It’s Sunday, and we are enjoying our day of rest. Reading. Napping. Munching. Savoring the quiet that results from our Sunday ‘no visitors’ policy. Later in the day, American, British, and Danish friends come over for a friend’s birthday party. We dig into pork-chops and baked macaroni-n-cheese. Everyone is drinking, eating, laughing. We sing “Happy Birthday”.
It’s Sunday, and they are miles from their village, in the bush, collecting charcoal. It takes a lot of time and effort to make charcoal. A sack of charcoal fetches 10,000 Ugandan shillings, or $6.00 US. They have collected their charcoal and are walking back home, seven of them, men and women. Their path is crossed by armed bandits. The bandits open fire on the little group. The volley of shots can be heard from our house. Bullets ruin bodies. One to a man’s head. One to a woman’s hip. Another to a man’s pelvis. Five are killed. Two cling tenuously to life. All are from our neighborhood. Senseless violence.
It’s Sunday, and life isn’t fair.