A jam in Kampala delayed Vickie just a bit too close for comfort. We raced to the ferry heading to Kalangala Island only to miss the last available space for a car on that ferry. We thought distastefully of lugging three 50 pound duffles, one suitcase, and two overstuffed backpacks along with two large bodies and one small body on boda-bodas up to the tippy top of the island hill. Such an unpleasant thought. Who were these people that beat us out of that last spot?
Four-year-old Izabella gleefully punched at her daddy’s iPad screen as she bowled, counted, tweeted, colored, and who knows what else. This smart little girl examined the life going on around her spot on the bench inside the ferry. Part of this examination included learning my Luganda name (Kisakye) and observing that she had another friend with the same name. And why were we not eating ALL the snacks we brought? And why are the cards in 13 piles? And where do you live? And why do you put your bag on the ground? On and on this active little girl went. She will undoubtedly be a handful when she reaches her teen years.
Three and a half hours later we landed at the island and bemoaned the person who got the last car spot on the ferry. Gulp! It was little Izabella and her parents. They immediately offered to take us and all our luggage to our final destination. What? People don’t often do things just to be nice. My goodness. They even talked about how they were to arrive yesterday but missed the ferry by five minutes and that God has used that miss for a good purpose.
As we rode up the hill, little Izabella cradled her leopard puppet and sang “Rocky-a-Bye-Baby” to him. I couldn’t resist. Out peeked the little dolly dressed in purple and pink just as Izabella and I were dressed that day. I asked this little one if she thought she could take good care of such a baby and if she would sing to her like she was singing to her leopard. In her most serious adult tone, she assured me the baby was in good hands.