Before coming to Uganda, I knew that I would be quite inapt in their language, culture, and social interactions. Nevertheless, I was somehow determined to make meaningful impact—I wanted to pat myself on the back and prove myself worthy. Little did I know, my presence in Uganda in the past 7 weeks only proved myself irrelevant, even more so than I thought I would be.

My first realization of my little relevance occurred to me at my host mom (Mami Nalumansi)’s birthday party. Her 23-year-old daughter came from 5 hours away to celebrate her birthday. Her name is Jacent. She is sweet, caring, and easy-going. She told me that her education ended at O-Level (11th grade in America). Her older brother died while she was in school and no one could pay for her school fees. Yet, she loved to study. She told me that she was very sad to leave school and she cried in her room. Mami Nalumansi only told her, “You be quiet! Don’t you know that I have no money for your school fees?”

I asked her, “If you have money now, would you go back to school?” “Of course,” she responded with no hesitation.

I couldn’t put myself in her shoe. I enjoyed school all my life. Yet, school was more like a chore to me—I didn’t mind going to school but I was never exhilarated about it. Perhaps because dropping out of school was never a thinkable option for me, I never have to think what education means for me. I have yet to realize how much I like school because I’ve never been deprived of it. Jacent is not a single case—I’ve heard so many stories of children dropping out of school because of poverty As Jacent told me her story about school, I just couldn’t possibly relate to her feelings. I felt completely irrelevant.

In the morning of Mami Nalumansi’s birthday, I wanted to buy her a cake. However, there was only one small piece of cake left at the local shop and it was made 2 days ago. Having no other choice, I bought it and had the shop owner wrapped it. In the evening, I gently touched the cake from outside of its wrapper to see how soft it was. It wasn’t until then did I become flustered and extremely disappointed.

The cake was…not soft. It was so hard that I didn’t think it would break even if I smashed it against the floor. It was like a piece of brick. I totally freaked out.

The children prepared a lot of food for their mom’s birthday: rice, matooke (mashed bananas), chicken, fish, and potatoes. During dinner, we each brought our gifts for my host mom. Some people brought fabric, a basin, and I brought the bed sheets and some cooking spoons.

After dinner, it was cake time and it was not any softer than before. I got really stressed when I brought it to her.

When my host mom brought the knife over to cut the cake, I was worried because I didn’t think she could cut it with a knife. I repeatedly told her son, James, to translate that “It was the last cake the shop had. It might not be good. I will try to get another one.” It was definitely the worst thing to say before someone cuts her birthday cake, but I didn’t want her to be surprised. “It’s no problem,” said James.

Mami Nalumansi asked me to sit next to her and cut the cake together with my hand also on the knife. She told James to take a very good picture as we cut. I took a deep breath. It seemed like a big moment for her, but it was the most anxious moment of my life. This entire time I didn’t know what to do because I really thought we needed a hammer to break that piece of “brick.”

The moment finally came. When the knife landed on that cake, nothing happened. It didn’t break at all, not even the icing. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to close my eyes. My host mom then used both of her hands to press the knife through the cake. I felt incredibly terrible and wanted her to give up on that cake. Imagine this same situation in America, the host would probably keep cutting the cake and pretend it was a good cake so that the one who bought the cake wouldn’t be embarrassed. Here in Uganda, it seemed like to me that my host mom kept cutting simply because she really wanted to eat the cake. Meanwhile, no one else in the room seemed to be freaked out by the cake for how hard it was.

After some laborious effort, my host mom finally cut the cake into smaller pieces. She had the first piece and gave me the second. I took a bite. As it turned out, not only was the cake as hard as brick, it also tasted like a piece of brick. After that first bite, I quietly threw the rest into a trash bowl. Chizo, my host mother’s grandson who is 14 years old, picked up the cake from the trash bowl and started eating. Other kids sneered at him, but Chizo didn’t seem to be bothered by it and finished eating that piece of cake.

All the kids were given a piece of that brick cake and ate it like it was the best thing in the world. I can’t express how I felt. It was one hard moment of my life. The entire cake is probably the size of a cake someone would waste at a party in America. If this cake existed in some dining hall in the U.S., it would be the first thing to be thrown away because it is “out of date” in American standards. If it wasn’t thrown away, just imagine how much coarse complaint it would receive. Here I am, sitting on the cement floor observing a family under the propane light rejoicing over that piece of brick cake. “Dmusenuffu nyo”, said Mami. It means “I’m very happy” in Luganda. She wasn’t at all bothered by the cake and she even saved a little piece in the wrapping paper for later.

Outside, the moon was shining as if it was celebrating the birthday for my host mom. The small village was quiet and peaceful. In a room that is half of the size of my dorm room, there were ten of us celebrating this special event. It was a humble yet joyful party. However, all that I had was worry. I worried about how hard the cake was and how badly it would taste. I was not relieved even after they finished eating the cake because I didn’t understand how that piece of brick didn’t just ruin their day. I could not relate to their joy over that cake. I could not experience their happiness—I, again, felt completely irrelevant.

It is one thing to learn about other people’s life from books and it is quite another to experience it—or not experience it. It takes some audacity to see the world as it is. It also takes empathy to understand the simplicity of happiness.