Chapter 4
"I’ve barely taken two steps in this town, and he almost kills me with a foam ball."
Kat
I blink, unsure if what I’m seeing is real, or if the blow to my head was worse than I thought and I’m hallucinating my infuriating neighbour all the way to Uganda.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to say. “Did you follow me?”
He crosses his arms. “If anyone should be asking that, it’s me. I was here first, playing with the kids.”
“Yeah, I know. How could I forget?” I throw the ball back to him a little too hard, but he catches it with ease.
Why is this happening to me? I finally have the rare chance to escape London for a while, and he just has to be here. I close my eyes, massaging my head.
“Are you okay? You might have a concussion,” he says, stepping toward me. “Maybe we should find—”
“I know I don’t have a concussion. I’m a doctor. You just couldn’t take a break from making my life miserable, could you?” I snap back before spinning on my heels, stalking away.
This is a nightmare. Everything was going so well. The plane, the transfer, the hut, the fact that I was supposedly 6,400 kilometres away from that man, and now, I’ve barely taken two steps in this town, and he almost kills me with a foam ball? What did I do to deserve this?
“I’m really sorry,” he calls from behind me, but I ignore him. I won’t let him ruin this trip for me. I’ll just avoid him and pretend he’s not here.
Returning to my hut, I grab my handheld mirror to check my forehead. It’s just a little bump, but I dab some arnica cream on it just in case. I’d rather not show up to the clinic tent tomorrow looking like I’m smuggling a quail egg under my skin.
As I'm stepping back outside, the air seems to be cooling slightly. A breeze stirs the mosquito netting on my doorway, and the scent of charcoal smoke and red dust clings to everything.
It’s almost six, so I head to the common room, where Jim said we’d be having our first team meeting.
The thatched roof rises above the communal space, its beams casting long shadows across the packed-earth floor.
The room has the lived-in feel of a shared home—complete with a half-finished card game someone left behind and a shelf bowing under the weight of dog-eared books and sun-faded board games.
There are maybe twelve of us gathered, half of us local volunteers, and the other half the UK team.
A few are already deep in conversation, heads bent together as they compare notes from the day.
One woman is scribbling something in a notebook; another is handing out paper cups of filtered water from a large jug near the entrance.
I slip into a seat near the edge of the circle, rubbing absently at my temple.
Just as I’m settling in, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
He’s still dusty from the pitch, his curls damp with sweat, shirt clinging to his back. He scans the room, then heads to the far side—sitting down directly opposite me. I hate that my eyes are drawn to him. What is he even doing here? Shouldn’t he be on a party boat in Ibiza or something?
Jim claps his hands once, loud enough to quiet the room.
“All right, team,” he says, taking a stance near one of the wooden beams with a clipboard in hand. “Glad you all made it here in one piece. I know the past twenty-four hours have been a blur. London feels a long way off already, yeah?”
A few people chuckle.
“Welcome to Bukoma,” Jim says with a grin. “Some of you have done this before; some of you haven’t. Either way, here’s how we run things.”
He launches into a detailed rundown of the daily schedule.
Days start early—we eat breakfast at seven, then, teams split up depending on skills and needs.
Medical, education, construction. Some volunteers will cross over between teams, especially if someone gets sick or one group is short.
They’ll rotate local translators among the groups to make sure communication flows.
We also need to chip in with camp duties like bathroom, or latrine cleaning, food prep, or dishwashing.
He pauses to flip a page on his clipboard. “Sunday’s our day off. You can rest, help out around camp, or tag along to one of the activities we have planned for you.”
My eyes drift toward the opposite side of the circle.
Archie is still slouched in his chair, long legs stretched out, his bulky arms now crossed.
I notice the edge of a dried grass bracelet on his wrist, probably made by one of the kids he was playing with earlier.
He doesn’t look smug anymore—just focused. Listening intently.
“Whatever reasons brought you here,” Jim’s voice draws my focus back, “know that this place will challenge you. But it’ll also change you. Don’t be afraid to jump in. Ask questions. Help each other out. And please, please, stay hydrated.”
A few people laugh.
He flips his clipboard down on the table. “That’s it for today. Go eat, and rest up. Tomorrow, we get to work.”
We all rise and gravitate toward the long tables just outside, where bowls of rice, beans, and something akin to stew are lined up buffet-style. People grab metal plates and queue up, conversations already flowing around me.
I end up seated at the edge of a bench, wedged between a shy law student and a girl from Manchester who already knows someone else at the table.
The chatter crescendos, but I find myself mostly nodding and smiling through mouthfuls of food.
Peopling—especially in large groups—has never been my thing. I’m more of a one-on-one kind of girl.
Of course, people are swarming Archie. I don’t know how it happened, but half the table is angled toward him. He’s gesturing wildly, animated, as he tells a story that makes a group of volunteers burst into laughter. Even Jim cracks a smile as he passes behind him.
Someone leans in to clap him on the back. Another refills his cup from the jug without being asked.
Stabbing a stubborn piece of carrot on my plate, I try not to roll my eyes. Of course he’d be that guy. Everyone’s new best friend. For now, at least. I’m sure he’ll devolve back to being his self-serving, annoying self in no time.
When I finish eating, I politely smile and say goodnight before shuffling back to my hut. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, and I just need some rest.
Unfortunately, my exhaustion doesn’t help put Archie out of my mind as I drift off to sleep. No matter what I do, I just can’t escape this man.