Tombstones and Banana Trees (13 page)

My father died when I was taking my final exams, but even if I had not been busy with study I would not have been any better prepared. His death was unexpected. He was not sick and I had no warning that it was coming. His death caused me great embarrassment, so much so that it is only recently I have started to talk about it.

My father died as a result of a drinking game.

It was a market day, and he was doing what many of my countrymen spend so much of their time doing: He was sitting about, drinking and watching what was going on with his friends. There were four of them there, and somehow the conversation turned to the particular strength of a two-liter bottle of home-brewed alcohol that was on sale in the market. The idle conversation turned to a show of male bravado, and my father bet the others ten thousand Ugandan shillings (about five dollars) that he could drink it all in one go. He did. Then he collected his winnings and went to lie down under a tree. He never woke up.

My father had not given up drinking after he became a Christian. It was very embarrassing for us to lose him like this, and the sorrow and shame lasted for a long time. It was made worse by the fact that I could not get to the funeral due to my final exams at university. But still he died reconciled with his family and relatives, having put right so many of the things that would have caused problems after his death. I would never blame anyone for his death, and I still believe that he went to heaven, even though he died drunk.

I believe that the transformation in his life, the reconciliation with his family and neighbors, was genuine. I know some believe an alcohol-related death will take someone to hell, but I am not so sure I agree with that. The Bible is not so black and white. While it condemns drunkenness, it condones drinking wine in moderation. There are some people who do not drink in public but who drink a little at home, including Christians in Uganda. Alcohol remains a very dangerous thing, of course; it can make you addicted; it can make you sexually immoral or violent. Last year in Uganda eighty men killed their wives while drunk, and thirty-seven wives killed their husbands in self-defense. Uganda now has the second-highest rate of road traffic accidents in the world because of reckless driving caused by the influence of alcohol. The impact can be devastating, which is why the old revival movement declared drinking alcohol a sin in 1936. From then on no born-again Christian was supposed to drink, and the change has proved very positive with people.

My father's death left a big impact on us children. It was devastating, but it was not an isolated incident. My aunt Lillian died through the abuse of alcohol; my two brothers, James and Robert, as well; one of my uncles; and my grandfather and great-grandfather. I feel sad when I admit that most of the people in my family are alcoholics. It is a family stronghold that many of us have given in to. That and polygamy. Thankfully I can say that I have been delivered from both of them by Jesus.

I used to love drinking, even though it would make me sick and incontinent. But becoming a Christian changed things for me, teaching me that my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit. And so I decided to stop. I did not want to take a step closer to the state in which my father committed most of his crimes. When I lived in the UK, where Christians drink without a problem, it was tempting for me to go back, but I had escaped this bondage and did not want to get caught up again. I wanted to be an example to my children. None of them drink now, for which I am very grateful.

Because I worked at Kigezi High School during every summer vacation while at university, it was not surprising that I started out as a teacher there after I graduated. At the same time as teaching I was also speaking and preaching at churches throughout the district on the weekends. Within a few months this was all I was doing—teaching during the week and preaching on the weekend. It was too much, not least because I had met a woman I loved deeply and was intending to marry. How could I be a good husband if I was never around? I quit teaching in the high school and moved to help educate trainee teachers instead. I taught at National Teachers College of Kabale and later at Kakoba in Mbarara. That gave me more time for preaching … and for Connie.

I met Connie during my gap year in 1986. There was a war between Museveni's rebels and the government of the day, which resulted in the rebels taking power and the whole of the west of Uganda being cut off. I went to teach in a girls' high school in Rukungiri—the same town in which I had studied and become a Christian. At the school in which I was teaching I met her, the beautiful head girl of the school. She was born again and looked after the Scripture Union ministry in the school. The head teacher allowed me to take students out twice each month for evangelistic weekends. I was leading a team, and Connie often came along at my invitation. Of course I did not know I wanted to marry her then, but we connected well.

Connie was born in an abusive home. Her father was an alcoholic. Although he was not a polygamist, he was a very violent womanizer, and Connie, her mother, and her siblings spent a lot of their time sleeping in the bush to avoid being beaten. Her father was such a prolific and reckless drinker that he sold his wife's bed to get money to drink. He even sold the iron sheets from the roof just so that he could pay for his drink. Everyone in the village saw that the family was in a terrible state, and when I met her, Connie had to work at school for her fees. I helped out with the fees while on my gap year, though little did I know that I was investing in a future marriage. I also had no idea that later on this would be another family I would see transformed by Christ. Eventually Connie's father became a Christian, and today he is both an evangelist and one of my closest friends.

After she left school Connie and I grew close. In time I decided to propose, and since her father worked in the post office, I gave him a letter to pass on to his daughter. He was curious and asked her what it was all about. Connie knew that I was a traditional man and that a letter from me could mean only one thing. She explained, and he was happy about it. He thought I was a good boy.

His wife felt otherwise. I believe her words on hearing of the proposal were something like “over my dead body.” She thought I was common and way too inferior for her daughter.

In Uganda sons-in-law are supposed to gain great respect from mothers-in-law. A son-in-law is supposed to be a counselor, a confidant, a supporting male—there to step in should the father-in-law pass on. Connie's mother wanted none of this from me.

Things were no better by the time Connie and I were married. The wedding day itself was horrific. I went to pick up my future wife, but there was her mother, standing sentry at the entrance to the house. She was a dam across the door, refusing to allow either me in or her daughter out. And from her mouth flowed vile verbal abuse. She cursed and swore at me, and it was only when Connie pushed her hard at her back that she stumbled and allowed my fiancée to escape and make it to the car. As we sped off—leaving the flower girl and the matron behind—her words had already inflicted deep wounds on us both. All the way from Connie's home in Rukungiri to our wedding in Kabale we sat in silence broken only by the sounds of our crying.

That was quite a test. How do you forgive someone who does something so deliberate to hurt you? Connie had warned me that her mother was not happy, but I never thought she would be quite so rude to us. I never imagined she would behave in such a way.

Later—years later—we did reconcile, and we asked each other's forgiveness. Now I am close to her, and she says I am one of the best in-laws she has ever had. But at the time the pain I experienced was immense. Despite the fact that my father and I had long been reconciled, this repeat of a parent figure pouring out abuse cut me to the core.

I had been dropped by a previous fiancée as well, which had devastated me. We were friends for three years, and out of the blue she terminated the relationship. I was so wounded because it was like adding an insult to an injury of rejection. After prayer and fasting, the Lord told me that the best wine comes last. Indeed Connie came as the best wine. Yet my marriage to Connie did not have the easiest of starts; in addition to all of this, we had to work through my fears and insecurities around sex that were the consequence of my being abused by my sister. But we persevered. We prayed. We wept, we talked—with each other as well as wise friends, relatives, and leaders—and we trusted that God would heal. And He did, fully and without reservation. I call Connie “Miss Uganda 1991,” for she captivated my heart with her beauty. That this beautiful, faithful girl would marry such a wrecked boy could only be because of the redeeming blood of Jesus.

After we were married I worked for Scripture Union as a traveling secretary for the west of Uganda. There were about two thousand primary and secondary schools in my region, and from 1992 to 1994 I visited as many of them as I could. I would travel and give my testimony, nothing more than that. I cannot tell you how many came to the Lord, but there were many, many people who did. I used to keep records, and from 1989 to 1997 I noted that I had led fifty thousand people to Christ. After that I stopped counting.

Working with Scripture Union was easily the happiest time in my life at that point. I had a sense of fulfillment, and I was speaking to students who were going through difficulties that I cared about—domestic violence, bitterness, anger, and hatred. I spoke with so many victims of rape, so many who had been defiled or molested by uncles and aunts and sisters and brothers. I still give thanks today for that time, for so many people with whom I was able to talk and pray. I thank God for the privilege of seeing Him take that which I thought was decayed and using it to bring others closer to wholeness—and closer to Him.

Chapter Twelve

Lazarus, Come Out!

“I beg your pardon?”

I was standing in the office of the general secretary of the Bible Society in Uganda. I had just come from a training course in Bible distribution and marketing at the University of Zambia. Outside was the usual noise, dust, and chaos of Kampala, a city made up of lives thrown together like a pack of playing cards released into a storm. Inside the office the occupant had done his best to keep the city's disorder out. A lace curtain softened the window, and the dark wood desk was weighed down by neat piles of papers and small towers of Bibles. The walls were covered in homemade, handwritten posters that outlined the leadership structure within the organization. My boss's name was always written a little larger and with a little more care than the others. He repeated his statement to me.

“Your performance is below average, your work is poor, and we cannot continue to employ you. Go and try your luck elsewhere.”

The room was small, and the man who was telling me that he was no longer my employer appeared smaller still. He remained calm, delivering his verdict without emotion or any obvious signs of malice. Yet nothing could suppress my anger. Nothing could keep the city's chaos from this room.

During my work for various Christian organizations I have come to learn that forgiveness cannot be a one-time decision. I have discovered this as a father as well, and of course as a sibling and a son. But the lessons learned in offices like those of the head of the Bible Society have been some of the hardest to take. The Bible says that bad times will never fail to come; I suppose I never imagined they would come so frequently from those working for the wider church.

Back in 1994 I was in the office of the Bible Society's general secretary because I was working as the Society's national distribution officer. I had started well, and they had sent me to Tanzania to attend a course in marketing and Bible distribution. I went, studied hard, and performed well. They said I was the best-performing student.

I reported back to Kampala, standing before the neat desk and lace-fringed window, expecting to have my six-month probationary period signed off as a success. I had sold all the Bibles I had been given and believed I had performed well, fulfilling my potential throughout the preceding months. I was sure I was working well, and yet my boss was telling me otherwise. My boss was giving me the sack.

I was stunned. I had no inclination that this was going to happen, and with a wife and now two children to look after, the loss of my job—and the home that came with it—was a colossal blow. I had never been that angry since becoming a Christian, nor have I experienced such rage in the years that have passed since that time. I was mad at them for ignoring the truth that I was doing well, mad at them for duping me this way. Once more I was pulled down from the truck and left shocked and saddened at the roadside.

I considered appealing to the board. I felt that I had a case, that my dismissal was unfair, but what sort of victory would the board be able to grant me? I would still have to stand in this office, still have to submit to this man, and more than likely still end up at some point in the future being told again to “try my luck” elsewhere.

Later I discovered that at the time he sacked me, my boss was fearful for his job and was on a warning for his own performance. Later still we were reconciled, but we will get to that in good time. As I left the office of the Bible Society that afternoon, I wondered how to tell Connie that we were to be evicted from our house—our beautiful, well-appointed house that even had electricity. How to tell her that we would be on the move so soon after we had started this new life together in Kampala.

A friend reminded me that it is God who commands our destinies, not board members or paranoid bosses. I was not a lost cause, and there was no need for an appeal, no need to fight. And so I did what I had done so many times before when times of crisis loomed: I went back to my beautiful homeland around Kabale. I became a teacher at Kigezi High School once more. The only problem was finding somewhere to live. We could only afford an old abandoned house that had been home to nothing more than cows and an informal public toilet for almost a year. It was empty when we arrived, but the odor was repulsive and overpowering. We were now moving from our luxury bungalow to a toilet! Even the driver who had transported us and our possessions from Kampala wept with us.

We fetched water to clean the house, wondering through the tears what God had in store for us. But my son, even though he was small, sang one simple song over and over again: “If not for Jesus, I would not be here.”

Over time the place became our home. Despite the fact that the roof was missing in many rooms, the house became a refuge for us.

A few months later, a friend from England sent me a check with a letter that said, “They shall stay in houses they did not build.” For some reason (I must not have read the letter properly), I wondered whether God was about to provide somewhere else for us to live. So I banked the check, and Connie and I started to look for a plot where we could build a house of our own.

On the way from the bank, cash in hand, I met the owner of the house we had been staying in since we arrived. He was a great friend of mine and a mentor. I knew that his wife was due to fly to America to start her PhD, and I accompanied him now to say good-bye to her.

As we were walking he told me she had just found out that she was unable to fly out, as she had not raised enough money. “She is not going,” he said. “We are five million short.”

“Oh,” I said. “That is not good.”

“Do you want to buy the house from us?”

I did, but there was no way this would be possible. Apart from the fact that it was in need of much work, it was far too expensive for us. I shrugged as I replied, “Eh! That is too much money for me. It must be worth twenty million.” Suddenly I stopped as I remembered what I was carrying in my pocket. “But I do have some cash here. We are going to buy a plot somewhere and start to build.”

“How much do you have?”

“I have five million.”

His eyes popped wide and his jaw dropped. “Eh!” he shouted. “Stay there!”

He disappeared inside to rouse his wife. She was lying on their bed, depressed. She had been due to leave for the airport that afternoon, and the disappointment at not going was too much for her.

I could hear her husband from where I was sitting outside. “Do you know that God has brought an angel here? The amount you need is exactly what Birungi has. We have abandoned that house anyway … why do we not give it to him as a gift?”

His wife rushed outside and grabbed me, shouting, “Where is the money?” I handed it over. Quickly we completed the paperwork, and I returned home—to our home.

“Where is the money?” said Connie as I entered. “If you hang on to it for too long, people will come and ask you to loan them stuff, and it will soon disappear.”

“I have a letter for you, Connie.” I gave her the contract and stepped outside to look at the home we did not build but which now was ours.

Eventually Connie came out to join me. There were tears all down her face as she spoke to me.

“Do you remember what our son sang as we were crying when we arrived here? ‘If not for Jesus I would not be here.' That is precisely what God meant by all this: to remind us that it all comes from Him.”

God's restoration went even further than that. After I lived through four months of bitterness and anger, the general secretary of the Bible Society was sacked. He was so shocked that his heart started to give him pain and he was rushed to the hospital. I was in Kampala at the time and a mutual acquaintance told me the news. He also challenged me: What would I say at this man's grave if I did not put things right with him?

I was reluctant, but it was good advice. When I arrived, he wept as he apologized for sacking me and explained that he was motivated by a fear that I would one day succeed him. He admitted that he had persuaded the board to fire me, confessed that he was wrong, and asked for my forgiveness.

God gave me the courage to forgive, and we were reconciled. God healed him too, and he ended up as headmaster of a secondary school when I was working in the education department of the diocese of Kigezi. Today he leads revival meetings, and he often talks to people about our time together and the power of forgiveness. Forgiveness is not about merely being tolerant, pretending that nothing happened, or being diplomatic in public. Forgiveness is a deliberate act of the will, a full pardon, an act of love that is the key to freedom.

You can repent of all your sins until you are hoarse. You can confess your faith to all, pray without ceasing, give everything you have for the work of God, read the Bible every day, and still block God's forgiveness by an unforgiving heart. No amount of repenting, confessing, praying, or reading the Word will ever cover over, atone for, or excuse unforgiveness. There is nothing you can do that can take the place of forgiveness.

The waterfall at Kisiizi had failed to claim my life; instead the hospital that lies at its foot was the place where so much healing among my family, including my aunt and my father, took place. It was also the place where I met some wonderful
muzungu
from England who were working in the hospital. They were kind to me and helped me get the contacts and the money to travel to the United Kingdom to study.

When I arrived in Britain it was a terrible culture shock. I thought that people would greet me when I went into their church, but on my first Sunday in the country I entered the local church like a ghost. Not one person spoke to me. It was a terrible shock, and it did not happen just once. I attended the church for a whole month, and still I passed in and out of the doors with not one person acknowledging me.

I was enrolled in a two-year course at a Bible college, and on good advice I tried another church—St. Andrew's Chorleywood. As I passed through the doors I was asked my name and where I was from. I told them.

“You're from Uganda? Do you know Bishop Lyth?”

I did not, but I had heard of him. He was the founder and first bishop of the diocese of Kigezi, the man who had laid the foundations on which the East African Revival was able to thrive.

The greeter at the door knew Bishop Lyth. “He has been a pastor here ever since he retired. Would you like to meet him?”

Within a few days I was sitting in a comfortable English drawing room, drinking tea and talking Rukiga—the language of my people—with a man whose legacy had strengthened my own history as well as the history of thousands of others.

But Bishop Lyth was not the only connection with Kabale that this London suburb had to offer. I was told that there was another church nearby that was well loved by Bishop Festo. He would preach at Emmanuel Church Northwood, and his personal secretary was still a member of the congregation there. As I arrived they were very welcoming, the vicar asking me to come up to the front and say hello. As I approached I spotted a picture of Bishop Festo on the wall, and I was happy to oblige when they asked if I would give a little of my testimony. They said I had five minutes, but I was on African time: I took fifteen. But people wept as they heard what I had to say.

I was invited to return and give my story in full the following Thursday night. The impact it had was immense; people asked me to go to their houses to speak to their children, their husbands, or their wives. The vicar asked me to come and speak to people who were suffering from depression, and I am still in contact with some of those I was privileged to pray with and see Jesus heal.

I started to walk the streets, praying for the people living in their large houses whose doors were always shut. Often I felt God push me to knock on one of those doors. Most of the time what happened would be fairly brief. Once their eyes settled on me their faces would be set with fear, so I would quickly introduce myself as “Medad from Uganda.” I would ask if I could pray for them. They often said no. I later found out that there had been some Nigerian con men at work in the area, and that had made residents wary of any strange African men acting unusually. It did not bother me, though; I was just going bananas for Jesus.