Thank you for sharing this powerful story with us. Could you tell us about what inspired you to write it? I wrote this story because of the life we’ve been living in a bad condition. My family couldn’t afford our basic needs in the big City of Goma where I was raised. When you’re not able to afford basic living you can be misled or end up in the street with your whole family. At a young age I was inspired to share these experiences one day. I thought coming to Uganda was going to solve my struggles but realised the opposite was true when my struggles multiplied. What messages do you hope your readers will take away from your story? I want my readers to learn the way to live in community with people. I also want my readers to think about how to walk and protect yourself from dangerous crews and incidents. I want young people especially to learn from my story and think about how difficult it can be to live in poverty but the most important thing is to be thankful with what we get. What, from your perspective, is the point of storytelling? Why do we tell stories, what do they do for us, and what purpose do they serve? Storytelling for me is like a conversation between two people where one is explaining to the other what he saw happening and what can inspire a positive change to him. Stories allow us to reflect on things that happened and how past days have included both joyous and terrible incidents. Did your story change over the course of your participation in the storytelling workshops? How? Yes, I changed my story to make it more powerful and I had to make some adjustments to give it more sense in the English language. How does your story offer an alternative path, point of view, or way forward? How does it speak to the possibility of an otherwise? My story is all about me and my family. I hope my story helps people to learn to accept and live with their families even through difficult times.
Personal Narrative
Resilience of the Heart and a Second Chance, by Chrinovic Kabeya
When I was twelve years old, in 2017, my family and I fled from Democratic Republic of Congo due to food insecurity. We came to Nakivale Refugee Settlement in Uganda to start a new life. Every night, once we had arrived in Nakivale, my older sister Arcange, my younger brother Chrisalem, my younger sister Reiyone and I would sleep together in the living room on a mat, covering ourselves with one blanket. Our parents would sleep in the bedroom. Life seemed like a movie to me at that time. We ate food that was barely enough, and we would all cry as we ate. There was no joy in our hearts. After finishing our meal, Arcange would wash the plates, then we would sit silently in the living room like we were under a spell. No words. No laughter. One night, I got tired of sitting inside and went outside to get some fresh air. Filled with deep sadness I sat outside for two hours, lost in thought. When I returned, we all sat in the living room again, silently. No words, no laughter – just staring at each other. Another evening, my father decided to show us a video. It was a Tanzanian comedy and we tried to watch it. When I saw the food that my mother prepared and brought into the living room, my heart ached – it was ugali, which is boiled maize flour, and sardines – food I despised. I had no choice but to eat it. After finishing, once the plates were cleared, we sat there again. My father asked me that night why I couldn’t endure and be strong. I remained silent. I couldn’t sleep because I was filled with anger. In the middle of the night, I heard a voice calling my name, “Chrinovic, Chrinovic, Chrinovic.” I was startled awake to find my father, he was asking me to wake up and wake my younger siblings as well. He told us to get ready to go to the office again. (We went to the office every day in order to try to obtain our papers that would allow us our freedom.) We all got ready. I fetched water and went to the bathroom to bathe, and my younger siblings bathed in different areas. After finishing, we all set out, taking with us a man named Papa Sami, who was to guide us to the office. We walked along New Congo Road until we reached a soccer field and crossed it to get to the office where we were supposed to receive our papers. We waited from morning until evening, but nothing happened. The offices closed, and we left, hungry, taking the same road back home. We dropped Papa Sami off at his house, where he encouraged us not to give up and to come back the next day. We thanked him and walked home, exhausted. When we got home, my mother told me to start preparing the food. I was so frustrated, but I did it anyway. I tried to light the fire, but it wouldn’t start, so I had to find some dry grass. When it finally lit, I started cooking maize flour while my mother prepared the vegetables. The younger children were in the living room, either sitting or lying down, but no one was asleep. The food was ready, and we started eating together. After eating, my sister, Arcange, cleared the plates and we started talking about what we had seen at the office. We laughed and talked for a while in the living room. Eventually, we got sleepy and went to bed, not realizing that soon our lives would change. We would feel joy again. * Later that night, at 4:54 am, I heard my mother crying. I didn’t get up. I listened as she continued crying in pain. My father took her outside. They went to Mama Pastor’s house. Later, they went to the hospital and I stayed behind with my younger siblings. I remained awake until morning. At 7:30 am, my younger siblings woke up. Reiyone, still very young, went into the room and didn’t find my parents. They asked me where our father and mother were, and I replied that I didn’t know. My other siblings started asking where our father was too, but I didn’t know what to tell them. I told them that our mother had gone to wash clothes, and they all cheered up. I started doing the house chores, sweeping and washing the dishes, trying to keep my mind and my hands busy. Soon, my father came back. He looked happy. We asked him where our mother was, and he told us she was on her way. He then called me aside and told me that our mother had given birth to a baby girl. Her name was to be Angel. He gave me some money and asked me to go to the market to buy food because people would be visiting. I went to the market and bought goat meat, beans, rice, flour, charcoal, and cooking oil, and then returned home. When I got home, I found many people there, including Mama Pastor. I gave the food I had bought to one of the women to start cooking, and I stayed outside, feeling emotional and reflecting on the fact that since we arrived in Nakivale, I had never had a proper meal – this was to be my first time eating a good meal! I had the birth of my baby sister to thank for it. * After five years of suffering, soon after Angel’s birth, we moved into our own home. It was large, it was better than the first one. It was also time for me to start working, but I didn’t know what to do. While sitting in my room, my friend, Innocent, came over and asked how I was doing. I told him I was okay, but he insisted that I didn’t seem okay. I
Suffering, by Charles Shika Safina
In 2009, I lived with my family in a village called Baraka in Congo. We were a family of five: my father, my mother, and my two younger brothers, Omari and Eddy. My father did not take care of the family. Instead, we depended on my mother to do odd jobs or farm so that we could eat and have clothes. My father loved a life of leisure and was a drunkard. He never left any money for our needs. One day, my mother went out to look for work but returned with nothing. We went to bed horribly hungry, without eating anything at all. While we were sleeping, my father returned home. He started banging on the door violently, demanding to be let in. My mother got up and went to open the door for him. He shouted, demanding food. When she told him there was none, he insulted and beat her. He yelled. He threatened to leave us. I felt horrible seeing my mother like this. When morning came, my father left. We had no idea where he went. Soon after, my mother became very ill, sick from the beating she had received from my father. There was no one to help us. I had to start looking for money for food and my mother’s recovery. The day I set out in search of work, I was turned away because I was still young, but I didn’t give up. My family’s suffering gave me the strength to keep searching. God helped me, and soon after I found someone who hired me to farm for them. They paid me very little, but it was enough to buy some sugar so that my siblings could drink porridge. My younger siblings stopped going to school because there was no money for school fees. I felt like the world was collapsing on me. When I walked by, people would laugh at me because of my tattered clothes. I walked through the streets begging for help. Some people gave me assistance, but others insulted me or called me a thief because of how I looked. I became like an orphan, even though I had a father and a mother. When my clothes tore, I would take some sack string and a knife, and I would cut and sew them back together with the string. Many nights, I would stay up crying. The days passed. We continued to suffer. One night, seven months after my father beat her, my mother’s condition worsened. That very night, we rushed her to the hospital. When we arrived, the doctors told us that we needed to pay for her treatment. She also had many thoughts about how we would survive, because she was not well. These thoughts eventually led her to have a heart attack. My heart ached deeply. I was overwhelmed by the suffering we were enduring. I felt I had no other options. I made up my mind to try stealing. Walking through the market a few days later, I saw a man holding money in his hand, and he had left some on the seat of his car, which he hadn’t properly locked. My mind tempted me to take the money that was in the car. This was my chance! But my heart resisted. I went back and forth. I thought about where I could possibly get the money to pay for my mother’s treatment. I was stuck. I needed to save her. I decided to take it. Just as I was reaching through the car window to take the money, I heard people shouting, “Thief!” I panicked and dropped the money. I ran. When I was running I fell, and when I fell they caught me. Then they started beating me. I begged for forgiveness. I pleaded “I am not a thief. Please forgive me. Please let me go.” The man whose money I had tried to take came and told the angry crowd to leave me alone. He looked me in the eye and spoke to me. I felt immense relief when I heard him call me “my child,” and I cried tears of joy. He told me, “I will help pay for your mother’s hospital treatment, and I will pay for your siblings’ education, but under one condition.” “What is the condition?” I asked. He replied, “I want you all to be like my children because I have no child, and my wife passed away.” I felt like God had sent me an angel. I thanked him profusely and accepted his offer. I was so happy. * One night, when my mother was home from the hospital and we were sitting together, just the two of us, I told her that there were things I wanted to know more about. She asked me, “What are the things you want to know?” I told her that I wanted to understand what suffering is and what happiness is as well. My mother told me that just as I had once experienced, suffering can push you to do things you never expected to do. My mother explained, “Sometimes, God can give you suffering so that you learn a certain lesson. Suffering is something you can never get used to.” She continued, “but it is important to thank God for everything and fight through our problems, only then will we find happiness.” After sharing her thoughts that evening, my mother told me she was ready to go to sleep. I told her, “But I am still not satisfied, mother.” Then she said, “Before I go to sleep, let me give you one last piece of advice. You can never have peace or happiness if you are not satisfied. Peace and contentment in your soul will give you lasting happiness.” I found peace in the depths of my suffering and in the love I have for my mother. This story was peer reviewed by: Georgia Marshall
