Chapter 3
“You play football?”
Archie
After three connections—including one I almost missed—I finally make it to Uganda. There were no direct flights left when I booked, since I got accepted last minute after someone dropped out. But at least I made it.
The driver navigates over dusty roads to our camp in the village of Bukoma, a few hours from the airport.
The moment we pull in, it’s like I’ve landed on another planet.
The air is warm and dry, but not unpleasant, with the scent of clay and cooking fires drifting on the breeze.
Rolling green hills stretch in the distance, dotted with banana trees and cut with bright-orange dirt paths.
The sun hangs low over the landscape, painting everything in hues of gold.
“Hi there,” chirps a tall guy with glasses. As I step out of the truck, he comes toward me with his sun-reddened skin and a pair of sandals that have seen one too many missions.
“Welcome. I’m Jim, the camp manager here. Archie Wilcott, right? Big fan.”
“Yeah, nice to meet you.” I shake his hand, a little surprised. “Thanks.”
“Well, let me show you around. You’re the first one here. Everyone else is arriving on a later flight, but feel free to hang out in the meantime.”
He leads me across a dusty path to the common room, where a thatched roof supported by thick wooden beams encompasses a large, circular space.
Mismatched couches are arranged in a cozy circle, and a few long tables hold a stack of cards and an oversized jug of water.
Off to one side is a shelf of board games and books that have definitely been read too many times.
Next, he shows me the shared showers—simple concrete stalls with curtain dividers—and a few composting toilets around the back, each one surrounded by tall reeds for privacy.
“And these are the private huts we sleep in,” he says, gesturing to a half-circle of round mud-brick dwellings with thatched roofs. “The accommodations are pretty basic—and I’m sure a million years away from what you’re used to—but it’s comfortable.”
He opens the wooden door to one of the huts, and we step inside.
The walls are cool and smooth, the sounds of the village muffled in the dim space.
At the center lies a large bed with a white mosquito net draped neatly around it and a wooden wardrobe pushed up against the curved wall.
A tiny woven mat rests beside the bed, and a sliver of sunlight streams through the small window.
“There’s no electricity in here,” Jim says, “but the huts are only used for sleeping, so we don’t really need it. We hang out in the common area. That’s also where the outlets are if you need to charge your phone.”
“Sounds good.” I nod, dropping my bag on the packed earth floor. “Thanks for showing me around.”
“Of course. I’ll go into the details of our schedule and everything else later, at the meeting, but in the meantime, feel free to walk around the village. I have a few things to wrap up before everyone gets here.”
“Can I help?” That’s what I’m here for, after all.
He smiles. “Oh, no. Thanks, though. It’s just admin stuff—calling a few people, getting paperwork lined up, that kind of thing. Just get comfortable, and we’ll see each other at six in the common room.”
He slips out of the hut, and I glance around the room again, inhaling deeply. This is it. After throwing money at various causes over the years, I’m actually here, getting my hands dirty. It feels good—surreal, even.
I unpack some of my clothes into the wardrobe before stepping back outside.
The sun is still high enough to warm my face.
Around me, the rest of the huts sit quiet and empty, their straw roofs rustling in the breeze.
Looks like I’ll have a few neighbours soon, but I’m sure they’ll be a delight compared to the one I have back home.
I make my way to the bathrooms to wash my hands, letting the cool water from the tank revigorate me, and then start wandering the dusty paths that lead toward the village.
Roosters cluck near the edge of someone’s small garden.
A few women walk past me, balancing baskets on their heads and waving politely as they pass.
I’m just finishing up my self-guided tour of the village when the sound of laughter carries over the low hum of insects and the occasional bark of a dog. I follow it instinctively, weaving through trails in the brush, until I spot an open patch of packed earth bordered by stones.
It’s a small football pitch, probably a quarter the size of a standard one, with goals made of branches lashed together with crude rope. A dozen kids are playing, their bare feet kicking up dust as they chase a foam ball with wild grins and shouts in a mix of Luganda and English.
They stop when they notice me.
A boy no older than ten squints, studying me. “You play football?”
“Little bit,” I say, suppressing my smile.
They giggle, whispering to each other in Luganda before one older girl shouts, “Come! We need goalie!”
Well, then.
I jog onto the pitch, rolling up my sleeves. The heat wraps around me like a second skin, but I kind of love it already.
The kids wave me toward one of the makeshift goals, and I eagerly comply.
“Don’t go easy on me,” I call out.
The kid with the ball smirks, then starts dribbling toward me, fast and nimble. He shoots—and I dive, catching it just before it hits the ground. The whole pitch erupts into cheers and groans.
“You’re good!” the girl from earlier calls out.
“I have my moments,” I say, tossing the ball back.
We keep playing like that for a while—shouting, laughing, all of us caked in dust and sweat. I let a couple of goals in, just to keep it interesting—and okay, maybe one wasn’t on purpose.
We swap positions a few times, one of the girls insisting on being keeper. As the sun dips lower, time becomes a blur of sun, sweat, and laughter.
There’s something about playing here, on this scrappy little pitch with no cameras, no pressure—just the ball and pure joy—that makes me feel more like myself than I have in months.
One of the older kids teaches me a celebratory dance that I immediately butcher, which only makes them laugh harder.
At some point, one of the boys brings over a warm bottle of soda to share.
We pass it around between goals, taking small sips.
I’ve no idea how long we’ve been out there, but the shadows are shifting, stretching long across the dusty playing field.
While we’re resting, a little boy with the widest grin I’ve ever seen plops down beside me and starts braiding a grass bracelet for my wrist, and they all nod in satisfaction, like I’ve just been admitted to their secret club.
“Last round!” someone calls.
I jump back in, wiping beads of perspiration from my forehead. This time, I’m playing midfield, or at least the Ugandan village version of it—somewhere between “run everywhere” and “pass to whoever’s smiling.”
The ball bounces my way, and a chorus of kids starts shouting, “Shoot! Shoot!”
I grin, take a few quick steps forward, and swing my leg back.
The ball soars.
Too high. Too far.
It clears the pitch completely, disappearing behind a row of shrubs with a dull thud.
It’s followed a split second later by a very unamused “Ow!”
Everyone goes quiet.
I jog toward where the ball landed, the kids on my tail. “Sorry! I didn’t control my strength. Are you okay? Didn’t mean to—”
The woman steps into view, straightening up with one hand pressed to her head, the other gripping the ridiculous orange ball. But this is no villager. She’s got wavy blonde hair, tanned skin and beautiful lips that flatten into a thin line as our gazes cross.
I just hit Katherine Lennox, my insufferable posh neighbour, in the face with a football.