Chapter 1

The Good Friday Parade

Yacobo Kabaza pushed his way through the crowd that was slowly winding its way like a lazy snake through the streets of Kabale. The fourteen-year-old looked this way and that in growing frustration. It was just like his little brother to disappear in the middle of the Good Friday parade! Always goofing off—even on a solemn occasion like today! And where was he supposed to look for him? Yacobo didn’t know whether ten-year-old Blasio had dropped back to be with some of his friends or had run ahead.

Yacobo did know one thing: His mother would give him a piece of her mind if he showed up back at the house without Blasio. Why did he always get stuck looking after his little brother? Yacobo hadn’t even wanted to come to the parade today; he’d wanted to stay home and work on the ending of the story he was writing. After all, if he got the story finished, he could show it to Bishop Kivengere when the bishop and his wife came over to see his parents this evening.

But, no, the whole family had to come to the parade, and he was supposed to keep track of Blasio.

"This is important, Yacobo," his mother had said firmly. "We promised Bishop Kivengere we would all be at the parade again this year as a witness of Christian unity."

Bishop Festo Kivengere sure wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, Yacobo thought with grudging admiration as he pushed and shoved his way through the parade marchers, trying to keep an eye out for Blasio. The dynamic evangelist was the Anglican bishop of the Kigezi district, nestled in the southwestern corner of Uganda in East Africa. His sermons in St. Peter’s Cathedral here in Kabale, the largest town in the district, tended to be unforgettable.

"If Christ tells us to love even our enemies," the bishop had preached two years ago, "how can we have hatred in our hearts for fellow Christians? There is already too much political violence and tribal hatred in Uganda today. What must the Muslims and unbelievers think when they see us Christians fighting about our differences? Only the love of Christ—for each other and for our enemies—can overcome the violence and divisions in our land."

That woke people up! So here they were on Good Friday, 1976, joining hands with Kabale’s Catholics for only the second time in Uganda’s history. As it had turned out, the people who were most affected by last year’s parade were the Protestants and Catholics who had marched in it. Yacobo had been startled when both his father and mother had confessed wrong attitudes in their hearts and asked forgiveness of their Catholic neighbors. They were eager to march in the parade again this year.

But not Yacobo. If he didn’t get back home soon, he’d never get his story done in time to give it to the bishop that evening. And now Blasio was missing!

For weeks Yacobo had been writing a story for English class at Kigezi High School—a story he wanted to show Bishop Kivengere because it was partly about him. Once Yacobo had started writing, the story seemed to grow on him like a second skin. Walking to and from school, in bed at night, sometimes even when his mother was talking to him!—the story kept turning over and over in his mind. Even now, halfheartedly looking for Blasio among the parade marchers, Yacobo kept thinking of ways to write the final paragraphs. Should he stop when the firing squad fired their rifles? Or should he—

"Eh! Yacobo! You should see the big cross and gold statues they’re carrying at the front of the parade!" a voice giggled at his elbow. "And the Catholic fellow walking with Bishop Kivengere sure is wearing a funny hat!"

"Blasio!" Yacobo snapped, grabbing his little brother’s arm. "Didn’t Mama tell you to stay with me during the parade?"

Blasio’s mischievous grin faded. "No," he pouted, jerking his arm away. "She told you to stick with me. Besides, I came back, didn’t I?"

Yacobo pressed his lips tightly together. If he told Mama that Blasio had run off, she would probably be upset with him for not keeping a sharp eye on his little brother—and then there would be a big upset. It would probably be best to say nothing.

G G G G

To Yacobo’s relief, Blasio didn’t say anything, either, when they got home. It would have been just one more worry for their parents. Their beloved country, Uganda, "the pearl of Africa," seemed on the brink of ruin after six years of President Idi Amin’s terrorist rule. And now they’d heard rumors about violence at Makerere University, where Yacobo’s older sister, Faisi, was a first-year student. Just rumors so far—nothing on the radio or in the newspapers. But Kampala, the capital of Uganda, where the university was, was only 260 miles from Kabale, and news had a way of trickling to the outlying towns.

It was these rumors that had prompted Yacobo’s parents to invite Bishop Kivengere and his wife to come and pray with them for Faisi’s safety that evening after the Good Friday parade. Tea was at six; that meant he still had three hours till they arrived, Yacobo thought gratefully, slipping out into the tiny garden in back of the house with the notebook that contained his story. It was the only place he had any real privacy.

He opened the notebook and skimmed back over what he’d already written. The story was about three young men who had been executed by Idi Amin’s soldiers right here in Kabale’s stadium four years earlier when Yacobo was only ten years old. Bishop Kivengere had been there; the Kabaza family had been there—they knew the families of the three young men who had faced the firing squad. Yacobo had not really understood what crime the three young men had committed. But two years after General Idi Amin had staged a military coup and named himself "President for Life" of Uganda, the young men had been accused of treason and ordered to be killed in a public execution as a warning to others. There had been no trial. Just accusations, the arrests . . . then the firing squad.

Yacobo hadn’t wanted to go to the stadium. How terrible to go see people be executed! But Eunika Kabaza, his mother, had said, "We can’t let those young men die alone with no one to be their witnesses! I could never face their parents again!"

And so they had gone to the stadium that day with three thousand other Kabale residents. The crowd was silent and grieving. It should have been a terrible day—except for the strange and wonderful thing that had happened. Bishop Kivengere had asked for permission from the army captain in charge to speak with the prisoners before the execution. But as the bishop stepped forward to speak to the condemned men, all three had turned to face him with smiles of joy. "Oh, bishop!" one cried. "The day I was arrested, in my cell, I asked the Lord Jesus to come into my heart. Tell my wife not to worry. I am going to heaven to be with Jesus!"

The other two told similar stories, raising their handcuffed hands upward in praise. The youngest one said, "Please warn my younger brothers never to go away from the Lord Jesus!"

Moments later shots rang out, and all three fell to the ground.

Everyone was stunned. Most of the witnesses had not been able to hear what the prisoners had said to Bishop Kivengere; they could only see the smiling faces and hear the joyful shouts. What had happened to make them so unafraid? Later, preaching at St. Peter’s Cathedral, Bishop Kivengere had told their story as they’d related it in the few moments before they died. What Idi Amin had meant for evil, God had used for good.

It was a powerful story—but Yacobo worried whether he had written it well enough. Had he shown what it felt like for a ten-year-old boy to stand in the stadium under the warm East African sun, waiting for three young men barely in their twenties to die by firing squad? Could the reader feel his amazement when the young men—

"Welcome! Welcome!" His father’s voice from inside the house broke into Yacobo’s thoughts. Bishop Kivengere and his wife, Mera, must have arrived. Yacobo closed the notebook carefully. It would have to do. He slipped into the house, where his father, Theo Kabaza, was escorting their guests to the table in the small room that was used for both sitting and eating. Theo Kabaza was a tall, sturdy man who looked more like a farmer or cattleman than a city taxi driver, though he’d driven taxi as long as Yacobo could remember. "We are so concerned about Faisi at the university," he said. "We don’t know what to believe about the rumors we hear."

Yacobo sat on the floor near the four adults and glared a warning at his brother, not wanting Blasio’s usual antics to get them sent outside. He carefully held the notebook containing his story, waiting for a chance to show it to the bishop. But not yet . . .

Eunika Kabaza offered milk and sugar to go with the tea, and passed plates of bread and butter. "Have you heard anything from Charity about that Kenyan girl who disappeared?" she asked anxiously. Charity Kivengere, Festo and Mera’s youngest daughter, was also a student at the university.

Festo Kivengere shook his head. He was not a large man, but his outgoing personality and warm nature seemed to fill the room. "Not from Charity, no," he said. "She doesn’t want to worry us. But I’m afraid some of the rumors are true. The Kenyan student was trying to get out of the country, was stopped for questioning at the airport, and has simply disappeared. And, unfortunately, just last week we heard that another student was shot by soldiers off campus."

Yacobo saw the look of alarm on his mother’s face.

"But"—the bishop held up his hands soothingly—"that doesn’t mean the students are in danger. We don’t know why the Kenyan girl was arrested, but the Kenyan government has been very critical of President Amin recently, and so the president may be playing some kind of political game. As for the shooting, we don’t know if it was political or just a drunken brawl with police."

"Oh, we never should have let Faisi go to the university," said Yacobo’s mother, wringing her hands.

Mera Kivengere laid her hand on the other woman’s arm. "Sister Eunika, doesn’t Faisi’s name mean ‘faith’? You must trust our Lord to care for your daughter. We cannot hide our children beneath our skirts forever." Her voice was gentle, but it had strength in it. Years ago she and Festo had lost a daughter to a childhood illness.

"Yes," the bishop agreed, "we, too, are concerned. But Faisi and Charity are brilliant young women. If our country is ever to come out of these dark days, our children must be educated and prepared to function in the worldwide community. If we give up, we have already let Idi Amin win his war of destruction."

The four adults continued to talk, sharing verses of comfort from the Bible, and then the praying began. Yacobo’s mother cried, and the bishop prayed for God’s peace to replace "the spirit of fear." Then they prayed some more.

Yacobo squirmed. If the bishop thought his sister was all right, that was good enough for him. How long was this prayer meeting going to go on?

Suddenly the Kivengeres were rising and saying they must be going. Yacobo leaped to his feet.

"B-bishop—sir," he stuttered. "May I speak to you?" He dropped to his knees in the traditional Ugandan greeting of respect.

"Yacobo!" said Festo Kivengere warmly. "You boys were so quiet, I forgot you were here. How is school going? You started high school this year, am I right? And keeping up with your studies, I hope!"

Festo Kivengere had been a teacher for twenty years, while preaching and going on evangelistic missions in the evenings, on weekends, and on school holidays. He always asked Yacobo about his studies.

"Oh yes, sir!" said Yacobo. "In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about." He thrust the notebook into Bishop Kivengere’s hands. "I . . . I’ve written a story for English class, and I wondered if you would read it and give me your opinion. Because—well, I’d like to be a writer someday, and I wonder if you think . . . well . . ." Yacobo didn’t know what to say next.

"Yacobo, the bishop is a busy man," scolded his father. "He doesn’t have time to correct school papers anymore. Festo, I apologize for my son—"

"No, no, it’s all right," said the bishop graciously. "I will read it when I get a chance and let you know what I think. All right?" He smiled at Yacobo, bid Theo, Eunika, and Blasio good-night, and walked with his wife into the sweet springtime evening with Yacobo’s story under his arm.

G G G G

The messenger arrived just as the Kabazas were sitting down to their dinner after the joyous Easter worship service at St. Peter’s Cathedral two days later.

"Bishop Kivengere asks if we can come to their home for tea this evening," said Yacobo’s father, reading the message. He looked up at his wife. "All of us—the whole family."

Eunika’s eyes widened. "Do . . . do you think it’s bad news? Maybe he has heard something from the university! Oh, Theo—"

"Now, Eunika, have you forgotten how we prayed the other night? Faisi is in God’s hands. We must trust in Him. Let’s eat this excellent luwombo you have prepared"—Theo eyed the steaming bowl of green bananas boiled and mashed in banana leaves, as well as the fried beef and lumonde or boiled sweet potatoes, and rubbed his hands together—"and then we will pay a visit to the Kivengeres."

A few hours later Theo drove the family in his taxi through the empty streets of Kabale and pulled up at the bishop’s home. Festo Kivengere greeted them wearing a casual shirt and slacks. It was one of the few times Yacobo had seen him without his clergy collar and black suit coat.

"I will come right to the point," said the bishop when they were seated and Mera was serving the tea. "I read Yacobo’s story yesterday, and one thing is very clear to me-this boy has great potential to be a talented writer. He should be given the best education possible to prepare him for university. There is a school in Kampala that has a strong writing program for students his age and—"

"Festo!" cried Eunika. "What are you saying? It is hard enough to let Faisi go so far away to school, especially to the capital, where there is so much violence these days. But like you have said, she is almost a grown woman. But Yacobo is only fourteen, and I could never . . ."

Yacobo’s ears were burning. Had he heard right? The bishop had said, "This boy has great potential to be a talented writer." A talented writer!

"Let me finish, dear Eunika," said the bishop. "I know your concern. But as I was thinking and praying about this, I remembered that Archbishop Janini Luwum in Kampala has asked me to recommend some trustworthy people for his household staff. Theo, you used to drive taxi in Kampala for a few years, did you not? And, Eunika, you are not only a worthy woman of God, but you also are an excellent cook. I know! Every time we break bread at your house, I have to go on a diet!" Festo laughed and patted his stomach. Then he got serious again. "The archbishop needs a cook and a personal driver. Would you consider making such a change—your whole family? That way Yacobo could begin his education in earnest and you would be able to see Faisi frequently and satisfy your concern that she is all right. What do you say?"

A stunned silence filled the bishop’s sitting room as Theo and Eunika looked with round eyes and open mouths at Festo and Mera.

Yacobo heard all the words the bishop had said, but only one phrase stuck in his head: great potential to be a talented writer . . . great potential to be a talented writer . . .