Vita vya Uganda

The man bowed his head and took the hands of his son and daughter. Years of labor had sown worry into his face like the scar tissue stitched upon his dark hands. His children clutched his fingers, gnarled like plowed ground. A few candles flickered on the mitarakua branches. Their light tingled upon the mapambo hanging from the tree and fought against the dark of night.

"Lord, we thank you."

The children fidgeted, their toes squirming in the dirt floor. Their restless eyes flashed in the candlelight and peeked around the solemnity of the prayer at the wire crates stacked beside the Christmas tree.

"We pray for blessings for the mwamerikani who gave us the kuku and a jogoo."

The cages rustled and one of the birds squawked. The little girl laughed and clamped her hands over her grin.

"Please let them bring us many yai for dinner, and many more kuku for market." "Amina."

The children ran over to the tree and peered into the crates. Compassion International was stamped onto the sides with red ink. The birds clucked and cooed inside the wire cages. They clambered away from the probing fingers. The man grinned, his smile brushing against the pink mass that filled his right eye socket like grave dirt. Amin's killer-squads had been careless. They dispatched his wife quickly into the hands of Jesus and left him with one good eye, his children, and his life.

"Baba, can I hold them?" She had already taken one out of the cage. It was small and white. Its foot was deformed.

"Baba, its mguu is sick." She held the withered claw up between her fingers and frowned.

His son reached into the cage and pulled out another bird. It flapped its white wings nervously, scattering soft down into the air. The boy brushed the bright red comb upon its head.

"Baba, this one looks different than the rest."

He smiled. "He is jogoo. He will bring us much fedha."

The man ran his fingers through his son's hair. "Come. Help me carry them around back, into the pen."

Stars simmered above the sweltering Tanzanian plain. The two watched the birds squabble on the cage's muddy floor. The pen was framed by twisted scrap metal gathered from the war-torn border a few miles away. Its roof was made of aluminum salvaged from a jeep gutted by flames. It was wound with wire purchased at the market for nearly two weeks' wages. The kuku clambered around a couple of spent artillery shells, held fast against the cage by twine and filled with seed and water.

"Mwana, feed and water them every day. Get the birdseed from the barrel beside our house, where I keep my tools. Get the water from the pond just up the road. And be sure that you mind the gate so that none wander away and become lost. We are fortunate. Only a few families in our village have been blessed with kuku to raise."

"Yes, baba."

That night he dreamt that he and his father had the biggest tent at the market, and sold a hundred kuku in one morning.

The boy awakened to the crowing of the jogoo. His father was long gone, working the fields. He yawned and looked at the empty mat of his sister, wondering where she was until he heard her giggles drifting in the air outside. He dressed and walked beneath a dawn sky that stretched out like a sea of blood. His sister was rolling on the ground, laughing at the small, lame bird.

"Ndugu, look at dogo kuku!

The bird limped in circles around the girl, clucking wildly and pecking at a slow flying inzi. Every step with its bad foot tipped the bird ridiculously toward its right.

"A couple times it did this!" The girl jumped to her feet and flailed around like the hapless bird, pitching herself on her side. She made frantic kicks in the dust and leaped back to her feet, spinning in place and making clucking sounds. Her brother smiled.

"I love you, dogo kuku!" She swept the...