Mzungo, how are you?

I am:
Interested
Curious
Willing
Driven
Invested
Confused
Flawed
Selfish
Ugly
Hungry
A Force

I am not:
Anyone’s savior
Selfless
Perfect
Altruistic
Jaded
Cynical
Afraid
Fatalistic
Enough
Comfortable
Satisfied
Complete

I stood on the bank of the river, squinting to see through the rain. Each cold drop bounced off my head and ran down my shoulders, my chest. Little hands squeezed my own hands and pulled me up the hill. As we trudged through the brush, I felt orange mud squish between my toes. The children showed me everything there was to see, teaching me how to name everything in English and Luganda.

“Mzungo, this one is cassava. This one is avocado. This one is maize.”
“And this?”
“Soya bean.”
“And this?”
“Coffee.”
“And this?”
“Mzungo, that’s a tree!”

I didn’t mind the rain, or the giant bugs, or the mud that stained my feet orange. I hope my feet never lose these stains. I hope that forty years from now I remember every drop of rain that hit my buzzed head. I hope I remember every ripple in the river. I hope the sky and the trees and the hills and the mud stay as real to me as they were yesterday. In a few years a dam will stand where we stood. The children will be forced to move because their homes will be underwater. I hope that when they have left and moved on, they will remember yesterday as vividly as I do. I hope they can see and smell and feel everything. I hope they remember me like I remember them. I know I won’t forget.