Pope In Uganda: The Story I'll Tell

Pope In Uganda: The Story I'll Tell

At Munyonyo, the announcer said, "be joyous, try to be as joyous as possible when he comes." I thought it reminded me of a once upon a time when mother hen prepped her brood in anticipation of a long lost, socially better placed relative. But the crowd at Munyonyo did not need that sort of prepping. They heard the announcer's words and they nodded with polite consent but they had already thought this through. Months back when news of his coming was first confirmed, they had unanimously agreed that they'd be joyous. In line with African norms, when a richer, more exotic relation decides to pinch some minutes off his important time and comes for a visit, joyous is often the resultant mood.

Dear child (or children, or grandchildren, or some random 2020's kid),
In the year, 2015, at a time of intense political battles, the period when el nino rains had washed off this very roof you now sit under, His Holiness Pope Francis came to Uganda.
Some said that with him would come immense blessings. Others hoped that if they prayed with the Pope, kissed his holy foot or succeeded in shaking his holy hand, they'd beat bitter rivals in the forth coming elections. Most were curious observers who'd had the misfortune of missing the two precedent sets of events when previous Popes had come to this country.

Overall, the mood on the streets had steadily drifted from hopeful smiles to exuberant euphoria. Masses had thronged to and filled Namugongo martyr's shrine to capacity the week before. Talk of this anticipatory mood filled our tabloids and national papers and the campaigns were all but relegated to the alleys. Our leaders had warned us of historically delicate times ahead. The police had frightened off the last traces of errant behavior in us. Our general thoughts leaned-rather dangerously I might add-towards the same similar positive angle. The Pope was airborne and most were ready to receive him. No, they were nervous and apprehensive but that's the kind of irrational agitation befitting a visit from a man of His Holiness' station.

Kenya had bade him farewell, H.E Magufuli had diverted another sum of tax payers' shillings to more important, more humane matters, the Pope had arrived. His earlier commitments in Kenya had not tired him out, neither did the 45 minute flight to Entebbe. He was immediately treated to a lyrical composition of notes in a language he could never discern and a string of dance moves to beats he would never decipher but the Pope, we had heard, was a people's Pope. Upon arrival at Entebbe International Airport, he waved and smiled and showed no signs of fatigue. He was 78 years of age, so more than once I was tempted to suspect that perhaps His Holiness was a devoted member of a gym somewhere in the Vatican.

At Namugongo, the Pope might as well have landed at the shrines themselves. The crowd there was beside themselves with rapture the moment live feeds showed the Kenya Airways plane the Pope had opted to use, touch down. And although the Pope wasn't to attend to their needs until the next day, at a holy mass, this did not deter faith filled individuals from hoping that somehow, with His Holiness only a few short kilo meters away from them in their very motherland, blessings would gravitate through the winds and soils towards their pious repentant souls.

The Pope did indeed bring blessings and peace. On mass day at Namugongo, in a rare, never-seen-before moment of political bliss, long written-off foes became friends. H.E Yoweri K. Museveni shook his arch rival's hand, and said rival, Rt. Col. Dr. Kizza Besigye W. Kifeefe smiled bright as he shook back. It was epic, newsworthy, slow motion-worthy. It reminded us, for a fleeting, reality sparked second, that it was still campaign period and our vote would soon be cast.

One or two individuals might have remarked that permitting a few 'Very Very Important Persons (VVIPs)' to use certain purpotedly closed off roads while others trekked miles through foot paths to see the Pope, was a grossly ironic fit for such an event.

But that was not all the quarrel there was. Some further argued that the official broadcaster of the events did not deliver to expectation. They had stayed home to view the Pope's proceedings from the luxury of their sofas but like I've been telling you all along, when a visitor (a richer, exotic, socially better placed visitor) decides to come by your place, you ought to come out and greet in person, body and spirit. You ought to somehow obtain those VVIP invites, beat Kayihura's security men, shake the visitor's hand and with a humble smile say 'how are you?"

I guess I should also mention that men had been working tirelessly to revamp the shrines and make them shiny and new for the Pope. This had been going on for weeks before the Pope's arrival date and there were stories (these we later learnt had been exaggerated) of progress and success but final touches were still being made even as Pope Francis blessed Kenya one last time.
I do not know how he slept, although I'm certain that as a man of God, he had bigger concerns he rather discussed than the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts. He did not say how he slept, I doubt he ever will be inclined to tell, but I can reliably relate that there was the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts in His Holiness' bed chamber.

Disclaimer: Nothing written here is to accuracy, believe at your own peril.

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