Henry's House

A mile-long drive down the red, dusty, canyonous road – a “subdivision” closer to Kampala than where Lauren’s duplex is located – began in an area packed with dusty boda bodas, bicycles, automobiles (few if any American-made cars here), and 10x that many pedestrians. The first quarter mile of the road was market-like. Stalls with people selling food plucked from local trees, clothing made by hand, other goods, and all the people that go with such a market. The evening here is black and there are no streetlights so good picture taking was impossible.

A ways past one brick-making yard, Henry welcomed us into his 8x10 living room with a wooden couch and chair covered with thin cushions. And he welcomed his wife and children. And he welcomed his neighbors. And he welcomed his neighbor’s children. The room was otherwise filled with books – a Zondervan Bible, a hymn book, a physics textbook, and dozens of others.

Henry asked our forgiveness for the lack of electricity and explained that we would eat by the light of the lantern.