paying for his own school fees also. I pray he is even allowed to go back to school in a few weeks and that his parents realize what I bright child they have. He will benefit so much more in school than on the streets selling bananas, but many times a parent only sees the immediate benefit, the money that needs to be made to put food on the table today. 

He walks through the gate and I tell him good bye. He looks down at his bag of fruit snacks, balancing his now empty metal saucer on his head, lets out a sigh and flashes me a big smile. “This is beautiful,” he says and turns away to leave. Yes child, yes you are. So beautiful.

I’m sure he will be back at my gate tomorrow with more bananas. :)

Please pray for the children, like Mpooya Ashirifa, in Uganda. Where poverty is a harsh reality and a task such as selling bananas can keep a child out of school and prohibit them from a truly prosperous future. And also pray for Mpooya Ashirifa, that he will grow to be a leader, a life changer, an amazing man of God, and a light in this country. And pray for me. That whenever possible, God will let me pass the little light of my candle to someone else, and that His love will continue to shine.