Where Chelsea Stands

One of the things I can never get over in my travels in East Africa is how loved the children are.  I grew up on images of kids covered in flies in need of missionaries and salvation, only to arrive on the continent a lifetime later and find that the only person in need of redemption was myself.

This week on a last minute quiet trip to East Africa, I spent hours and hours in a very congested city, talking to my very savvy driver Rogers.  No one will develop you, he told me, without wanting something in return.  And I knew it was true for me most especially.  For every good thing I have done in Africa, there is a deep and dark demand, a desperate longing to be folded into the togetherness for which I have no birthright. 

I did not survive the genocide, Innocent once told me, to be confused about money and love. 

But still I don't understand.  I'm still buying my way into the place where Chelsea stands, secure in the knowing she can never be alone.  I'm still hoping something will make that place inside a strong embrace the place I deserve to land, simply because I am, simply because it was always meant to be.