Shut up! Do as you’re told, boy

Breonna Taylor. No-knock search warrant. No defense. her own home. Louisville, Kentucky. 26 yrs old.

Ahmaud Arbery. Jogging. Near Brunswick, Georgia.  25 years old.

George Floyd. Alleged counterfeit $20 bill. I can’t breathe. 8.46 mins on Minneapolis tarmac. 46 years old.

Credit: Internet

Young and black. Their deaths have sparked very many protests and conversations across the world on racism and prejudice.

The silencing of their voices is the echo of our very own. I write this to mourn that no matter how loud our voices have been, they have not been loud enough. Centuries after chicken George, we still hear ‘shut up boy and dribble!’

I got to school, late. The parade was in session. I rushed to greet the headmaster, curtsied, and run to join the line. One of my friends created a gap for me and my big, heavy bag. Such a kind girl. We were singing hymns, everyone had their hymn book. The prefects were walking through the line to pull out those without theirs. I thrust my hand into the front pocket of my bag, it wasn’t there! A more frantic check, still not there. Maybe the main bag, nope. I was pulled out of the line.

I was placed in another line, in front of the main gate to await the Deputy. After parade, we trudged off to her office. Heavy bags, heavy hearts. We had to wait outside her office. By this time, the first period of class was midway. She came and we shuffled in one by one. I was the last, she called me in. She asked me to apologize for forgetting the hymn book. She did not want to hear any explanation. The problem was I wanted to explain. I believed that if she heard my explanation, she would understand that it was not my intention to leave it behind but I forgot. To err is human. Not quite. She quickly changed her tone and told me to hold out my hands for a beating. Well…that is it. I put them out and she whacked them with her stick. And whacked them some more. Then she asked me to thank her. I was so angry, I could not even imagine that she would think I should be grateful. Angry tears stung my eyes. I kept blinking them away, she was unrelenting. I kept quiet. My sullen face did not go down well with her, she insisted I stay outside her office as a lesson in gratefulness.

And so it was, that towards break time, my class teacher finds me standing there. Having cried my heart out, tear soaked hankie and red swollen eyes. He asked me what I was doing out there. She answered. He managed to convince her to release me. I was free to go to class. But never free to be. She hunted me down. When I was late to school, I was sent back home. It didn’t matter that I had to walk back. One PTA, she made me the topic of the meeting to the angst of my mother. Calling me out. Yelling at me. For the rest of my life in school, she made my life a living hell.

At eleven years, minuscule. I live. I got life. For Breonna, Philando, George and Ahmaud, a lifetime. quickly snuffed out. Only a memory.

Cry, my beloved Africa. Weep for the lost sons and daughters who thought it not freedom till the motherland was free. Whose voices grow fainter while ours grow stronger.

Don’t forget that we are your beloved ones. Wrap us back into your heart again, for you chose us. You brought us out of our slavery and bondage and made us your favored ones, your Zion-people, your home on earth.

A Psalm of Asaph. Psalm 74: 1-2 TPT

Fully known

For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Marvelous are Your works, And that my soul knows very well. My frame was not hidden from You, When I was made in secret, And skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.
Psalms 139:13‭-‬15 NKJV

I made up my mind, that I was in a waiting space and when the time was right, like Elizabeth, my sons would come. Of course, everyone is asking how do you know they will be boys? Or inviting me to more prayers for the barren. I simply told them, I am not barren. This was the promise God made to those who obeyed Him, there shall be none barren among you.( Exodus 23:26) Loads of eyes rolling and angst because these conversations tired me. For crying out loud, I had done it all. Alllll! I even had notes.

I got into a space where random people would walk up to me and tell me how they dreamt that I was pregnant. Or they would see me holding a baby. I had been there, done that so I didn’t find it as fascinating as I should have. I would get into prayer meetings and they would pray for me. I would visit someone and it would end up being a prayer meeting. I was like Jacob, the Lord was in this place and I knew it not. God has jokes.

One Friday, I purposed to go to Rubaga Miracle Centre for the overnight. I had spent many overnights there while still a university student. I missed the fire and the noise and just being in a space where believers expected miracles. So I went. It was awesome, never to disappoint. The prayer time. The praise and worship, wooow. The testimonies. Pastor Robert Kayanja came on started ministering to several categories of people, and he called up women who had been told by doctors that they would not give birth. He went on to affirm that as Christians, we are not barren because the Bible says they shall be none barren among you. I knew this was the mother of all setups, so I walked to the front. I just need you to know that if for any reason he had said those words in a different way, I was not leaving my seat. He was not in a hurry, for some reason that overnight was live streaming so we were on cameras. He tells us to imagine we are holding our babies in our hands and rock them to sleep, sing to them. This was like for eternity. He invited the rest of the church not to spectate but to pray. So there we are with our arms cradling babies, we have called forth. Then he says, you have received your expectation, you may go. And back we went to our seats. Only we were received like conquering heroes, there was a loud cheer. A friend of mine, I didn’t know was at the overnight, came running to hug me. Wooowww!

Photo Credit: Pintrest

I took to spending Saturday mornings or afternoons with my mother in town. There were always errands to run in Kampala and home was a convenient stop over. My mother loved my company and I hers, so it worked for both of us. This one Saturday, I decided to head to Nakasero market first, because it could get really crowded. However, I could not get in at my usual 5am because I needed to get Mpafu, a type of fig, from the lower market which did not open till later. By the time, I got there it was crowded. Oh well. Off to see mummy. I spent a whole day there, hoping the traffic will ease so I get in at about 5 pm. My mum asks me what it is I must buy from the market that I could not get in another market. I tell her mpafu, she laughed and told me how I was becoming like her. When she was expecting me, she used to go to that same lady, early in the morning to get mpafu. Hahaha.

I went to the market, picked my mpafu and debated whether to take a pregnancy test. I decided, if not, why not? Headed to SAS clinic and did the test. The waiting was of, real butterflies, my hands were shaking literally. I started shivering but I was determined to maintain composure. Thankfully, the clinic traffic was low. I was the only client in the lab. It was a short wait. The test was positive.

I can’t hear youuuu, louder doctor. Did you say positive? Whenever I receive news that I didn’t anticipate, my ears get a humming sound and all sound is like an echo or buzzing. I was going through that.

I could see the doctor smiling and going on about something. It’s positive. All my years of waiting had ended. Just like that. The doctor recommended a scan to confirm and I am like, sure. Scans are good things. I was at peace with the world. All things were good. I have no problem.

Elated. Out onto the street. Excited. Up the stairs. Exhilarating. Onto the bed. Cold gel. Experience loading.

There he was. My baby. Just a bleep. Such a beautiful, black and white bleep. 7 weeks. God bless the creator of scans.

What happens when men encounter the grace of God?

I find myself pondering on the relationship between diligence in study and the grace of God; wondering whether the grace of God removes the discipline of study or empowers it.
As a History teacher, I went back in time.

Photo credit: PINtrest

Martin Luther was a Professor at the time he encountered the grace of God, not merely a lowly monk. He had a Master of Arts and a Doctor of Theology. He was one of the first professors to lecture in German instead of Latin, a great feat, in a time with no German Bible for reference. All this in the Roman Catholic Church with it’s rigor for study. When he encountered the grace of God, he wrote ninety five (95) theses!
John Calvin, an accomplished French lawyer. When he encountered the grace of God at age 26, he wrote a simple catechism in Latin and French, Institutes of the Christian religion, to date one of the foundational expositions of the Protestant Church.
Ham Mukasa, a regent in the Buganda kingdom, the Sekibobo of Kyaggwe wrote a commentary of the Gospel according toMatthew in Luganda. Matthew is deemed to be one of the most detailed and complex gospels because it is written through a Jewish lens. Apollo Kivebulaya, with only a passion for Jesus, studies day and night and translates the gospel of Matthew from Luganda to Rutooro.

What shall we say about Moses the stuttering prince who recorded the laws in great detail and built a replica of heaven in the tabernacle. Peter, a despised fisherman, who went on to write very eloquent letters to the Jews in the diaspora. Paul, a prisoner in chains, formerly a zealous persecutor the church, whose letters are still read to this day- his passage on love in 1 Corinthians 13 is the read at nearly every wedding in the church. Even John Mark whom Paul cast aside wrote a very brief version of the gospel.

The grace of God empowers the study. Paul writes this,

the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation for all people, training us to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright, and godly lives” (Titus 2:11).

It is not possible that having encountered the grace of God that one would fail to be diligent in study.

“I am prepared to die in the army of Jesus.” Janani Luwum

Photo Credit: The Monitor Publications

Today is Janani Luwum day. We set aside days so we never forget what is important. Janani Luwum was the Archbishop of Anglican Church of Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi and Boga (Zaire) from 1971-1977.

In 1971, Field Marshall Idi Amin Dada became President of the Republic of Ugands through a coup de tat. The deposed President, Dr. Apollo Milton Obote was being hosted as an exile in Tanzania. There was trouble everywhere in Uganda including the borders with Tanzania. The army purges to cleanse the army of troops deemed hostile to the President were ongoing. The purges later spread to all Luo speakers and later to all professionals. Israelis were expelled. Indians were expelled.

Janani, together with Festo Kivengere, and other bishops stood up to Idi Amin. I thought this post would be about Janani alone but it is not possible for me to separate the two. Like Paul and Luke, their voices blended into one voice that challenged illegal detentions and extra judicial killings because they believed in a God who is just and good. They believed that their leaders should be good and just. They did this in sermons, in meetings with the President, in books, in their living rooms, in their prayers.

Janani is quoted as saying, we need to be Jesus to these people. Which people? The ones looking for their loved ones. The ones on the run. The ones facing injustice. The ones being hunted down. The ones no one cared about. They needed to be a voice of the distressed nation to a leader whose ears had dulled to his people.

Janani was ‘implicated in a coup’ arrested and murdered. Even in death, his memory was slandered- The government of the day said he was an escaped convict, killed in the act of escape. Festo left his cherished Uganda and became a refugee in exile. He later wrote a book, ‘I love Idi Amin.’

Church, I would like us to take a moment to consider the cost of our faith. On this day, what are you willing to stand for?

Who will be Christ to the hungry? Orphaned by corruption and greed. Who will be Christ to the thirsty? Watching the filth from our industries roll past their homes.

Who will be Christ to the naked? The victims of violence clothed in shame and ridicule.

Who will be Christ to the homeless? Carrying their boxes from street to street searching for a spot on the street to call home.

Who will be Christ to the sick? Searching for a doctor, a teacher,who is working three jobs to make ends meet? The leaders with more questions than answers. With solutions that come up short of the mark, every single time.

The despairing, crushed and lifeless youth stuck in the wheel of life rolling on. Filling up the mental wards. Trudging aimlessly from town to town.

Who will be Christ to the prisoner? Chained by impossible dreams. Crushed by unfulfilled hopes.

What is the price of your faith?

By faith Moses, when he became of age, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter, choosing rather to suffer affliction with the people of God than to enjoy the passing pleasures of sin, esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures in Egypt; for he looked to the reward.
Hebrews 11:24‭-‬26 NKJV

Moses is a witnesses of our faith, he left the passing comforts of Pharaoh’s household to suffer with God’s people. Have Pharaoh’s comforts veiled your eyes, Bride of Christ?

Will you accept the status quo or will you rise as the Son of God creation is anticipating?