In England rain stops summer pleasures like cricket and tennis, but many other aspects of British life continue unabated by weather. With the exceptions of snow and hurricanes, the hardy men of Rugby and real football (soccer) fight on through the wettest afternoons. Rain shall not deter the stoic Capital man from building cities like Manchester or London. Come rain or shine, it’s off to work we go.
The sun shines in Uganda’s capital at least 75% of each day, 365 days a year. It's no wonder it was once the favourite god, prior to the coming of Christ through His classic missionaries in the late 18th century. Today, believers in Livingstone's Commerce are everywhere: on bicycles, motorcycles, in mini-bus taxis, on foot everywhere, crossing the roads left-right-and-centre. Street-side vendors every few feet of the pavement (sidewalk). People talking on public phones, informing their liaison they’ve arrived in town and “sorry I’m late – traffic jam”. Bare foot kids from Karimajong with begging hands and chants of "please sir, give me one hundred" cry at the stream of cars - babies slung around the neck for extra effect - a deadly aroma of guilt and contempt riding inside. A few appeasing coins slip over the top of slightly opened car door windows. Young men walk around selling daily newspapers, 2nd hand chinos, CDs of local music wannabes and pirate DVDs, cell phone accessories, mens belts, shoes, padlocks, peanuts etc, etc.
Women take steamed matoke or rice and beans from small cook houses to hungry customers in offices. Shoe shiners brush up several pair of smart shoes while the owners walk around their nearby office block in a set of rubber souls. From beggars to smartly dressed office workers, the town is the model of hustle and bustle. But that is when the sun shines.
When it rains it usually pours down and as the density of heavy rain drops rapidly increases, so does the pace at which legs move towards the nearest shelter. It is actually the only time you see anyone move so fast and the city streets cleared of pedestrians and motorcyclists in the blink of an eye. Perhaps the odd boda-boda rushes to drop off their last fleeting fare. Within a short time everybody has run for cover under the nearest pavement overhang, many clustered around the mail boxes at the main post office, or under an old colonial shop veranda somewhere.
It becomes a little easier to move around in your car. Tyres bounce better through waterlogged potholes and some drivers have pulled over because they don’t have the luxury of a working wiper-motor. Other drivers plough through the foot-high streaming streets like a sheep through Dip.
Nobody walks for fear of being soaked with a red-brown muddy wash overflowing from the silted dead-end drainage system. Everybody watches the rain, waiting for it to stop before anything resembling movement can recommence. Even those at their workstation will watch expectantly through the doorway or window wondering how long it will take for the Intermission sign in the sky to cease and permit business to continue as usual. Don’t expect full attention if you enter a shop. The excuse for lateness shifts from the traffic jam to the weather - African Time continues.
Rain has interrupted the rhythm of life and all eyes are on the heavy graphite cloud above. Within an hour the tropical nimbus has ambled north and our equatorial sun beckons the punters out to play their survival rhythms once again on the streets of this lively, friendly city, Kampala.
Monday 10 September 2007
Wednesday 30 May 2007
Impossible Wisdom
I was an important Sunday guest at the church of our indigenous partner because of what had been accomplished through our partnership in a very short period of time. I drove my car on a wing and prayer for seven hours along a road littered with accidents and arrived at the guesthouse safely after dark on the Saturday night glad to be the chosen speaker the next morning.
I arrived at the first church service heaving with people hanging on every word of their beloved pastor, who delivered something profound. I thought I was “it” but I was reminded that day – God is the Main Man. Pastor spoke of Principles of Life, which he clearly practices in his own life. I want to share them with you. You see, this man demonstrates something very important - Wisdom comes from God, since this pastor posseses only two years of primary education.
This thirty-eight year-old man who was once a despondent nine-year-old boy, ran away from home with no plan to return, despised by his step mother and discarded by his family. Lost to his father's love. Eventually, he reached the capital city and joined the collegiate of street kids.
Wanted by the police and threatened by Government due to their constant petty crimes - these street boys remain a plague of society. Every day, competing with many other begging hands for a few coins and scraps of food. Every day, sniffing glue to take away the inner pain.
This every-day street-wise boy got a gun and led a gang of similar reprobates, finding himself on the wrong side of a police officer’s attitude and regularly sleeping uncomfortably in a dungeon jail, being released only to repeat his offences.
One day, some years on, after countless crimes, he heard a preacher talking about a Jesus-Saviour. What was this message and why did it captivate his heart so? In his early twenties, this dejected boy-man finally gave up his lost life to a life-changing Father and stopped running.
Eventually, Willy returned to a home that had long since forgotten him. The same Gospel brought reconciliation within the family and redeemed their shared losses – they also believed. God sent Willy back to his own people group and he is now an outstanding pastor.
I share Pastor Willy’s testimony with you, not to downgrade his character but to confirm that God does not discard anyone. On the contrary, He transforms and upgrades anybody willing to put their trust in Him.
I arrived at the first church service heaving with people hanging on every word of their beloved pastor, who delivered something profound. I thought I was “it” but I was reminded that day – God is the Main Man. Pastor spoke of Principles of Life, which he clearly practices in his own life. I want to share them with you. You see, this man demonstrates something very important - Wisdom comes from God, since this pastor posseses only two years of primary education.
This thirty-eight year-old man who was once a despondent nine-year-old boy, ran away from home with no plan to return, despised by his step mother and discarded by his family. Lost to his father's love. Eventually, he reached the capital city and joined the collegiate of street kids.
Wanted by the police and threatened by Government due to their constant petty crimes - these street boys remain a plague of society. Every day, competing with many other begging hands for a few coins and scraps of food. Every day, sniffing glue to take away the inner pain.
This every-day street-wise boy got a gun and led a gang of similar reprobates, finding himself on the wrong side of a police officer’s attitude and regularly sleeping uncomfortably in a dungeon jail, being released only to repeat his offences.
One day, some years on, after countless crimes, he heard a preacher talking about a Jesus-Saviour. What was this message and why did it captivate his heart so? In his early twenties, this dejected boy-man finally gave up his lost life to a life-changing Father and stopped running.
Eventually, Willy returned to a home that had long since forgotten him. The same Gospel brought reconciliation within the family and redeemed their shared losses – they also believed. God sent Willy back to his own people group and he is now an outstanding pastor.
I share Pastor Willy’s testimony with you, not to downgrade his character but to confirm that God does not discard anyone. On the contrary, He transforms and upgrades anybody willing to put their trust in Him.
The following principles came out of his message that day:
- “One who makes no mistakes never makes anything.” Fear of failure will prevent you from succeeding in life. Apparent failure is an inevitable contributor to a successful life.
- "What you need to know is not yet complete." Have a teachable heart. Gaining understanding in life will be frustrated by a prideful attitude. Accept that your knowledge is presently incomplete.
- “Risk more than others, knowing it is safe.” If God whispers in your ear, “this is the way, walk in it” (Isaiah 30:21), even the loudest, most reasonable contradiction to God’s command cannot remove his providence from your life or erase his favour in your future.
- “Care more than others – think it is wise.” We live in a selfish world which suggests it is expedient to look after number 1 – me. It is more beneficial to the community and to your own well being to look out for others and care about them.
- “Dream more than others – think it is practical.” Being heavenly minded might not be of earthly use to some, but not all have an eternal perspective on life. Pursue your heart’s desire according to the witness of God’s Spirit. Think that it is entirely feasible. Do not always share your dreams with others – they might just crush under foot what is precious to your heart. Dream on!
- “Expect more than others, thinking it is possible.” What seems impossible in the minds of people is completely possible with God.
A great missionary to India, William Carey is reputed to have once said, “attempt great things for God – expect great things from God!”
If I ask for a fish, will my heavenly Father give me a snake? Absolutely not! God has your best interests at heart. He can do the impossible in your life TODAY!
Is Jesus a liar? Absolutely not! He says, “I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, `Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” (Matthew 17:20 NIV)
Friday 27 April 2007
How Do People See Us?
I went to Entebbe airport for the first time in my life; before the first rains but after the third moon this year. I walked through the special gates that I have sometimes seen at the doorways of offices in Kampala, but I have never entered. Special gates can’t be for an old village Mze like me. Oh, sorry, a Mze is a term of endearment for a wise old man. I get a lot of respect from everyone for living so long. I wonder if they have that in Britain? They are our colonial parents so it must be the same.
Anyway, on passing through the grey doorway without any supporting walls at Entebbe, nothing happened to me except the sound of a loud bleep – much louder than my daughter’s mobile phone that I hear when she comes to visit us from Town. By the way, it is a marvelous thing that I can talk to my son in England without wires through Prossy’s phone. As I was saying, I told the man in the blue uniform as he passed this crackling gadget up and down my legs and across my chest and waist, “Sir, there is nothing wrong with this belt! I bought it from Mr Muyindi’s shop in Mbarara ten years ago and it has never exploded or shot me! Even if it was loaded, I would never use it.” I will be taking it back to Mr Muyindi to point out the dangers of his apparel when I get back from seeing Godfrey, my son who lives around the corner from that famous Oxford Street.
The most memorable time I was in Kampala was in January 1986 – to celebrate the presidential inauguration of Museveni – we had been delivered from a terrible time in our country. Now we have sugar and coffee at home and our grandchildren can go to school. I know how developed Kampala is through these twenty years of peace. The newspapers say that America and Europe have paid for most of what we see. That I don’t know, but I am sure our leaders have made our country better off. I wonder if it is true that the streets of London are paved with gold? I wonder really how much better it can be than what I see back home.
Anyway, after the sun had moved from the horizon to mid-sky I was ushered with many other Ugandans and Bazungu onto a big metal bus with wings. Inside there were lots of very comfortable cushioned seats and a special harvest bin above my head to keep my bag. The person next to me was complaining about the lack of space but I reassured her of my contentment since no-one was trying to squeeze another person into our row, there were no children on our laps and the chickens and goats were nowhere to be seen. Nobody kept pestering us for extra fare money. I did not sweat once but felt very cold due to freezing air coming out of the roof – I wish I had kept my coat out of the suitcase like the Ugandan brother on the other side of me. A very nice lady - very smartly dressed - kept coming to check on us and to see that our extra belt – in the seat – was fastened. It was easier to use than that one which goes across the shoulder in Prossy’s car. I can never get that one right. She even brought us food and juices and we watched TV all the way without any power cuts.
I arrived at the Heathrow airports and there were so many different faces in one place that I thought it was a city. Everybody was in such a hurry they were almost running and nobody replied to my greetings. It seems people did not have time to be polite to each other.
I was so happy to see Godfrey after so many years. He had a very good car and we drove on wonderful roads. I never saw one pothole in all the time I was there. We had such a lot to share on the journey to his fully carpeted house with indoor flushing toilet. Godfrey spoke English so fast I had to ask him to repeat his words in our language, but I could tell that he struggled to find the right way to talk. He quickly moved away from my account of life in our home village where he should eventually be buried. His body movements were not gentle like that of my people and I wondered who had tortured him to be so abrupt. Even Idi Amin could not have changed his personality like this. I think I need to take him back home to help him overcome this rude culture. I don’t understand it because the Christian bazungu in my country are so kind. I wonder what is taking place. I realized that a muzungu doesn’t have to be white and a real Ugandan may not be black. Even suggesting these thoughts to my son made him very uneasy. He said it was offensive in the UK to talk about skin colour. In my country it is used often to describe a person and nobody bats an eyelid. Even my father was sometimes referred to as "the brown one".
After getting some few days rest I asked Godfrey to take me to Oxford Street. He said it was a bit far so he would take me to Bluewater instead. I didn’t know they had blue water like Lake Victoria In London since the sky was so grey most of the time. Maybe that explains why they keep strictly to their wrist watches - they can't see the sun! Apart from the fact that they are always indoors and will not go outside to check if it still there. Instead they wait for someone on the TV to predict the weather for them.
Well (continuing with my story) we went to this huge car park somewhere near the River Thames with just a small fountain of blue water. He took me inside this very large building that looked like the Rubaga Miracle Cathedral, but there was no preaching or singing; just lots of worshippers, walking in and out of shops all day – craving the latest gadget, trouser or yet more cosmetics. When we got back, I saw Godfrey stuffing his fully clothed wardrobe with another shirt and realized that they must be stocking their houses with things to help the shops in case the time of shortages was coming like our struggle under Obote. I thank God for my two pair of trouser and three shirts. Oh, and the suit I got for Prossy's wedding. They fit well with my wife's clothes into our tin box on the floor of our two-roomed house.
I left what I hear people calling the Third World to enter what must be the First World. Others call it the Developed World. It is definitely a very long journey from the one to the other and my son showed me that many of our values get lost along the way.
I am not sure whether I like this kind of development. Maybe my village is more developed in its social support structure with everybody responsible for everybody else; as opposed to this “Developed World”, where everybody seems to care most about themselves.
I think I am looking forward to going home, sitting with my cup of tea under the African sun – which gives me a better perspective of time – and talking with my family as the stars litter that same canopy at night – telling us of our secure place in the family of our Creator.
Anyway, on passing through the grey doorway without any supporting walls at Entebbe, nothing happened to me except the sound of a loud bleep – much louder than my daughter’s mobile phone that I hear when she comes to visit us from Town. By the way, it is a marvelous thing that I can talk to my son in England without wires through Prossy’s phone. As I was saying, I told the man in the blue uniform as he passed this crackling gadget up and down my legs and across my chest and waist, “Sir, there is nothing wrong with this belt! I bought it from Mr Muyindi’s shop in Mbarara ten years ago and it has never exploded or shot me! Even if it was loaded, I would never use it.” I will be taking it back to Mr Muyindi to point out the dangers of his apparel when I get back from seeing Godfrey, my son who lives around the corner from that famous Oxford Street.
The most memorable time I was in Kampala was in January 1986 – to celebrate the presidential inauguration of Museveni – we had been delivered from a terrible time in our country. Now we have sugar and coffee at home and our grandchildren can go to school. I know how developed Kampala is through these twenty years of peace. The newspapers say that America and Europe have paid for most of what we see. That I don’t know, but I am sure our leaders have made our country better off. I wonder if it is true that the streets of London are paved with gold? I wonder really how much better it can be than what I see back home.
Anyway, after the sun had moved from the horizon to mid-sky I was ushered with many other Ugandans and Bazungu onto a big metal bus with wings. Inside there were lots of very comfortable cushioned seats and a special harvest bin above my head to keep my bag. The person next to me was complaining about the lack of space but I reassured her of my contentment since no-one was trying to squeeze another person into our row, there were no children on our laps and the chickens and goats were nowhere to be seen. Nobody kept pestering us for extra fare money. I did not sweat once but felt very cold due to freezing air coming out of the roof – I wish I had kept my coat out of the suitcase like the Ugandan brother on the other side of me. A very nice lady - very smartly dressed - kept coming to check on us and to see that our extra belt – in the seat – was fastened. It was easier to use than that one which goes across the shoulder in Prossy’s car. I can never get that one right. She even brought us food and juices and we watched TV all the way without any power cuts.
I arrived at the Heathrow airports and there were so many different faces in one place that I thought it was a city. Everybody was in such a hurry they were almost running and nobody replied to my greetings. It seems people did not have time to be polite to each other.
I was so happy to see Godfrey after so many years. He had a very good car and we drove on wonderful roads. I never saw one pothole in all the time I was there. We had such a lot to share on the journey to his fully carpeted house with indoor flushing toilet. Godfrey spoke English so fast I had to ask him to repeat his words in our language, but I could tell that he struggled to find the right way to talk. He quickly moved away from my account of life in our home village where he should eventually be buried. His body movements were not gentle like that of my people and I wondered who had tortured him to be so abrupt. Even Idi Amin could not have changed his personality like this. I think I need to take him back home to help him overcome this rude culture. I don’t understand it because the Christian bazungu in my country are so kind. I wonder what is taking place. I realized that a muzungu doesn’t have to be white and a real Ugandan may not be black. Even suggesting these thoughts to my son made him very uneasy. He said it was offensive in the UK to talk about skin colour. In my country it is used often to describe a person and nobody bats an eyelid. Even my father was sometimes referred to as "the brown one".
After getting some few days rest I asked Godfrey to take me to Oxford Street. He said it was a bit far so he would take me to Bluewater instead. I didn’t know they had blue water like Lake Victoria In London since the sky was so grey most of the time. Maybe that explains why they keep strictly to their wrist watches - they can't see the sun! Apart from the fact that they are always indoors and will not go outside to check if it still there. Instead they wait for someone on the TV to predict the weather for them.
Well (continuing with my story) we went to this huge car park somewhere near the River Thames with just a small fountain of blue water. He took me inside this very large building that looked like the Rubaga Miracle Cathedral, but there was no preaching or singing; just lots of worshippers, walking in and out of shops all day – craving the latest gadget, trouser or yet more cosmetics. When we got back, I saw Godfrey stuffing his fully clothed wardrobe with another shirt and realized that they must be stocking their houses with things to help the shops in case the time of shortages was coming like our struggle under Obote. I thank God for my two pair of trouser and three shirts. Oh, and the suit I got for Prossy's wedding. They fit well with my wife's clothes into our tin box on the floor of our two-roomed house.
I left what I hear people calling the Third World to enter what must be the First World. Others call it the Developed World. It is definitely a very long journey from the one to the other and my son showed me that many of our values get lost along the way.
I am not sure whether I like this kind of development. Maybe my village is more developed in its social support structure with everybody responsible for everybody else; as opposed to this “Developed World”, where everybody seems to care most about themselves.
I think I am looking forward to going home, sitting with my cup of tea under the African sun – which gives me a better perspective of time – and talking with my family as the stars litter that same canopy at night – telling us of our secure place in the family of our Creator.
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