Mwatum – a sweet friend of mine. She is thirty-two, has five children and another on the way. We spend our time together generally over a meal, as we share whatever life may bring our way. It had been several weeks since I saw Mwatum. The last I heard from her, she was out of town, where she sells mandazi (African doughnuts) in the bush, as it has better profits. She promised to call when she returned. Usually Mwatum is gone for a number of days. Two weeks had passed. Still no call. I tried calling with no answer, so I decided to go to her compound unannounced. Mwatum is a Muslim. I do not know what the repercussions are for being friends with me. I do my best to keep them minimal. She only recently got a phone of her own, which meant I try to announce my comings. As I approached her compound, I could hear her children shouting, “Namilo! Mary!” (my Karimojong name is Namilo). Her younger children and I created a bond when I came by the compound months earlier. They were to be