In Mukono there was a lot of children: always smiling, always playing, always taking care of their littlest brothers and sisters. In Mukono ther was an old woman, the grandmother of all those boys and girls. Really old, really crazy. She talk to me. I didn't understand anything. It was a different language. But after she sang... a sad song. She cried. Their hands were shaking. I bring a sweet to her. She cried more, but she eated it. In Mukono there was a big tree. A tree older than the children, older than the old woman, older than the village. A tree that is able to explain the history of this village to everybody that wants to listen at it.