It is a long 2 km walk, from the diocese, before the Old priest can reach the local church where he preaches every Sunday, but he prefers to walk rather than be driven. The locals are now accustomed to it. A few who bypass him riding their bicycles offer to carry him, knowing all too well he will turn them down, but they ask anyway.
Every Sunday, he wakes early, draws his day’s schedule, and starts his long walk earlier. Today though, he has delayed a bit, the morning drizzle only now subsiding made sure of that. But his day is well spelt out in the diary he carries alongside an old bible. He will go administer mass, attend the counseling session, and stop by to honor an invitation of a family that has him booked for today.
So along the mud road, he quietly walks, waving back at the men and women busy in their compounds preparing for a new day. As he passes those compounds and scattered homesteads, the kids trail him for a while before their parents scold them.
But he picks up one, granting the little girl her wish of being carried by a white man. Branching, he hands her over to the mother who is boiling a pot of potatoes on the veranda just yards away. “Karibu Father,” She says, before apologizing for the kid’s bother. But the old priest only smiles. He has baptized all of these kids, held most of them in his arms. They are his children, his family.
Promising to stop by for a potato meal on his return after mass, he resumes his journey. All the while, his thoughts empathize with these people. Their wives and husbands were killed, their children abducted and conscripted into rebel ranks, and their villages, their homes razed down. Forced here, they met their new wives and husbands, and are struggling to rebuild. Most of their surviving children were born, and raised here. Their youths of course remain orphans.
They survive on government and donor hand-outs. And with the war showing no signs of abating, nobody knows what the future really holds. The Old priest never thinks about them without shedding a tear. But he is an ambassador of hope. So he tells them the same things, the same words: that there is a good God, who loves them. Some believe it, some doubt. Others don’t care.
“You can’t blame them!” He mumbles to himself. To the east, the glaring sun is now in full glide. He glances at his wrist watch. It is 8 AM. Mass starts in a little more than half an hour. He better hurry. So he quickens his stride. A good way further up, he notices a small group yards off the road walk. As he draws nearer, he makes out another, a youthful man leaning against the tree stump. The rest, wielding sticks, surround him. There is a situation here.
The old priest nearly branches over, but changes his mind on second thought. Violence is a common happening in this community of displaced people, you can’t solve it all – and he has mass to attend to! He tells himself, starting back on his way. A few yards ahead, and a voice catches his ears from behind. The woman struggling to catch her breath points at the crowd: “Father you need to see this!”
Now he has no option but to consent. He will just quickly branch over, resolve the matter and head back on his way. He still has some 20 or so minutes before mass starts, so maybe he will have to accept a ride this time! The crowd quickly breaks to give him way. Now everyone is trying to explain to him what is happening. And everyone has a different version of how this has come about. “Where does he come from?” He finally asks. But nobody knows. They just found him, at the road side.
The priest now regards the boy. He wears an oversize Jacket that conceals a scruffy T-shirt inside. His trouser is no more than a rag. The front wedge that partly covers his loins is fastened to the rear by a stringed piece that lines the bridge of his buttocks, leaving either side of it peeping. His face is broken in many areas, with cuts, deep and shallow. His left eye is blood spotted. Rash covers the majority of his exposed skin. An animal of a human being. His sight breaks the old priest’s heart. But he already has an idea whom this is. And so does the crowd that is now growing.
It is a while before the Priest finally gathers the words to speak. He needs to. “What’s your name, son?” He asks. A man who can remember his name is not beyond saving. But he is met with a blank stare, then an awkward head shake. The crowd is meanwhile murmuring. Some think they remember him. There is a semblance. But no one can be sure.
Was he part of the rebel raids that razed down their villages, and mutilated their brothers and sisters, killed their old men, and took their children to captivity? Somebody thinks he recognizes him from a village raid a month ago. Another is wondering if he is not the one he saw among the group of rebels that killed his family a week later. This one could have strayed off the group, or is here to spy. Now with rumors of renewed rebel attacks, nothing can be left to chance.
The tension is growing. “Who cares what his name is? He is still a rebel?” Somebody finally shouts from the back to nods of agreement. That is the man with a scarred face. Everybody knows him. His story is one of the saddest the village remembers. He lost his family to a rebel raid 6 years ago, his wife and daughter, raped and killed before his very eyes, his two elder sons locked inside their grass - thatched hut, and burned alive - he would scar himself trying to save them, and his youngest son abducted from school, never heard of since.
“There is nothing to find out, Father, they took away everything from me, from us.” He says, nodding his head to indicate the crowd. His hands are trembling, his brow is misting. He carries a piece of broken wood with one hand, and a brick with the other ready to descend.
The boy stares at him, and nearly opens his mouth to say something, but somebody, a built middle aged man, cuts him off. “See! He is scared!” and he spits at him, his lump of blood spotted saliva landing an inch shy of the boy’s bare feet. Pointing at the other man’s weapons, he assures the boy, “But that is nothing compared to this,” he says, threateningly brandishing a machete. It is a Shamba knife, the blade, a little more than a rusted and jagged piece of iron, hand honed and about half a meter long, set in aging wood.
Emotions start to boil over. The crowd is growing rowdy. The shouting gets louder, “He abducted our children”. The priest, who tries to talk them down, struggles for what to say. With the nearest military post miles away, he knows all too well how this will end. The authorities will not get here in time.
“He raped our wives”.
“Please, patience,” the Priest pleads; his voice is barely heard now in the growing commotion.
“He killed our parents”
“Please...”
“He burned down our homes.”
“Let’s hear him out first” the priest implores, desperation creeping into his voice as he wipes his sweating brow. After over five years from since he was posted here, he knows these people well. He knows their histories. He has comforted them before. Most are genuinely angry. You have to be when you have lost everything to the war, and here stand face to face with a likely perpetrator.
But some are just hungry for blood. Would that he had the courage to challenge them to cast the first stone as Jesus did the adulterer woman’s accusers at the Mount of Olives. But that would be reckless, stupid to say the least. They will take the invitation at first ask.
“He doesn’t belong here.”
“He is not one of us”
The priest, fast running out of options, now has nothing to say; his best bet is to get the boy talking,
“Your name, what is your name, son?” He hurriedly asks again.
But the boy’s stare is the same, blank. Is he too scared, or is he in deed encouraging them to pounce on him, to end it all? His shadowed eyes are dry, and defiant like, but the Priest is not deceived. The eyes of a child are never hard to recognize, never too hard to understand. His lanky frame passes for an adult - why not? War grows children faster than time. But the priest is certain this one is no older than 18.
Whatever they have done to him! He wonders. He has encountered several of his kind, former abductees. However they return, they are never the same. Made to kill, to mutilate and destroy, the last one he encountered would commit suicide only days after returning. How do you integrate back into a community from among which you took life? How do you expect them to accept you as one of their own?. Once in a while however, there is a chance. And with support, some successfully integrate. Would this one?
“Please,” he beseeches him, “You need to speak. What is your name? How old are you? Where do you come from? Do you remember your family?” Question after question, the priest probes, trying hard to get an answer. If he can get the crowd to see that he is only a young boy, if the crowd can be got to associate him with a native family, maybe they will go slow and kinder on him. But the boy still says nothing. This one is broken, the priest is sure.
And time is fast running out. The crowd is champing to pounce, calls for his head are increasing; even the few neutrals initially quiet are joining the band calling for his head, apparently irritated. “If he wants to die, let him die, maybe he deserves it,” one admonishes, obviously unimpressed by the boy’s lack of interest to save his own skin.
It is in the midst of the commotion, when is suddenly heard a croaked voice from the back; “The names’ Nicholas.” Eyes all turn that side, as the crowd haphazardly leaves way. The man who limps through dons an old reed hat, which he promptly removes, and staffs inside his side pocket. “His name is Nicholas. He is my son.” He says, breaking into sobs, loud and uncontrollable as he approaches the boy. “My, Nicholas. My little boy”.
Now the crowd is hushed, the silence is deafening. It takes a while before murmurs creep back. Some heads are nodding approvingly; others wipe a tear or two. What they had thought has been confirmed; a woman lets off a sky pitch yell of joy as she too leaps forward. She was the teacher of the community school from where more than 90 children were abducted that fateful day of 6 years ago. “Nicholas!” she yells, “Oh Nicholas – I thought I recognized you!” Tears surge down her eyes, “But you have grown!”
A certain energy steams off the crowd as many others now recognize the boy. He resembles the father! They murmur. See the feet! He used to pass by the market from school every day! He always played with my son! But it’s another old man, one of the few surviving elders who finally settles all doubt. He carried him; he was the Godfather on his baptism day. “You took my name, son – Nicholas! You hear me? Nicholas is your name. Welcome home!”
It is enough to diffuse all tension. The crowd now starts to disperse almost as fast as it gathered. Stones and sticks that had been taken up to mete long awaited justice to one of their tormenters are shyly thrown away. In groups of two or three, others slightly more, they leave, some reluctantly, others hastily. The disappointment to some is apparent. The opportunity to pay back for the harm done their families has just slipped away. A few though linger around, to commiserate. They would give anything to have their own children return. A certain undying hope still vouching for the possibility just vindicated.
They each have lost at least a friend, a relative, a brother, a sister to the war, to the rebels, killed or abducted. So they are curious to ask questions, to hear his story. What happened to the others, his school mates – their children and siblings - with whom he was abducted that day? Are they still alive? How did he manage to escape? Did he escape alone or did he in a group?
So many questions, so many hopes - but why not? Once in a while, a miracle such as this happens, and you are reminded to never give up, to always expect. Who could have predicted this? The memory of the attack and abduction of the children on that community school, perhaps the single deadliest, and most tragic episode of the decade’s long war is still fresh. From nearly every household was lost a son, a daughter. And now, 6 years later, here returns one, no longer an 11 year old, but a nearly adult.
By now more than half the crowd has quietly departed, none having cast a stone. The man with the scarred face, stick and brick still in his hands, finally tosses them to the ground. But his mind is aflame. Everybody prays for the safe return of their child from rebel captivity. The return of this boy is an answer to one such prayer, except not to his. He buried his wife and daughter, and two sons. And could have taken his own life, if it weren’t for the hope that his youngest, whose body he has never seen, might still be alive, and could return someday. But as always, God is too busy to attend to him. He is done waiting. He is done with God. Regarding the boy one last time, and then the Priest, he turns to leave, alone.
Something tells the priest this will not end well. He knows him, he has counseled him, talked him out of it multiple times before. ‘Wait,” he calls out, starting after the man, but it is a hopeless case; the man’s stride is too fast. They are a good feet away when a voice, labored but loud enough comes from behind. “Papa Owino,” the boy, speaking for the first time, calls. It is enough to halt both the priest and the man on their tracks: “Papa Owino – Tom asked me to pass you a message!”
There are emotions in life, that the human heart cannot contain, feelings of joy, of relief that even tears cannot express. That time, as Owino digests those words, is one such case. There on muddy ground, his knees give way, and he crumbles like a house of cards. Head buried in his hands, he sobs like a child. All this while, the only words that leave is mouth is his little boy’s name: “Tommy – Oh Tommy!” And the old priest knows, this man has just been saved.
The sun is now well up in the sky. The last pockets of sympathizers and onlookers start to depart. Two men meanwhile hold up the man, and pick him off the damp ground. “Go home, Owino. And keep waiting.” The Priest says, patting him on the back. He too now makes to return to the diocese. It bothers him that the mass he was headed to preside over is long ended. But a certain wind blows through his heart. And he responds to a still voice, lifting up his face to the heavens: these three things remain: Faith, Hope and Love,” the voice hums - “but the greatest of these is Love – 1 Corinthians 13:13,” he completes the verse aloud, wiping with the back of his bony hand, the tear that escapes his eye.
Up the eucalyptus, a bird chirps away a familiar tune. The priest regards it with a grin. Today for the first time in 30 Years since his ordination, he has missed mass. The day was about to start off with a life being taken; now it has with a life being reclaimed, and another, saved with a new expectation. Baffled, he shakes his grayed head. One can never really tell what the day brings, can he? And he gets his answer - the bird promptly flies away.
Nicholas – A war story #2 (48 Hours earlier)
With the loose end of his ragged cotton shirt, this boy, no more than 17 and donning an oversize jacket, absent mindedly wipes the barrel of an AK-47 lying across his knees. The cigar lodged in between the middle and index fingers of his free hand remains unlit. A matchbox lies a foot away. He stares to the western sun as it beautifully dims away. The sight reminds him of an old memory, 6 years ago. He dares to revisit it…. - To be continued.
This story is based on true life events. It follows Uganda's challenges of reintegrating former LRA rebel abductee children back into their communities. They return home, and find a suspicious community that is not quiet ready to welcome them. In a sense, beyond the wild where they were forced to kill and destroy, they return to another 'war'...The Image is taken from the DVD cover of 'Invisible Children, Discover the Unseen', a documentary about the LRA war in Northern Uganda. Find out more here - Invisible Children