Two Bishops, a White Boy, and the Cardigan King

I often find that some of my most interesting experiences stem from spur of the moment decision making. This is true at home, where snap decisions have led me to unforgettable road trips and some wild nights, both good and bad, but almost always interesting. I think these decisions are both more prevalent and more interesting here in Africa, however, and they often lead to situations that I couldn’t plan if I tried. This past Sunday was a prime example.

There was a bishop from South Africa here last week staying at the same guest house as us, and there were a constant stream of Ugandan pastors and wannabe pastors coming to pay him respect. I was standing out front on Sunday morning, about to go in and get ready for church, when one of these men approached me. He introduced himself as Bishop Michael, and quickly informed me that not only was he a bishop, but he’s also a prince. When I brushed this statement off with a quick chuckle and an amused grin, he gave me a stern look. “You doubt me?” he said, “Get in the car and I’ll show you. We’re going to the palace to meet with the king.”

(Quick aside- I’m still not a hundred percent clear on what a king’s role in Uganda really is. There is a king for every tribe here, and there are quite a few tribes. This king is the king of Busoga, one of the largest tribes in country, containing millions of people. However, Uganda is a democracy, with an acting president and governments within every town, similar to the US. I know that the kings are highly respected men, with the ear of the president, but I’m still not totally sure just how much power they actually have. I do know that they are incredibly wealthy and I’ve been informed that it’s a great honor to meet one, though)

When he mentioned the palace, my ears definitely perked up. The building he was referring to is a monolith structure that stands alone on the peak of a small mountain just outside of town. You can see it from virtually anywhere within a few mile radius, and I’ve often looked upon it longingly, dying to know just how grandiose the life is of a king in Uganda really is. So I was left with two options: go forward with my original Sunday plans, which involved a Mzungu church service then lazing by a pool all day, or go with these two strangers to supposedly meet the king, which I figured more likely than not would actually be some self-appointed “king” in some shack trying to convince me that he was actually royalty. I decided I’d never forgive myself if they actually ended up at the palace, so ten minutes later I was in slacks and a tie and on the road to the rub elbows with his majesty.

There were nine of us in a seven seat car, which is actually pretty roomy by Ugandan standards, and my optimism was cut short when we turned off the road long before I figured we would have if we were headed to the palace. As we pulled up to the gate of a pretty average looking compound, I assumed we were going to pick someone up, cram another body in the car, and continue towards our royal destination. Everyone climbed out, though, and Prince Bishop Pastor Michael (all titles he informed me he held) explained to me and the South African, named Bishop Clyde, that this was the King’s actual house where he stayed on the weekends, and that he only stayed in the palace when he was conducting official business during the week. I still had my doubts at this point, the only thing still giving me hope being the excitement on the faces of the Ugandans I was with. So we were led into the compound, which was immaculate, with a beautiful garden, huge trees, and a decent sized house sitting atop a small hill. It was nice, sure, but I certainly wouldn’t describe it as kingly.

The armed guard led us to the door, where he handed us off to what I can only guess was a butler of some sort. Not a tuxedo wearing, British accent, Ask Jeeves type of butler, but he was clearly the overseer of the house. As soon as I walked in, my doubts about this being the home of a king diminished. On the wall directly in front of the front door was a 3’x5’ picture of an elderly man in traditional garb, with the words His Majesty King Obango Wado written under his face. Next to this was a black and white photo of a different man in similar garb, followed by a photo of the first of these gentleman shaking hands with Queen Elizabeth. Similar pictures adorned all three walls of the room, with pictures and paintings of seemingly important men shaking hands with other seemingly important men, President Museveni included. There was a pictorial history of Uganda book on the coffee table, surrounded by all the local newspapers. There were law and history books of both Uganda and the United Kingdom on a bookshelf in the corner, interspersed with photos and knick knacks from around the world. A TV sat in one corner, tuned to a standard Sunday morning channel, which switched back and forth between pastors giving sermons and cheesy music videos. The thing I found most intriguing, though, was on top of the TV there was an intricately carved shofar adorned with the Temple Mount, with the flag of Israel sitting behind it. I never got a chance to ask about it, but I wish I would have.

After the butler sat us all on the many couches and chairs in the room, it began to hit me how nontraditional this seemed. I’ve learned in my time here that Ugandans love a good ceremony, and anything remotely religious or political that I’ve been to do has always been a long, drawn out ordeal, with rites and rituals surrounding the simplest of things. Yet here I was sitting in the king’s living room, kicking back and reading the newspaper like an average Sunday morning. Just kidding, I never read the newspaper. After sitting and waiting for about 15 minutes, a short wait considering this was an African politician, a man finally entered. Not the ornately dressed, arrogant dignitary I expected, led by trumpets and flower bearers and other such royal ridiculousness, but just some ordinary guy in slacks and a cardigan sweater. I would have just assumed he was another butler or someone had everyone I was with not stood up and looked down. After the women bowed and the men shook hands and threw out some Your Majesty’s and Your Excellency’s, we all sat down. We thanked him for allowing us to come, and then sat around and talked like normal people. He told us how he came to power after his father recently died, then Bishop Clyde spoke for 20 minutes about how God clearly sent him to bless this king and help him lead Uganda to greener pastures, then we took some photos and left. It was a much more humble experience than I had expected, with little to no fanfare, yet it was something that I understand very few get to do. The king told me I’m welcome back anytime, although I imagine that was just an expected pleasantry that wasn’t sincere, but I just may take him up on it. I hear his palace has a pool…

After our royal meeting, we went to a church about 2 hours away for Bishop Clyde to speak at. I wasn’t aware about this half of the journey, but they had taken me to the king, so I figured I wouldn’t complain. Turns out the bishop truly believes he is the voice of God, and if he says it, then it is straight from Jesus’s mouth. He was ordaining people and making prophecies left and right, most of which seemed very ambitious, even for Jesus. I’ve learned not to doubt people’s faith or God’s power, but if everything he said is true, then Uganda is going to be doing a whole lot of changing in the next five years. I won’t get too into it, but just know that both he and his Ugandan counterpart Michael could be a bit over the top. Anyway, church lasted till 3 pm, by which time I was very tired and ready for the pool. Michael told us we would be heading straight home, right after a ten minute detour to see his grandmother. I know how these things work by now, so I was none too excited about the pit stop. I was definitely right about it being longer than ten minutes, but dead wrong about it not being a good time.

We turned off the main road and headed down tiny, ill maintained, dirt roads for at least half an hour, pushing this poor little vehicle’s suspension to the furthest reaches of its capabilities. I’m shocked we even made it with how many times we bottomed out or got stuck in mud.  When we finally reached the grandmothers house, we had a small parade of children tailing us. As soon as I stepped out of the car and heard multiple babies start crying, I knew I was in my Ugandan Mecca- a village where the kids had never seen a white man. Every step forward I took, ten kids took five steps back, and they were multiplying by the minute. A group of five became ten, then fifteen, then twenty. After a few standard pleasantries with Michael’s family, I looked up and saw close to forty kids all standing about twenty feet away, watching every move I made. Ranging anywhere from three to fifteen, these kids had clearly only heard that people like me existed, and from what I’ve been told, village tales about Mzungus involve lots of cannibalism and demonic possession. Game On. I placed my water bottle on the ground, slowly started walking forward, picked a target, and then started sprinting. They erupted in screams and the crowd blew up, running in any direction that wasn’t towards the white man. I chased one boy who was about six until I got close enough to hear him sobbing tears of absolute terror, so I had some pity and turned on his older brother, who I’d guess was around twelve. I caught him quickly, and as I picked him up, I realized his face was wet with tears. I sincerely think this kid thought I was going to eat him, and after taking a wildly thrown punch to the forehead, I let him run. I ran after some others, then walked back to my group. They all thought it was very funny, especially Clyde, but I don’t think I helped to dissuade any rumors about white people devouring children.

We moved to a different part of the village, where I was able to repeat the process all over again, using Clyde to distract them with his camera while I snuck around buildings to get behind them. More of the same screams of terror, with parents and pastors rolling on the ground laughing at their petrified children.  We stepped into a little church service going on at 7 at night, where the bishops had me kneel in front of everyone and prayed over me, then had dinner at the pastor of that church’s house. I ate some under cooked goat that made me prisoner to the bathroom for the night, but it was a small price to pay for an eventful day. My quick visit to meet the king turned into a fourteen hour ordeal, but it’s these kinds of deviations from the plan that remind why  I love it here so much. Expect the unexpected, and never turn down an opportunity for adventure. 

If you made it this far, props to you. Sorry this thing is so long.

PS- Turns out the Bishops are pretty shady characters, which is why I didn’t include what they “prophesied” over me. I hope they aren’t all bad, and some of what they said could truly be God lead, but I find it hard to believe.