I think of him often. The young man from Uganda... an unremarkable man.
We had stopped by the roadside to buy bananas and water, and to photograph the tomatoes that were piled into pyramids at the roadside stalls. A tiny hamlet, on a road to nowhere in particular.
It had been raining and steam rose off the bitumen. Either side of the road the brown puddles were still foamy from the downpour and formed small muddy seas in front of rusted fruit stalls, staffed by eager colourful women. They pulled at the protective plastic sheets covering their produce and called out to us to buy, laughing and competing with one another... and behind them unfolded hills of verdant tea plantations, embossed in green.
As usual, a small knot of excited children formed around me and as the others bought supplies for our journey, I took photos. The children in tattered clothes pushed each other out of the way vying for my attention... giggling and chattering. And behind them stood a man. Softly spoken, he said. “Will you take my photo?”
I didn’t want to, I wanted to continue talking and playing with the children. But he stood there waiting.
Close.
Determined.
Quiet.
And so I took his photo.
“Take me with you.” he said.
“I want to go to your country.” he said.
And the gulf between us yawned dark and wide. His childish question. Childlike and naive, it still haunts me. I can hear his voice now. “Take me with you. I want to go to your country.”
Did I answer him at all? I can’t recall. No words formed, none have stuck in my memory.
“I can’t.” I thought.
I do remember looking into his dark eyes while an explosion of synapses fired off a million connections in my brain like a shock wave. A million reasons as to why I couldn’t. His question was so small and simple and innocent and the real answer to it as complex as life itself.
I looked into his dark eyes and I thought ... you will never leave this village. You will never leave this country, you will never go on an airplane, you will never go to my country. You do not even know what country I am from... [You will] never see all things I’ve seen, smelled, tasted, heard, touched. Never even know the intense joy (the simple pleasure) of stepping into a hot shower; or sleeping on crisp linen sheets; of a myriad of tiny day to day things that slide silently by me.
I looked into his dark eyes and the world spun between us.
His words hung in the air for only a second before they were consumed by the heat of the equatorial sun. Evaporated like the tinest drop of rain only to play over and over in my head for years to come. Like an accusation.
My friends all piled back into the jeep, they had collected food and I had collected the tiniest glimmer of a young man’s soul.
And years later I still think of that young man. In his village. Does he go up to every stranger and ask that same question? And if he asks often enough will someone say “yes”? It is only the arrogance of my colonial view-point that leads me to think that he will always remain there.
A young man with a desire to be.