I was born in a village near Masaka. My mother used to weave baskets from banana leaves and sell them together with sugarcane and some other produce from our garden. My father had bought a motorcycle, which he used to earn money as a taxi driver. He still had to repay the loan before the motorcycle would truly belong to him.

I have three brothers and a younger sister. We played football, studied at school every day, and had everything we needed for a simple and decent life.

One evening, my father did not return home with his motorcycle. He had been in a serious accident. As is common in Uganda, he had no health insurance. My family and our neighbors pooled together all the money they could, but he still passed away. I don’t know if he might have survived had we had more money for his treatment. After his funeral, life was no longer simple or good.

My mother’s baskets and the vegetables from our garden were no longer enough to sustain us. She could no longer pay our school fees. When her savings ran out, there was not even enough left to buy maize and rice anymore.

In Uganda, there is no public social system that could have supported us through such a difficult time. My mother also had no money to pursue new training. She became increasingly desperate and sad. Eventually, she began going out in the evenings, saying she needed to work. There was a little money again, but my mother’s condition worsened.

She began drinking alcohol to gather the strength to go out at night. I would pour the vodka into the bushes, but it didn’t help. There were many arguments, and we lost our home.

My siblings and I built a makeshift shelter from anything we could find. But I don’t think my mother liked it. She came less and less often to bring us food or clothes. When she once again didn’t come for a long time, I set out on foot toward the nearest town to find something to eat. I walked for two days before I reached Masaka. When I arrived, I met other children my age who showed me where we could sleep. I looked for an empty grain sack to keep myself a bit warmer at night. Still, I was always on guard—constantly exhausted and irritable. Together, we collected plastic bottles and scrap metal from the streets and sold everything for a few Ugandan shillings.

We were afraid of the older youths. They were sometimes drunk, like my mother, and often took our money. I was also afraid of getting sick because I didn’t know who would pay for my medicine. I realized that now I, too, had become a “street child.” Before long, I also slipped into drug use. It was the only way to forget hunger, fear, and cold—and to sleep for at least a few hours.

After some time, the other children told me about three Ugandan siblings who regularly came to give all of us a warm dinner and take sick children to the hospital. Barnabas, Julius, and Nicholas asked us for our names and organized football games with us. Once a year, they took all of us to the lake. Whenever we had problems, we could go to them, and they were always there for us. Twice a week they picked us up, and we went together to the shelter. There, meals were prepared for us, we could wash our clothes, use the toilet, bathe, get haircuts, and talk to one another.

After a while, the three became my friends, and I started calling them “uncle.” That’s why I told Julius my story. I showed him where I had last lived with my siblings. But they were no longer there. We asked the neighbors, and they told us that my older siblings had also run away. Julius made sure several times that my little sister could stay permanently with the neighbor. He told her that life on the streets was especially dangerous for girls and left his contact information. We also searched for my mother and found her drunk in a bar. Julius introduced himself and tried to ask her about relatives or friends, but my mother was too lost in her own world to think about where I could stay. He gave her his phone number on a piece of paper. “If it is alright with you, we will take responsibility for Max.”

Since then, I have lived during school holidays with 25 other children and teenagers in the Lights children’s home. I attend a boarding school—a good private school. I have my own bed and receive regular meals.

We are like one big family. Sometimes I visit my mother and sister together with one of the “uncles,” bringing them rice and beans.

I am very happy that I can go to school again and that I have a good future ahead of me. My school fees are funded by donations.