In September of ‘07, an email changed my life.

It was written by a 15-year-old Ugandan boy named Jemba. He wrote to CI because his grandfather had recently passed, leaving him alone in the world. His dream, he said, was “to be a sponsored child.”

We weren’t active in Uganda, so it wasn’t possible. I’d only worked at CI a few weeks, and wasn’t aware we had a department that answered emails. I feared this boy would get an impersonal form letter that would crush him. It bothered me so much I couldn’t sleep that night. First thing the next morning, I replied to Jemba.

Thus began a deep friendship. For several months, we exchanged emails daily. I gradually learned Jemba’s story – how he’d lost both parents at a young age, was nearly killed by the Lord’s Resistance Army, faced starvation and other threats. How he was taken in by his poor grandfather, who taught Jemba to be a good person. How their roles had eventually reversed when Jemba had to care for his sick grandfather. And how, even now, he felt his grandfather watching over him.

Jemba never asked for help. He said he valued our friendship because I genuinely cared, and he felt comfortable talking to me about anything. Sometimes, he needed a sympathetic ear; other times, advice. I did my best to give him both.

But it wasn’t enough. As our relationship developed, I was learning more about CI and sponsorship. Seeing, firsthand, how it improved children’s lives. It would’ve been the perfect solution for Jemba. But without an agency in Uganda, it was impossible. I’d have to think of something else.

When I decided to send money, my friends were skeptical. Knowing my trusting nature, they wanted to protect me. “If Jemba’s so poor,” they asked, “how can he email you?” I’d never asked. When I did, I wasn’t surprised to learn that Jemba volunteered at a shelter for battered women. In return, he got to use their computer. “But how do you know he’s telling the truth?” my friends continued. I felt I could trust Jemba, but I agreed to be cautious.

Using the web, I located the women’s shelter in Jemba’s village. No contact info was listed, but I learned the shelter was funded by a New York agency. It took 2 weeks and several emails, but I finally reached the shelter’s director. I asked if he knew a boy named Jemba.

He responded enthusiastically, describing Jemba as a remarkable youth who “always has a kind word for everyone.” He said many youth in Jemba’s situation would lash out with violence, or drugs, but Jemba used his energy to help others.

That sealed it. My fiancé and I didn’t have much money, but we scraped together a little to send to Jemba. When I told him about it, he said his eyes were “filling with tears.” He wrote a long “thank-you” note to us, and then went to pick up the money.

Then, complete silence.

The Scare

For 2-weeks, my emails went unanswered. Before long, concern turned to panic. What if something happened? What if Jemba had been mugged, or worse? Finally, through shelter’s director, I got my answer.

After picking up the money we sent, Jemba bought some groceries and went home. He didn’t show at the shelter for three days. When another volunteer went to check on him, he found Jemba laid low by malaria – too sick to move. He was rushed to the hospital. I later learned that, on the way, he begged someone to send me an email so I wouldn’t worry, but the message got lost in the moment.

Two weeks later, Jemba wrote. He said the money we sent had allowed him to stay at the hospital and buy the medication he needed to recover. Malaria is one of Uganda’s biggest killers, and Jemba was convinced that, if our gift hadn’t arrived when it did, he would’ve died.

Now Jemba is part of our family. I call him little brother, and he calls me big brother or my American brother. At home, a picture of Jemba hangs among those of our relatives, his big smile lighting up our apartment. At night, it's become a tradition that, as we go to bed, we look at his picture and say “Goodnight, Jemba” before turning out the lights.

Jemba thinks that I’ve been a miracle in his life. The truth is he’s the miracle in mine.