.

place doubt on Jericho’s character. Four hours of questioning had finally unearthed the truth and Jericho had been released.

      Heartbreak couldn’t hold a candle to the pain Jericho had felt. Everything within him had been destroyed. As the sun rose that next morning, so did Jericho’s resolve. Shannon Porter became dead to him, nothing more than a faint memory of a bad time in his life. He’d never told his parents or hers what had happened between them. He still didn’t know why, just wanting nothing more than to place as much distance between him, her and the memory as he could find. He believed that if he didn’t have to discuss it, the easier it would be for him to forget. And now Shannon had the audacity to proclaim her blatant betrayal a mere mistake and her love for him to be real.

      The little boy stood at Jericho’s knee, watching him curiously. It was only then that Jericho realized his face was damp from his tears. Glancing quickly around to see if anyone else had noticed, he wiped the moisture against the back of his hand and forced himself to smile down at the child.

      “What’s your name?” he asked, leaning toward the toddler. “My name’s Jericho.”

      The boy laughed, his curly head bobbing against his shoulders as he turned back to his mother, reaching to wrap his arms around the woman’s legs. Jericho made a funny face, his eyes bugging out from his head, his tongue reaching down to his chin and the child responded with one of his own. They both laughed and for a quick moment, Jericho allowed the memories of Shannon Porter to stay dead.

      Chapter 8

      Stepping from the plane, Jericho inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of Mother Africa. The essence of her homeland was intoxicating and he was delirious with joy at being cradled in the arm of her vastness. As he maneuvered his way through customs and immigration he was greeted warmly by black men whose faces resembled the faces of friends and family back in Atlanta. Outside of the large white building, the warmth of sunshine rained down upon him, cascading heat through his body. The scent of flora planted in stone containers lined the airport’s walkways, the vibrant color of hibiscus and porcelain roses standing bright against the man-made backdrop.

      In the exterior of the arrival area, minivan drivers waited patiently for their charges, many holding neatly printed signs announcing the names of the passengers they awaited or the hotels they represented. They were each dark complexioned, skin tones ranging from deep chocolate-brown to a deeper blue-black. All were dressed conservatively, cotton slacks in navy, black or khaki, complemented by button-down dress shirts in pastels and whites.

      The wide smile of Jericho’s former college roommate and best friend, Peter Colleu, greeted him warmly, the man waving his hand excitedly in Jericho’s direction. The man’s deep voice and familiar accent called out his name as he rushed over to wrap his friend in a brotherly embrace.

      “My friend,” Peter chimed. “Welcome to my home.”

      Jericho grinned back, patting his friend’s protruding stomach. “You look good, Peter. I see that wife of yours is feeding you well!”

      Peter laughed. “You should find a woman to do the same for you, my friend.”

      The two continued laughing as Peter led the way to his vehicle and ushered Jericho into the passenger seat.

      “So, how was your flight?”

      Jericho sighed. “Long. I’m glad for it to be over.”

      “Well, you are here safely. Are you now ready to work? I have much work for you to do.”

      Jericho nodded. “Just say when.”

      Peter nodded his head. His expression became serious as he began to speak. “We are grateful to have you here with us. Our children need a good doctor.”

      “How many are with you now?”

      “We have twenty-seven orphans plus too many to count in the villages. They have been abandoned because their parents had no way to feed them or disease has wiped out their families.”

      “How are you getting funding to take care of them?”

      Peter glanced quickly toward his friend, then returned his gaze back to the road. “Donations have helped. Your parents have been very generous. Their last check helped with the construction of the school.”

      Jericho smiled, nodding his head ever so slightly. “My mother believes in what you are doing. You know that all you have to do is ask and it is yours.”

      His friend grinned. “Did she send me that package?”

      Laughter filled the interior of the car as Jericho chortled wholeheartedly. “She sent boxes of Butterfinger candy bars and Ding Dongs. More than enough to rot their teeth out.”

      “Whose teeth? That candy is for me!”

      The two men continued chatting excitedly, catching up on the time that had elapsed since Peter had last been in the United States. As Peter maneuvered his vehicle along Gaba Road, the rising city stood out against a backdrop of plush, white clouds floating against a vibrant blue sky.

      Conversation waned as Jericho’s attention shifted to the views outside the window. An ebony-toned woman stood roadside, an infant clinging to her back. The mother’s garments were well-worn, a purple, floral print skirt and green polo shirt hanging against her thin body. A large bowl of newly-picked bananas rested against the top of her head.

      Peddlers traveled the length of roadway, some by foot, others riding on mopeds or pedaling bicycles. Peter caught him staring, then gestured with his head. “They are bodas,” he said, pointing to the young men on minibikes. “Bodas will deliver anything, anywhere.”

      Jericho smiled, turning his attention back toward a group of craftsmen gathered around a display of iron works, an assembly of newly fashioned iron gates lined in a neat row. As Peter continued their drive through the suburban streets, Jericho was struck by the abject poverty of the residential areas. Running water in the dilapidated homes was nonexistent. Children ran barefoot, threadbare clothing barely fit for dirty rags. A little girl, no more than five years old, stood alone, her thumb pulled into her mouth, a dusty-yellow cotton shift skimming the lines of her malnourished frame. Jericho heaved a deep sigh.

      Noting the change in his friend’s disposition, the man’s initial excitement defusing quickly, Peter offered commentary. He pulled the vehicle off to the side of the road and shut down the engine.

      “My homeland is still recovering from our days of political oppression and the subsequent war. Tribal animosity, corrupt politics and military tyranny had crippled us. Some parts of the country are still too volatile to think about traveling. But we are slowly becoming stabilized. Look at the city of Kampala. It thrives! It is the new Uganda! It is what this whole country shall one day become.”

      Jericho nodded his head slowly. “But the children look so dejected.”

      “Our children are hungry and homeless and there is no money to care for them. Thousands have been abducted by the Lord’s Resistance Army to be child soldiers or sex slaves. Many more have been orphaned by the AIDS pandemic. Our sons and daughters have had a hard road to travel.”

      “Why isn’t more being done to help them?”

      Peter paused, a flicker of a tear rising to his eyes. “We are doing all we can,” he answered, his words falling into a whisper.

      “What can I do?” Jericho asked, turning to look his friend in the eye.

      Peter smiled. “You are doing it, Dr. Becton. You are here, my friend.”