Specks of Dust

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Will J. Duncan All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected]. First paperback edition June 2023 Cover design by Heather VenHuizen Illustrations by Heather VenHuizen Edited by Kevin Miller Internal design by Brittany Vibbert ISBN 979-8-3933187-6-5 (ebook) www.willduncanauthor.com To the Kids of Kisenyi Contents Prologue Part I Glossary Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Part II Glossary Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Part III Glossary Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Part IV Chapter 41 Epilogue Acknowledgments Excerpt from the Journal of Pastor Todd Roberts Bulenga, Uganda April 12, 2018 I received some disconcerting news today. Umaru Moses, of all people, ran away during his field trip to the USA. I could’ve seen it from some of his other pals from God Loves Uganda: that pugnacious boy Latif or Lamos, always acting on impulse, but Umaru… I thought he’d at least tell me himself, considering our regular counseling sessions, even if he didn’t know I’m the one who paid for him to go to St. Paul’s Secondary School in the first place. Unless he just used me to learn about America, with all those English lessons and questions about what it’s like and what things cost. It seems he’d been planning this little scheme for a while. No, he must have believed somewhat. Why else would he have told me about how he ended up in Kisenyi after his father’s death? I didn’t need him to tell me he’d been in the top of his grade six class before all that. I could see the ambition, the precocity. It must be that sinful ambition that made him leave. I should know. It was that same ambition that sent me here after the bureaucracy decided they couldn’t find a place for me in any of their churches. They said a degree from Lynchburg would be Kisenyi Most people who live in Kisenyi do not hate it at first. The excitement and the freedom of the Kampala slum district make the air sweet despite the burning plastic and coal at every street corner. The constant, dull roar of traffic lingers like a mantra, a never-ending lullaby. Along the periphery, stores full of books, clothes, and exotic food and businessmen and politicians with suits, entourages, and foreign cars all prove that if you know how to find a way in, the city will pay you handsomely. Just the proximity to all of this concentrated wealth and activity, you feel as if you are, by extension, part of everything happening all around. There are rules in Kisenyi. You can sleep here but not there. You can scrounge here, but you’ll be beaten if you set foot over there. You can share this with others, but that, that you keep for yourself. Make this call if the police are coming and that noise if the witch doctors are prowling. If someone says this to you, it really means that, and if someone says that, they’re scoundrels, and fighting is the only way to get them off your back. There is opportunity in Kisenyi for those who know where to look. There is scrap metal to scrounge, bottles to sell, pots to hammer, customers to serve, roads