Tom, Marvin, and Isaiah

As I drop the car into park on Main Street, I know what's coming. Better yet, who. A pair of white, beady eyes peers in at me through the passenger window as he proceeds to back up and call over his friends. He announces in the local language that within the car he now props himself against is a mzungu, a white man. Loud voices ensue and as I open my door, it suddenly becomes strangely light. Dark hands of all sizes open it for me and begin their ritualistic plea for money. They tell me how much chapatti is (a local staple of fried bread), that they are "feeling hungry.". Through being here, I know that most aren't as desperate as they come across, but actually make decent money employing this plot on unsuspecting tourists. A few words in the local language telling them where I stay confirms to them they'll get no paper from my pocket. Their mood changes to laughter, as if they know they have been uncovered. They walk me to the door of the small restaurant I've come to visit and leave me to enjoy my evening. I sit and enjoy a cold drink, a welcomed refuge from the day's hot weather. A simple soda costs what some people in the villages make in a day. My meal, ordered off the appetizer menu - 8,000 Ugandan Shillings, equalling about $3.25. As I consume, I reflect on my blessings and how a full night of asking for money on the street likely yields half of what I just spent on a potato covered in cheese. As I make my way out of the restaurant, my new friends find me and run over. Im already plotting how best to ignore them. Only this time, there is no request for money. They introduce themselves by name and walk with me across the street. We make a few jokes, I tell them they have grown in number since my last visit to Uganda, and I get in my car to head home. As the diesel engine comes to life, the smallest one nearly jumps out of his skin. We all laugh, and in that moment, my spirit wrote a check my flesh didn't want to cash. I turned the engine off and out I came. Onto the curb went by backside and away I went. I made fun of the oldest because he had a mzungu name - Tom. Marvin had a sense of humor like none I've ever seen, and Isaiah knew hardly any English, which only fed Marvin's comic relief. If I asked him a question, I got a blank stare as the other boys translated. They made harmless fun of our communicating, and the conversation went on. Tom told me he wanted to be a boxer. So I did what any man does when he meets a boy who wants such, I challenged him to a match. We stood up and took turns taking swings, the others laughing histerically. The laughter bled to Tom and I, and we couldn't muster the strength to continue. We sat back down and began talking about their days, why they aren't in school, and what they think about this life. My temptation to believe they were lying about their past, even as some here here might assume they were, was strong. Deception is rampant here, and one of the most difficult parts of ministry in Africa is discovering truth. Thus, my skepticism always runs high. However, that was not my place then, nor is it now. Convicted, I realized Jesus didn't want me to sit on that curb and discern truth from sob-story. It wasn't my place to call Marvin out on his far-fetched account of his upbringing. I just listened, gauged their interest in school, God, and other things, and called it an evening. As I got in the car, Tom calls out: "see you tomorrow, boxer!". I laugh, but something inside of me, however small, thought, "I hope so." I know so little about this culture, about the truths behind stories or the likelihood that these boys even need to be on the streets begging. I have no saving power, no intentions of playing hero and taking these boys in off the streets. I claim to know nothing of their problems or a solution. However right or however wrong, I simply enjoy being with them. Maybe one day I'll discover their hearts benefitted from our visit as much as mine. Perhaps Tom and I even get a chance for a re-match.