Mother Africa

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All the long flight across the Atlantic, Willamette McCoy stared into the night, watching for the first hint of brightness in the east. When at last the Kampala runway stretched before her, a lacework of cracked cement, her heart sank. Africa didn’t look anything like the Promised Land.

The touchdown nearly jarred her teeth out of her head. From the airport, she rode with her family in an old cattle truck labeled, “Villages Reclamation Project.” The truck stank of manure, and the slatted sides were chewed and splintered. After a few minutes, Willamette’s chest went all tight and wheezy from breathing the dust-hazy air.

They waded through the city, the families assigned to each village project keeping together. There were people everywhere, people the color of her African dreams. They shuffled along the sidewalks and squatted in front of baskets of chili peppers, mango, millet, and sorghum.

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