Painting the Bridge

Kurt was a good man with a lack of luck. He was born in 1992 in Uganda to wealthy parents, and the first two years of his life were good—there was never a lack of water, of food, or clothes. His first birthday came and went with the invention of the rebel group. As unrest stirred, Kurt played with his toys and his Nanna. Then the war hit, and Kurt's parents were among the first to die at the hands of the warriors in the civil war.

It was the dawn of his second birthday, as Kurt toddled down to the kitchen to see his Nanna. The kitchen was dark as the sun had not yet hit the room, but hushed voices came whispered. Kurt could see the edges of the refrigerator from his place on the stairs. Suddenly, a shot rang out, followed by a sharp scream, a loud "thump", then silence…

Kurt's world swam with shades of black as he lost consciousness. Uganda was torn apart, and so was Kurt's early life. By the time he was four, Kurt worked in textile mills, sewing until his little fingers bled, and when they scabbed over during the night, the little digits only reopened in the morning. His escape came only when the shades of black overtook him at night. He dreamt of running to paradise where his Nanna and father waltzed to the riffs of freedom. He wanted to escape his prison. Every morning he woke up with to the loud bangs of meaty hands against the splintered door of the small hut he shared with two other boys. And yet he still dreamed…