05/07/2025
08.05.2025
It’s been 30 days and 30 nights.
Uganda is a beautiful lady—but she’s high maintenance.
We’re finishing off.
Farewell party. Everyone is celebrating.
I’m winding down after one month in the fire.
Whether the smoke was black or white.
Then a call comes in—Student down
High fever. Nausea. Vomiting.
Plane leaves in 16 hours.
We get a cab, heading into the Kampala night.
Keeping him calm.
Negotiating with the driver—bald, wide grin, calls himself Moses. -
as he navigates the city’s night-maze like it’s scripture.
Hospital. Doctors ready.
Ushered into a room.
I try to respect privacy, but the doctor waves me in. I don’t argue.
Blood and other fluids are collected.
Then: waiting.
It’s late.
It’s been 30 days and 30 nights.
We’re in a cold room, talking baseball.
Well—Skyrim. And the latest attempt at reviving Oblivion.
But you know what I mean.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Doctor comes back. The bad tidings:
An amoeba that will ruin the liver in less than a week.
The good tidings: We have pills for it.
A prescription is handed over like a prophecy.
We head back.
Kampala is buzzing.
It always is.
Student takes his pills.
Driver’s calling his girl.
We pass through the barb wire gates to the hostel and are greeted by the ever vigil guards
Hours have gone.
Student’s less queasy. He's better.
I’m negotiating Mzungu tax with Taxi Driver Moses.
While I do, another taxi driver—also named Moses—walks up.
Beaming. Radiant. Eyes like halogen.
I sit between two taxi drivers named Moses as he shows me a grainy video.
White smoke curling into the sky.
He turns to me—grinning like a sunrise—and says:
“WE HAVE A POPE! HE IS AMERICAN!”
