Kidega is a former child soldier who grew up in Acholiland, in the village of Acaya. All Kidega ever dreamed of was playing football for Kampala City Council F.C. (KCC) just like Latigo. (Latigo originates from Kitgum District in Northern Uganda; he captivated the nation with his football [soccer] talent. What Michael Jordan achieved in basketball, Latigo achieved in soccer.) But then, at the age of thirteen, Kidega's life was eclipsed by the death of his family and his abduction and training as a soldier. Kidega undergoes Mato Oput, a cleansing ceremony, in his journey of forgiveness and reconciliation. Kidega remembered Ladit Naptali Ocoo's words: “It is possible to break the cycle of hate and revenge. It is possible to find peace again.” As Kidega stood there, on the edge of his new life, with the pain and devastation of the past behind him, he knew, finally, that this was true.

They were out of breath when they arrived home, running for shelter from the rain that had suddenly intensified. They lived in a circular hut with an exaggerated high peak. The walls were heavily coated with mud and decorations of geometrical designs in red and grey. Near the front door were different sizes of white circles that gave it a dramatic look. “You need to remember your ancestors in everything you do,” Amone had said as he added drawings of human sticks on the doorway. In the courtyard was the newly built shrine where Anena's relatives often visited and worshipped while sacrificing goats and chickens to ensure that the crops would prosper and the animals would breed many young ones. However, as more and more reports of children being abducted surfaced, Kidega's parents worshipped more frequently. A good number of priests were invited to pray and to tell the future. As Kidega looked over at the dark entrance of the shrine, a cold chill went up his spine. The last time they assembled in the shrine, he had heard groaning sounds that came from underneath the ground. Kidega quickly looked away and made his way to the main entrance of the house. They were all soaking wet as they entered the house. Amone glanced around before entering the house; it was like he sensed unwanted company. Amone knew it was not possible; very few people knew about his discord with the LRA. Anena went in the inner room to change out of the wet clothing, while Amone made a fire. Anena sat down and started to gently massage Amone's feet. Amone had a sheepish look as the children watched their parents displaying affection for one another. “Go to bed!” Amone snapped at the children. “Can we stay up a little longer?” Kidega groaned, deflated. “We want to hear a story!” Anena once again sensed the tension in Amone's voice. She sensed something completely different in his behavior. She considered everything that happened in the past week and a ripple of suspicion was undeniable. She needed to ask him what was going on. The children left them quietly talking. Amone made short answers under his breath. Amone kept the details of his defiance to the NRM orders of reporting suspicious activities to the RC chairman. Amone wanted the men of Acaya village to fight and end the children abduction. Kidega dozed off, straining his ears to listen to his parents' conversation, but all he could hear was his mother singing quietly one of the songs she had been dancing to. Kidega imagined her dancing for his father as he drifted off to sleep. It was about four in the morning when Kidega was awakened by the sound of footsteps outside. Kidega had always had an ear for noises late at night. He opened his eyes wide until they hurt, as he tried to see what was going on. He could not see anything for some time, but then he started to vaguely make out the curtain that separated his sleeping area from his parents' sleeping area. He lay very still and listened while straining into the darkness. He definitely heard heavier footsteps and noises, like somebody was trying to open the door. His stomach wound into a knot. By now, his eyes had become used to the dark. As Kidega was about to get up and wake up his father, he heard the terrible roar of what must have been as many as ten guns shooting at the door. He peeked over his bed covers as he lay on his little pallet. `Stop!” Anena screamed. Her screams pierced through Kidega's body like a sharp spear. He heard his mother scream as they dragged her out of the house. He quickly rolled off the bed and hid under it, where he could see the feet of the men who had entered the house. The whole room was illuminated by the moonlight. One of the man's legs seemed shorter than the other leg as he limped around favoring one leg. Agena appeared from nowhere and cried for her mother while helplessly pulling at the man who was dragging her mother. That was when, to Kidega's horror, the man with the short leg picked up his sister. Agena helplessly twisted her head back and forth, trying to resist as she was being carried away. Before Kidega could let out a scream, he heard his father pleading, “Please don't take them!” Kidega could hear muffled screams as his father, mother and sister were taken out of the house. After what seemed like an eternity, Kidega heard the sharp retort of a handgun. One, two, three short shots, and then total silence. Kidega lay under his cot, frozen in terror, uncertain about what he could or should do. Kidega was not sure how long he had been lying there when the timid light of a kerosene lamp crept across the floor to where he lay. He saw the face of the man who lived across the yard, down on his knees. He whispered, “Kidega! Kidega! Kidega! Are you alive?” In the faint light, Kidega could see the grim look on the man's face as he pulled him out from under the bed. “My child,” he said as he pulled Kidega close to his chest. “The rebels have shot them. . .” Kidega wanted to shout out a denial, but all that came out was a wail. The man, a friend of his father, tried to comfort him, rocking him as he held him in his arms, while he knelt on the floor. Kidega was inconsolable. “You must know that you now have three angels up in the sky!” he told him. He carried Kidega outside and put him on his feet. In the early morning light, Kidega could see the blood on the wall where his family had been shot, and although the neighbor had covered their bodies with blankets, he saw three pairs of feet --one pair much smaller than the other two. This was only the beginning of a series of gruesome massacres the people of Acaya village were to face.

Dinah shares a story of how during her first year in secondary school, her class was assigned a composition about a visit to Nalubabwe market. Nalubabwe market is similar to the American farmer's market, with individual vendors selling anything from produce to cooked foods and beverages. With a smile she talks about how her composition was typed by the teacher (that was before the days of computers and word processors) and given out to all the three streams in senior one. With even a bigger smile she talks about how she will never forget the feeling when almost the whole school was reading her composition during break time. Since then she knew she wanted others to see what she sees through her writing. After living in the United States over twenty-three years, the decision to live abroad was a result of the numerous attacks her family had endured during one of the wars in Uganda. On her return to her village, she noticed that things had changed tremendously. A good number of children spend most of the day hanging around, riding Boda-bodas as a source of their income. (Boda-boda is a motorcycle taxi in Uganda with a fascinating origin. Boda-bodas were originally used to transport people between border posts. There is over a half a mile between the border posts. Riders would solicit potential customers by calling out “Border-to-border,” meaning transportation across the no-man's land. Currently, Boda-boda, sounding just like “Border-to-border,” is a popular means of transport in the city and some villages.) During her visit, as she was sipping a cup of Ugandan tea masala with cream and sugar (reminiscent of the good old days in the village) and leafing through old newspapers, a news headline caught her attention: “Why Mato Oput system should come before ICC International Criminal Court” (New Visions, December 4, 2006). The article discussed how Mato Oput was a traditional way of dealing with conflict, as opposed to the ICC, which represented the western concept of justice. This was not the first time she had seen the term Mato Oput in the news. She asked a son of her friend what Mato Oput was. He grimaced, and after a long pause, he said, “It is a primitive custom; you don't want to know.” That answer made her even more curious to learn more about this practice. It is with great honor and humility that she takes you to Acholiland.