The hot charcoal between us

 Today, I saw a child holding a glowing piece of charcoal on a large spoon. He walked slowly, carefully, focused and serious about what he was doing. The way he carefully moved indicated that he understood that what he was carrying was important. It wasn't the first time I was seeing this, but this simple scene lingered longer in my mind than I expected. In many Ugandan homes, cooking is done on a sigiri (charcoal stove) or firewood, both which require a deliberate and sometimes long process of lighting the firewood or charcoal. To make it quicker, a hot piece of charcoal can be used light the fire. A child is sent to neighbour to ask for a small burning piece from the neighbour's fire so that they can light their own fire. This is such a common place practice that it barely feels worth mentioning  and yet it carries deep meaning. No one questions it and no one keeps record. You give the hot piece of charcoal because tomorrow you might be the one who needs it. You give because taking a small burning piece from your fire does not make your fire burn less. You give because fire has always been something that moves. 

Seeing that child struck me how much trust is contained in that small act. Trust that the neighbour will say yes. Trust that the giving of a burning piece of charcoal is normal and accepted. It made me think about many of our oldest values that live quietly in our ordinary routines. The small movement between homes is Ubuntu in practice - I exist because you exist and that our lives are woven together in ways that do not always need explanation. 

For a long time, African communities have been built around this kind of shared living. People borrowed salt, matches, sugar, time and care. If a household did not have enough food, children would be sent to a neighbours home at mealtime and no one would question it. They would eat there and life would continue. On another day when that neighbour was struggling, their children would appear at your door and you would feed them. It was understood without being discussed. Relatives were sent to live with relatives who had more means and this was not seen as a burden, but as responsibility. Families were extended not only by blood, but by commitment, and we looked out for each other in practical ways. You did not need to calculate whether someone deserved help. The fact that they were part of your community was reason enough, and it was generally understood that survival itself was communal. No one stood alone. 

Recently, I was talking with my friend Ignatius about this idea of caring for the neighbour and we found ourselves circling difficult questions. He explained it like this:  If I am eating and my neighbour is hungry, how does that affect me as an individual? If my children are going to school and  neighbours children are not how does that affect me in the long run? At first those may seem like moral questions, he said, but they are also practical ones. A hungry neighbour does not simply remain a hungry neighbour. A child who never goes to school does not simply remain a child who missed out. Over time, hunger hardens, exclusion accumulates and desperation grows, and one day, the same neighbour may become the person who jumps over my fence not out of evil but out of need. Definitely not because they are a criminal, but because society quietly pushed them into a corner. 

This is uncomfortable to admit because it blurs the line between personal responsibility and collective responsibility. It forces us to ask the question, "where does my duty end?" "How far does my care extend?" "Am I responsible for only myself and my household or am I in some way responsible the the conditions in which my neighbour is living?"

The Bible captures this tension in a haunting way. After Cain kills his brother Abel, God asks him where his brother is. Cain responds "Am I my brother's keeper?" It is a defensive question that tries to draw a boundary around responsibility, but also the story itself seems to suggest that the answer is not as simple as Cain wants it to be. This question has lingered across generations because it refuses to go away. It surfaces every time we choose whether to care or look away. 

In many ways, Ubuntu already answered that question. Ubuntu says yes, you are your brother's keeper. You are your brother's keeper not in the sense that you control their life, but in the sense that your life is tied to theirs. Their suffering will eventually find its way into your space and also their wellbeing could eventually strengthen your world. 

And yet slowly, something is shifting. As individualism, competition, personal success are becoming more dominant, we are beginning to change how we relate to one another. We are encouraged to accumulate, protect what is ours, and to be self-sufficient, with independence being a measure of strength. These ideas do have value and I am not dismissing them. However, they have quietly introduced a certain hardness where we hesitate more and measure more. We ask what we will gain. We fear being taken advantage of, which is quite fair. That small instinctive generosity that once defined our daily life is becoming less automatic and more calculating. 

Today, even small acts of sharing can feel heavy like sharing information, sharing opportunities, sharing time, and sharing attention. We start to treat giving as loss rather than circulation, and yet the logic of the charcoal remains true.  Giving a small piece of your fire does not extinguish your own. Helping someone light their fire does not mean yours will go out. If anything, it keeps warmth moving through the community. What if leadership was understood as tending a collective fire rather than guarding a personal one? What if success was measured not only by what one has gathered, but also by how many people one has helped stand?

The child who walks next door does not talk about Ubuntu philosophy. They simply go, return with a burning piece of charcoal, light their own fire, and life continues. Could that be the lesson? We know that Ubuntu is not something we perform but something we practice daily through the choices we make that say, you matter and I see you. 

From where I stand, the strength of our future will come from whether we are willing and still willing to offer hot pieces of charcoal to one another, and whether we are willing in the deepest sense, to be our brother's keeper.