Little Frank

I was the last one off the bus,

Stumbling over my long skirt,

Bogged down by bags and backpacks,

Gracelessly dropped onto African dirt.

Twenty-three hours, too little sleep,

With greasy hair and heavy eyes,

He was the only one left waiting,

For the last muzungu surprise.

He flashed a smile, white as the sun,

And grabbed me by the hand.

He dragged me weary, bags and all,

Across the red Ugandan sand. 

He walked me through the orphanage,

His little bare feet doubled my stride.

Pointing and smiling, he welcomed me home,

He never left my side.

Acacia tress and crimson sunsets,

The dirt and sun and sweat,

Beating drums, lugandan hymns,

These things I won’t forget.

The goal they told us: Go be love.

Such love I’d never known.

Hugging strangers, sharing rice-

These can’t be taught, but shown.

In one short week my world was changed,

But not because of me- 

Because a little orphan boy 

Showed me how to see.

The church calls me a missionary

Who brings lost souls to light;

He called me mukwano, friend,

The difference, black and white.