To Amr.

I’m not the person who should write this. He had older friends, close family, and people better acquainted with the beauty of his soul. But I’m a writer who pens down the things that deeply affect me. His death has.

When I first met Amr Ainebyoona I found him...strange. Not weird, just strangely optimistic, happy, and generous, in a way most adults in this dusty city aren’t. People here are tired, worn down by deception, blame, judgment, and lies, making them harder to crack than a code encrypted with multiple layers of security. But not Amr. The first time we truly connected, he profiled me with a cheeky smile on his face, as though saying, ‘I see you.’ First, I was shocked by how bold he was—I’ve been told I can be intimidating. Second, I was simply won over by his infectious smile and twinkle in his eye when he said something a little risqué. He had that way about him, making you feel like you shared a special connection, only to realize later that he had ‘inside jokes’ with everyone.

The news of his death hit me like a slap while sleeping. I sat up, replaying all the moments I'd shared with him—the deep conversations, the teasing, the dancing. How could someone with so much enthusiasm for life lose it in a way that seemed so…mundane? But death answers every question with the silent treatment.

While reflecting on the loss of my friend, I had a strong urge to read a particular verse in the Bible. Ultimately, everything we do is meaningless, as written in Ecclesiastes 3: 9-13: “What does the worker gain from his toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in his toil—this is the gift of God.”

We’re called to live life to the fullest, to pursue our lofty aims with enthusiasm and determination during the time we have here. I can think of no better example of this teaching than Amr. I missed the opportunity to watch him play soccer, but I did see him dance, and he did that like no one was watching. He was ambitious and walked with the sure-footed gait of a person destined for greatness. His love for life inspired one to take a closer look at theirs and perhaps dream again. His humility seemed surprising when stacked next to the fullness of his personality.

In my last text message to Amr, I inquired about his Valentine's date, ready to send a few jabs his way about who he might be hiding in these Kampala streets. He never responded, and he never will. The unanswered text is a sobering reminder of the frailty of life, the importance of loving loudly, living fully, and pursuing what sets your soul on fire. Rest in Peace, sweet Amr; you will be missed dearly.