Coffee and a Watoto cookie: The "Prince of Peace" Cantata

It is official, 2020 delivered good, bad and downright ugly packages. However, watching the live Watoto Christmas Cantata (Prince of Peace) under a blanket, sipping on a cup of coffee and on a different continent? Now that was a good!

With top notch choreography and stage production attention was centered. While the sound men set the house mix, the lead vocalists, the choir and the band brought the house down.

As Pastor James Lalobo told the Christmas story, a warmth filled my heart. 

It was like coming home. 

The familiarity of the message was like mom’s cooking – the taste as delicious as one remembers growing up; the recognizable household scent;  the reupholstered furniture;  the favorite tumpeco still in the cup drawer. 

A consistency that communicates – love is strong here. Christ remains the center.

Scanning the choir, it was a delight to see familiar faces - auntie Florence still singing over 20 years on while Irene’s smile glows among the sopranos. 

Aunt Olive’s short frame misses from the first line of tenors – she’s got a front row seat in heaven now – so much better.

As the youth featured dance moves enjoyed around the world, I reminisced over the years when like them mastering the strokes and basking in the groove was all that mattered - invigorating good clean fun.

Now, a new generation takes the pulpit. The continuity of passion and excellence spreads over the air waves. 

The message of Christ keeps giving, keeps hoping, keeps loving. 

Then it hits me. These are our children on stage – 10 to 20-something year old’s - fruits of love now in flesh, looking just like their parents. 

Grandparents smile content, parents are filled with pride as children and grandchildren absorb and share the faith. What a generation of Christ centered families Watoto church has raised!

In his message Pastor Gary Mark Skinner said, “You can’t know real life, real love, real joy until you accept Jesus as your prince of peace”. 

I flashed back to events of 2020: events that made my knees buckle; being wheeled into the operating room not sure I would see my family again; big and small crises that brought me to my knees and there finding the Wonderful Counselor, the Prince of Peace giving calm not of this world. 

Peace that transcends understanding - losing a job, missing a promotion, that bad business deal, (you can add to the list) – when sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, it is well with my soul.

When the credits begun to roll, I recalled how years ago Marilyn Skinner said she envisioned the church choir traveling the world. 

We looked at her gawk eyed. 

The idea of an entire production team (singers, dancers, actors) leaving jobs and schools in this little-known developing country of Uganda to travel the world was excitingly impossible.

It happened this year.

Many across the world flicked to the Watoto Church YouTube channel while others scrolled through Facebook to watch the Watoto Christmas cantata live.

 “Who dares despise the day of small things…?” Zachariah 4:10

May Christ make His home in your heart this Christmas and in the new year.

No God – no peace, know God - know peace.

The quiet coder

                                                                

                                                                                                                                         April.15.2020

Someone said, “Don’t worry about your quiet friends being lonely, they are probably enjoying themselves.”

Quiet people can be mysterious. They absorb information and hoard their thoughts sometimes making the more talkative types uncomfortable.

“What are they thinking?”

“Are they happy?”

“Why didn’t they respond?”

Under no pressure to perform quiet people can unravel like rosebuds in spring. The green buds reluctantly unfurl to reveal a beautiful hue – white, red, pink – pleasing, refreshing, restorative. Intense introspection consumes their moments of silence and when they are ready, they shine.

I was reminded of this quiet boy in school.

He barely said a word. He’d come for lunch hour fellowship, stand at the back of the room and mostly observe with a contented look.

As we hurried off to class one afternoon, he walked up and almost in a whisper asked if I’d ever used code.

Raising my eyes to meet his, I thought “Like what?! He talks??” I shook my head.

Me: Code? No! Tell me more.

His eyes lit up.

QB: Well, they are secret letters. Only the people who know the code can understand the message.

That was probably my cue to run.

Me: Eh! Okay!

QB: Do you want to try it?

(I thought to myself; Do I want to learn secret code? Whatever for? I’ve never considered a career as a spy; besides we were not exactly friends).

My eyes met his gaze, he was waiting for a response. He’d just shared confidential information. Now I felt responsible. If he collapsed in disappointment in the school quadrangle I would have to answer. On the other hand, I was intrigued, curious about this code.

I said “Sure!”

QB: “I will write one for you and bring it tomorrow.”

Eh! You see people being quiet, kumbe they are making ingenious creations in their bedrooms.

The next day I received a yellow foolscap paper with the blueprint code.

QB: “Study it, then write to me”

Now! 

How was I …? What does…?

I tried to make sense of the boxes and what looked like the Egyptian alphabet. (These science students walked a thin line between genius and madness).

Each letter of the alphabet had a corresponding character. I wrote a brief response – something like “Hi… thank you for sharing these codes. They are fun to learn. God bless you ….”

He sent a two-page coded reply. The boxes danced before my eyes as I flipped back and forth between the alphabet and the codes. I noticed that just like in regular writing, some codes were used more than others, I put them to memory. His response read like the news with a bit of scriptural encouragement.

I responded a week later but realized responses were expected without much delay. I couldn’t keep up.

I was like “Dude! This stuff is cool and all, but no contract was signed – you know what I mean?” (Come on! I didn’t use these exact words, but I communicated the same message).

He coiled back into his shell, but we remained friends – bumped into each other at church from time to time. Once, in a taxi, on my way home, just before I reached my stage someone tapped my shoulder. It was him. He’d been seated there all the journey through and didn’t say a word until I was about to get out.

Now if only I could trace those codes or find out if he built on his dream.

A brilliant 18-year-old boy in Uganda creating codes those many years ago is representative of Uganda’s potential – brilliant young minds brewing behind the scenes.

We can hope that at the right time, under the right conditions, they’ll burst onto the stage with a cool invention. For now, it’s up to us to provide the opportunities and believe in their ideas 😊.

I hope his dreams were not snuffed out, that he persisted and improved on those codes.

Rest well Collin

A poem: The battle of place Uganda Vs America

 

Ugandan flag - shot taken in backyard during fall

They say let go, move on
They say when you boarded the plane and shook the dust off your feet 

When you peeled the sun off your back and covered your body with winters jacket, shielded your head with springs umbrella, exposed your legs to summers heat and raised your hands to falls leaves 

When you embraced this new life 

You gave up Toto’s Atap, Tata’s Acok 

You gave up lighting Asigiri - blowing into that small open door to encourage the embers 

You gave up playing dodgeball with Acen, Babirye, Mbabazi and Amito 

You gave up twisting the Sound-solo knob and listening to Boniface Toterebuka Bamwenda, Sidney Jingo and Toya Kilama bringing the news of the day 

You gave up lighting Atadoba and the deep sighs that heaved in your chest when “karra fired” in the middle of watching “Another Life” 

You gave up the memory of the kid who stole your red and black pencil 

The classmate who took the Bic pen that you’d marked with your name on a torn piece of foolscap paper carefully tucked between the tube and the see-through plastic 

You gave up crushes and boyfriends 

You left 

But you see I’m more than this body confined to one location 

I’m spirit, I’m emotion, I’m memory 

All you see and all you don’t see make up who I am 

What do I leave? What do I take? 

If I must leave everything, it would include you.

Selling bed sheets on Kampala streets

 

The young man walks through neighborhoods balancing colorful bed sheets on his head determined to sell these materials for a living.

“Bed sheets! Buy some bed sheets!”

Human beings like good night sleep and all the other things done between these large pieces of cloth it is a constant human condition, after work there is rest. Selling bed sheets should therefore meet man’s need for comfort.

Before the sun comes up, he takes a taxi to Owino market. He sorts through a variety of bed sheets, haggles for a good price and successfully stretches the money loaned to him by a friend.

He walks along Luwum street on his way to the quieter residential suburbs. He hopes. Hopes that today will be a good day for business.

He walks by a gate on Mackinnon road, asks if madam is home and if she would like to buy some bedsheets. “Come later” He is told.

He crosses to the kiosk to buy a Safi drink – a little sugar to keep him energized in the sun. The folded bed sheets shield him from the sun’s glare but the moisture swimming between his head and the sheets makes him sweat.

He is on an undeterred mission to make something of his life, to earn a living, to be useful, to meet personal needs and make the world a better place – a batter trade with the universe.

The askari idling by the gate signals for him, they haggle. “Buy for your wife, she will be very happy” He pushes, hoping the askari will yield. Askari says the bed sheets are too expensive. “Ah! Maybe next time.”  The askari responds.

Nakasero streets are quiet, cars zoom past the golf course to the traffic lights. He makes his way through the shade of trees in Kololo, down the valley and into Naguru.

A woman stands outside her door “Mama! Onno gula?”, he stands at a distance, not sure if she’ll respond or shoo him away. She pretends she hasn’t seen him and engages in an imaginary phone call .

He walks around the corner – he’s shoes flattening out – he can feel the stones pushing up against his soles. He may need to buy another pair of shoes as these ones surrender under daily pressure.

Another woman is out washing clothes in a basin, he’s about to walk past when she calls, “Ssebo, otundotya?” He turns around, walks towards her, hoping this is the good omen – his first sell of the day.

She spreads the colorful bed sheets out for a closer look. His back drips with sweat, he is a little tired but wills his body into submission, adrenaline surges with possibility. “Gyebaleko mama!” He greets. She finds a pair she likes; she is willing to pay. He pockets the money, thanks God for this mercy and keeps walking. It’s 3:00 pm, he’s just made the first sale of the day.

He walks by a shopping arcade, a little boy runs up to him, “Ssebo, bakuyita wali”. He turns around and walks into the dark shop. The lady behind the counter asks to see his bed sheets, he spreads them out, she seems interested but eventually says she doesn’t have the money. His heart sinks. People who idly scan his efforts, spread them out and hold his business to the light but never look to see his hard work.

He gathers the bed sheets, folds them neatly, steadies them on his head, on the length of his arm and shoulder. He must go on.

It’s 5:30pm, traffic begins to build up, he walks past the cars. A guy in a Pajero rolls down his window “Gwe! Jangu” He skims through the bed sheets, points at the blue pair with yellow flowers. Meka?  He whips out his wallet and pays. Traffic eases up. The bed sheets are placed in a kavera on the back seat and vroom! The car is gone.

The rich man drives away hardly aware that he has helped the young man get a step closer to his days goal – 50,000 Uganda shillings. If he can make 100,000 shillings every day that would be great, but 50,000 shillings is a good start. He pockets the money. A little profit from the day. He will walk back across town to his room.

He stops by a food stall – “Tekakko bijanjalo, kawungu, ne’nva” he tells the food lady. He can’t afford the meat, but a little sprinkle of the meat soup makes all the difference. The aroma fools his stomach that this poverty has stepped up a notch. He holds the hope that one day he’ll have the meat and the chicken but for now beans will do.

He sits on the wooden bench to watch the world go by. He will visit his mother over the weekend. She will be so happy to see him, ask about his life in the city, caution him against city girls and their hunger for money. He will assure her he’s thinking straight, saving up a little to build a house on their land.

He’ll return to the city on Sunday evening and find a huge padlock on his door – pending arrears.

He will not give up – just a hitch on the journey, but now he needs to visit the landlord.

Her pages

He scrolled through her pages and picked himself off her poems, her stories 

He traced a semblance of who they once were etched in the details and light moments that floated through the words 

A distant romance fell lightly in cues sprinkled along the way  

His signature engraved in her writings 

The first line of his favorite phrase 

A stanza on heart break 

A nostalgic tweet 

He could feel the emotion as he run his fingers over the lines 

Aged attraction watermarked the pages held up against the afternoon light 

The run in of old paths secret and true eased his mind

 

Seeds planted in youth now rooted and mazed like thread on a quilt 

Telling histories revealing mysteries 

Stories on life’s tapestry 

Mrs. O 

Poem 6. Page 22.

Just ride

 

Ah! Little guy

We hustle you and me, me and you

Up and down we go

Through emotions and hormone tempests we go

Now you want dread locks

Now caramel hair

Now you want earrings

Now diamond teeth

What?! A necklace?

Want to shop with mom in the jewelry section?

Find identity within I say, find identity in Christ I say

How you present yourself is key I say

You say I don’t understand and maybe, maybe

You grow here, I grew there

America, Africa – different countries

You grow now, I grew then

America, Africa – different cultures

Young black man you fit the profile

No one will know you are mom’s little guy when you are out on the streets and there is trouble everywhere

No one will know you are mom’s little guy when you walk into a store dressed in a hoody and goofing around with friends

You are not little anymore, but you will always be mom’s little guy

Yes, you tower over me

Yes, you are stronger than I am

Catching up to dad real soon and that’s real cool

Little guy

Listen. Stop. Think.

You probably can’t hear over the emotions and loud music

Emotions will fade, there better be more when all is spent

Ah! Now you cool off

Now you trim the hair

Now you pull up the pants

Now we spend more time together

Now we exchange ideas and plans and thoughts

A steady young man emerges

What’s around the corner?

What does a parent do on these youthful roller coaster rides?

Hold onto your hat and ride, just ride

Let God deal with you both on this journey

@Mrs. O

8/12/2020

Confession

 

A short story.

Today I went to confession.

I had been thinking about it for a while, preparing for it, not the sinning but the confession part.

During confirmation classes our teacher mentioned confession was a requirement. He also said one couldn’t have the Holy Eucharist unless one had confessed one’s sins. I wanted to have the Holy Eucharist; it had been on my mind for many years.

I Imagined the day I would humbly walk up Christ the King church aisle, head bowed, hands neatly clasped behind my back. I would stand before the priest eyes closed and mouth open. He would place the white wafer on my tongue, I would slowly close my mouth, pause a second before turning around and walking back to my seat. I would kneel by the pew and pray looking pious and pure and mature – no longer a kid but a young lady growing up in wisdom and stature, in favor with God and Man.

My brother and I practiced the act of receiving the Eucharist with crisps; stick the tongue out, give enough circumference for the piece to land squarely in the middle of the tongue and then retract the tongue reverently. We got good practice with the crisps; it was the confession that needed some more work.

The confirmation class was scheduled to confess on Saturday, and I still didn’t know what to tell the priest. I had stolen a pencil and lied to my mother – that was as heavy as it got, but was it enough? Would he send me away admonishing me to dig further and find the real sins? Were these sins good enough for confession? I mean I had a crash on one of the alter boys but that wasn’t a sin or was it?

I walked up to the confession box in the corner of the church. I drew the purple curtain to enter, it was deemed inside. The priest sat behind a veil. I knelt afraid to look around in case he recognized me or I him. Something about anonymity brought security although I still struggled to be vulnerable.

I uttered the words “Father, I have sinned”.

In a calm deep voice, he asked me to confess.

I said “I stole a sharpener at school”

“My child, do you still have the sharpener?”

I said, “Yes father”, and in that moment I realized I was lying because I didn’t have the sharpener, it got lost. I had sinned again in confession. What about the lies? I didn’t mention the lies, oh dear, they were so many, I would never leave confession at this rate.

After a moment of silence Father asked me to go home and say, “Five Hail Mary’s and the full rosary”.

I withdrew from the confessional reverently. I had qualified for confirmation.

One of the other kids got news from his older brother that the priest dipped the wafer in wine at confirmation. We were going to have wine in church. We were almost adult Christians.

This was big!

 

Is the Black Boy Child Prone to Prison in America?

As a mother, I wake with a start. I realize I’m subconsciously praying for my boys. Praying for my boys in hypnopompic – the stage between sleep and wakefulness. Praying.

The Black Boy Child (BBC) in America faces a unique set of hurdles – life and the quality of life.

He may escape with breath in his lungs, but he’s restricted on where to breathe.

Temptations and trials magnify in middle school and college; alcohol, drugs and sex spin a rope so strong that he easily gets trapped unable to shake the braids loose. Decisions made mold the road ahead.

A permissive society compounds the situation. The muscle for restraint and delayed gratification is challenged.

“You are free to do as you wish as long as it doesn’t harm others” – a questionable stand but one that many young people live by.

Parent’s desire to hover, guard, sneak around, investigate and literally paralyze a child is strong. Bad habits lurk in every corner waiting for an unguarded moment to pounce, lure and take hold.

Keep them in the house – the internet beckons the curious teenage mind. Allow freedom of the outdoors – odd friendships creep in. It’s a losing battle – it feels that way.

Profanities spew like broken cisterns; clothes are restrictive on and off television. Sensitivity and decency are seared.

King David’s question in Psalms 119: 9 stands: How does a young man keep his way pure? The struggle to hide God’s word in the heart intensifies.

Conservative societies like Uganda do not have it any easier. Children are exposed to adult themes in constricted living quarters. Uncles take advantage of young girls. Profanity is at par with modernity and the cool western lifestyle.

The scenarios are countless, parents are concerned the world over but the case for the Black Boy Child ending up in prison seats heavy in America. Three strikes and you’re out.

What do parents do?

Is the Black Boy Child Prone to Prison?

These questions linger.

“From Heaven Above” 1996 Kampala Pentecostal Church Christmas Cantata with Ken Serukenya

Journey with me.

It was a dark and stormy night…

No!

It was a cool Tuesday afternoon on December 23^rd, 1996. News of Kampala Pentecostal Church’s (KPC) free Christmas cantata rippled through town. Eager church goers rushed to find seats in former Norman Cinema turned KPC, located in downtown Kampala.

Behind the scenes, music director and producer, Ken Serukenya gathered the choir. Dressed in black, the choir circled the church reception area. It was almost time!

“Choir, thank you so much for coming” Ken said, “…I have learned the closer we get to God, the more our sins are exposed. Let’s dedicate ourselves to God.”

The choir was comprised of believers from all walks of life - students, teachers, businesspeople, accountants, lawyers, musicians, doctors, job seekers, housewives, employers, name it.

Ken continued, “Yesterday was amazing! God showed up. Let’s pray for strength and for God to be glorified again.” The choir lifted a resounding “Amen!”

Lights were turned off! Andrew (aka De’Angs) was the meticulous, serious sound man on duty.

The choir - soprano and bass at one entrance, alto and tenor at the other, walked in with lit candles that illuminated the auditorium like giant fireflies in the dark. The audience gasped.

God’s presence settled in the upper auditorium and flowed down to the stage like a royal robe – The King of Kings was in the building.  

Away on holiday, Pastor Gary and Marilyn Skinner placed Ken Serukenya in charge of the first local Christmas cantata production in KPC (now Watoto church).

A Civil Engineer by profession, Ken worked a regular job but also composed Christian music. Ken wrote every song then taught and directed five, two-hour long productions over three days at KPC.

On the first day of rehearsal, Ken picked a new cast of lead singers; Sheila Dorcus a senior four student, Rose an administrator at Ian Clark’s International Medical Center, Trinity a young man in the choir, and another lawyer who’d comfortably tucked himself in the back with the bass guys. The choir quietly exchanged looks as we all wondered what on earth had just happened. Under Ken’s encouragement and mentor ship the soloists owned the songs and sang them with passion.

Every day of rehearsal, every production, Ken brought all of himself to the choir, to the instrumentalists, to the actors and dancers, to the sound men and the audience.

1996 KPC Christmas cantata “From Heaven Above” was a year of firsts; - first African themed cantata, first live-music cantata, first dance-heavy cantata. From light ballerina moves in previous presentations to Ken’s “We must include dance” This was big!

Ken and I made our way to the Uganda National Theatre to buy beads and ruffle-skirts. He suggested dance moves and often checked on our progress. Would the Church embrace dance as an expression of worship? Would the moves stumble the crowds? How conservatively creative could we get with the costumes? What would Gary and Marilyn say? Whether these were questions on Ken’s mind, it’s hard to tell.

As music director he had a vision board and went about its execution. Following God’s rescue plan, the production started with Adam and Eve’s disobedience in the garden of Eden through the genealogy of Christ’s birth, His death and Resurrection.

Set to music, Ken scripted and taught Christ’s genealogy to the choir: “Abraham was the father of Isaac, Isaac was the father of Jacob, Jacob was the father of Joseph, Joseph was the father of Judah, Judah was the father of… was the father of…” until we came to Jesus and testified how He came into our lives. Now we knew our ABC’s and hoped that next time the audience would sing with us.

On the nights of, actors and dancers got into position. Butterflies fluttered in our bellies. The drumbeat set us in motion. Danstan, immersed in creating rhythm, rolled his drumstick over the cymbals and the butterflies floated away. We moved, we grooved. “From Heaven above, to Bethlehem, down the Nile, the Lord came down into my life.”

With Albert’s gentle hands on the keyboard and Abed plucking the bass guitar right on cue – the choir soared as Ken belted his signature tenor, “I have seen Him, I have seen Him – the Savior of the world as He promised in His Word…”

December 25^th, 1996 at 2:00 pm we closed out the last show exhausted but on a high. The lights came on, the audience clapped endlessly. Every space was occupied; the stairs were filled, all standing room taken and for a while there no one wanted to leave while some clueless people came in hoping for another show.

I got home to scraps of Christmas lunch, took a nap and later watched this movie about a Fiddler on the Roof? 😊

 

Namasagali productions and the impressionable years

Namasagali productions were the talk of the town. Around March, girls in brief red dresses flowered the streets of Kampala, especially near Uganda National Theatre.

I looked forward to this time of year, my brother would be home in the middle of school term – a change up from my mundane routine. He’d come with stories and lots of friends.

 

I attempted to hang out with his friends, they’d pinch my cheeks and tell me how cute I was. I felt prized, like I belonged in this group of boisterous, sexy, carefree grownups.

 

Sitting on the edge of the green worn out theater seats I’d marvel as my brother captivated the audience. He’d spin, leap and swing from one corner of the stage to the other in his leotard. His strong muscular frame moving to the rhythm of a song that rose from under our feet and out through each strand of hair on our heads.

 

A pretty girl also in a leotard would emerge, twirl and jump into his arms. He’d raise her into the air like an empty delicate pot – the magic! The audience clapped and I’d be like “Yeah! That’s my bro!”.

 

At the end of the show I’d walk out expecting to be greeted and patted on the back like I was the star. Like, “Did you see my bro? We live in the same house. Family genes please!”

 

Nobody knew me. The crowds gave accolades to the rightful owners.

 

I grew older. A shy, impressionable twelve-year-old girl.

 

At another production a girl strode on to the stage. Her tall, svelte frame captivated the crowds. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate – the darker the berry the sweeter the juice kind of beauty. Her posture and presence brought the building to a pause. Her confidence carried the auditorium.

 

Her dance moves had the audience in get-set mode. She’d mastered her lines.

 

It was easy to see she was all that – “Oil wells pumping in my living room” kind of sassy.

 

I admired her severely.

 

After the show and enshrouded in the crowds making their way out the theatre corridors, her beautiful face stayed imprinted on the ceiling of my mind.

 

I’m sure many girls wanted to be like her.

 

Something about artists portraying the best self we secretly desire.

 

In the theater’s restroom, I looked into the mirror.

 

A certain reality stared back.

What about the Teso children?

As the sun crowned behind the horizon, the village stirred to cock crows and cattle moos. A new day dawned in Serere. I was eight years old on school holiday, 275 km from bustling Kampala. Each day was filled with adventure; gardening, milking cows, tethering goats, and picking eggs from the chicken coop. Dad stocked the house with a library of world books - knowledge waited to be plucked off the shelves. We balanced life skills with leisure reading and exploration – what privilege!

A walk in the woods

Neighborhood pond - Photo credit Mrs. O

I took a walk this morning.

There was a nip in the air - nothing a light jacket could not handle.
I turned one corner and rounded another, everywhere beauty called; In the flowers budding, the cardinals and robins singing, twirling around branches and twigs.
I came to a pond.
The sun gently gazed upon its surface, calm and peaceful.
The sun turned to the trees and they glistened, their leaves shone like honey droplets, sweet and golden.
————————-
What is it about the trees and the sun that makes artists turn to verse? 🤔

Faithful men

Create your light - home project. Photo credit: Mrs. O

“I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread.” Psalm 37:25

Bishop Henry Luke Orombi’s bible devotions have made rounds on WhatsApp. With simplicity he delves into scripture and expounds the Word of God.

Psalm 131

Budding flowers in the neighborhood - Photo Credit Mrs. O

My heart is not proud, Lord,

    my eyes are not haughty;

do not concern myself with great matters

    or things too wonderful for me.

But I have calmed and quietened myself,

    I am like a weaned child with its mother;

    like a weaned child I am content.

 Israel, put your hope in the Lord

    both now and for evermore.

Psalm 131