When I was leaving my compound this morning, the askari motioned for me. He had a letter for me, he said. An airmail envelope (though no postage, obviously hand delivered) was addressed to Steven and his wife.

Since the concept of “boyfriend” here is different from what we might think of in the states, any serious relationship is akin to marriage. So that makes me David’s wife. Not Steven’s. I informed the askari the letter must not be for us, since my husband’s name is David. After some back and forth in which I insisted that the letter must be for the person in the flat on the third floor, it became clear that it had been delivered for the compound’s mzungus.

So, in my official capacity as Steven’s wife, I opened the letter. It was a handwritten request from someone named Nicholas. “Studying in Uganda is a bit cheap,” he says, followed by a breakdown of school fees at a university (no indication of which university). Tuition fees $300, Meals $164, Accommodation $145.

I’m not sure who Nicholas is or why he thinks David’s name is Steven. (I am in no way surprised that he didn’t even try for my name – people in my neighborhood who have known me for ages still call me Grenna, if they call me anything at all – sometimes they just tell David, “Greet her.”)

We already pay three peoples’ school fees, all of whom are known to us. And they’re a lot less than $500. Neither David nor I make enough money to have an extra $500 just waiting for a stranger.

(BREAK: I just showed the letter to a Ugandan friend of mine sitting with me at Café Pap, who replied, “This town is filled with the biggest cons. I’m not even going to read this shit.” Then he launched into a long-winded story about another con artist he knows.)

Just yesterday, I was telling another friend of mine about a recent experience at the Uganda Prisons, where I’ve been going frequently for a story I’m working on. I told him how first, I was asking the prisoners what they knew about AIDS, and then they turned it around and asked me about AIDS. I said I wasn’t an AIDS educator, because though I certainly know the basics about AIDS, I don’t know how best to transmit the information. Then they asked me for soap, blankets, and lawyers.

The friend who I regaled with this story suggested we change the typical “Mzungu” tshirts sold at all sorts of craft fairs and tourist locations to “Mzungu: I am not an NGO.”

On Monday, I spoke to a volunteer group here in Uganda for some two weeks. I had trouble coming up with what to say, since I have such mixed feelings about people who come to Africa to “help” for two weeks, but here’s how I concluded:

You’re all here because you care, because you learn about inequality and poverty and disease and it bothers you.

In the time you’re here, you won’t eradicate any of those things. They will remain unchanged, here when you arrived and still present when you leave. You won’t change things, but instead, let the things change you.