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

“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? 😊

 

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.

Knock knock! Do you know Joseph?

Aerial shot over the sea of Marmara in Turkey. Photo Credit: Mary Ongwen

I was making dinner one fine Saturday when the doorbell rang. Two young men dressed in white shirts and black trousers stood at my door. I smiled and nearly said “Well, well, well! What have we got here?” I squished the laughter that climbed up my throat and virtually rubbed my hands with glee. I was in the mood for a good discussion.

The younger man, probably 17 years old put on his biggest smile although I’m sure he’d secretly hoped no one was home.

One Writers Beginnings: Chimamanda's Story Rooted in Africa

Chimamanda gives second annual Eudora Welty lecture. 

I stood a little downcast in front of the Lincoln theatre, the air chill nibbling at my extremities. With hands tucked deep into my jacket, I waited with anticipation for a kind stranger to come along. See, I’d hoped to purchase a ticket to the Second Annual EudoraWelty Lecture but they were sold out. The lady at the ticket booth apologized. I held on to the prospect that someone would show up with an extra ticket. People begun to trickle in. Girlfriends who’d planned an evening out spoke in excited tones and took selfies in front of the lecture poster. They showed their tickets and stood in line, while I a little envious thought about heading home to my family and getting in from the chilly outdoors. Then it happened.  A lady walked up to me and mentioned that her friend had bought an extra ticket and just like that I had a close to front row seat to listen to female African writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche’s lecture on “One Writer’s Beginnings”.

Her lecture centered around four values that informed her writing; home, family, church and school. Her articulate narrative and funny anecdotes sprinkled with a good dose of self-awareness held us captive. Standing in radiant red, in the center of the spotlight, she serenaded the audience with her clear calm voice that peaked and dipped at alternate junctures. She shared stories of her childhood, of life on the University of Nigeria campus. Her reading passion rooted in her father’s study, and watered by books such as Pacesetters, Mills and Boon and James Hadley Chase. These books wonderful but foreign informed her imagination growing up.

   

Her description of life in a middle-income family in Nigeria left the audience a tad jealous. She, a privileged African living in a close-knit family without the need to question her origin. With parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, she developed a sense of belonging by simply living in community. I was reminded of Africa’s dynamism. I nodded in agreement occasionally mumbling to myself for she told the African story like I couldn’t and yet I identified as though we grew up together. She painted a picture of a rich and industrious continent. The juicy mangoes picked from a tree in the compound. The luxury of slaughtering one of the chickens for Sunday lunch. The outdoor markets, steaming with life and color and stories with no end. She owned her story and told it well, no one could contend her experience as she talked about the Africa she knew and grew up in. An Africa she loved and was proud of. The audience was dead silent as we each secretly reached back into our past to compare and contrast our origins – some in envy, some in amazement, some in agreement. She weaved in themes from her famous lecture – The Danger of A Single Story. Africa is not all starving, malnourished children or potbellied corrupt government officials, it has educated hardworking, fun loving people too.

Her lecture and in her writing, she shows the power of authentic human truths curved out of experience and conviction. She also shows how being rooted to a physical place  informs narrative and self-awareness. Motivated and inspired at the close of the lecture, I joined the procession of energized ladies and a few gentlemen as we walked out of the theater to parked cars, cabs and Uber drivers. As the crowds thinned, I crossed the road, slopped down into the U Street Metro station. I tucked into a corner train seat for an hour of contemplation thank full for my physical heritage that springs from Usuk, Serere, Kampala, Kigezi, Kisoro, Tororo, America but more my spiritual heritage rooted in the cross of Christ.

Happy Sunday!

Stranger Connection

The Needle Tower (Hirshhorn museum)

Ever meet a stranger and immediately connect?

For the longest time such stories were safely locked in a box I labeled "Movies" - guy sees girl at bar counter, guy buys girl a drink and they lived happily ever after. I mean yeah right! Coming from a small city like Kampala chances that one would befriend an outright stranger in the middle of the day were slim. America on the other hand is huge, people leave familiarity and travel to new cities for school and work among other reasons. And that is how I met this guy.

The museum had closed and I was taking photos of the Needle Tower in the Hirshhorn gardens when he came over. We exchanged a few remarks on angles and lighting then I decided I best get on home.

He said “There’s going to be a photography club meeting here on brutalist architecture. I don’t know much about it, but you might want to stay.”

I thanked him and said "Sure, why not." It was going to start in 20 minutes.

We met up again at the venue and he signaled me to sit with him.
There were a few moments of silence before he said, “Hey, I would like to smoke, come with me.”

The casual expectation that I would willingly tag along came as a surprise. His carefree nature and humor had me intrigued. We went to the designated smoking zone and he blew clouds into the fading sun. Labels made loops in my head: Black woman. Black married woman with 2 kids. Black married woman with 2 kids and a strange accent. Black married woman with 2 kids, a strange accent - a Christian. All little boxes society made me conscious of. Boxes I carried around for identity. He didn’t peek into any of them. He didn’t seem to care for them. His freedom to live outside the boxes of societies expectations held my intrigue. We laughed and talked about shared interests. He mentioned a museum he thought I should visit called “Post Secret” and I immediately recalled listening to a fascinating story about the same on National Public Radio (NPR). It was a cool Saturday afternoon about 3 years ago, a guy talked about how he’d asked people to anonymously send him their secrets on post cards and how he’d received an overwhelming response. “Yes, yes” I said with excitement, "I remember that guy." Then he showed me some photos he’d taken there. I was amused at our connection, at how in less than an hour of meeting he knew something that would interest me. He showed me photos on his phone, occasionally handing it to me with ease. I guess he felt safe with this stranger.

We attended the meeting, listened to a talk on brutalist architecture and mingled with other photographers. At some point he turned and said, “I’m Brian by the way”, “I’m Mary. Nice to meet you”. We shook hands.

As the sun disappeared over the horizon, I bid Brian adieu and run along home to my family. I don’t know if I’d recognize him if we met again but I was glad for the brief, meaningful connection. Something about human beings wading past stereo types to appreciate human connection beyond race to deconstruct that single story.

Happenstances of a Ugandan woman in Washington D.C

"The largest book in the world"

Project not realized: This book would measure at 21 feet long and 12 and a half feet high. It’s a testament to the Kabakov’s long-standing interest in literature and storytelling.

As I studied Kabakov's unfinished project of art work in the Hirshhorn museum a guy dressed in some kind of security uniform came over.

Guy: "This book reminds me of judgement day when we'll stand before God and account for how we lived our lives."

Me: "Oh yeah! I totally see what you mean. Are you a Christian?"

Guy: "Yes I am, amen to that."(almost switches to tongues)

Me: "Oh great! I'm a Christian too."

Guy: "I'm looking for a wife to marry "

Me: "Wow!! You are quick."

We laughed 🤣🤣🤣

Guy: "The registrars office down the road is open till 5:00pm. There's no time to waste. We’ve got to cease the moment." 🤣🤣🤣

He returned to say "I talk to people everyday and they scowl, they may respond but you can feel the tightness in their stomachs (he made a grimaced face) but you smiled”.

Unsure of what to add, I said "thank you"

He walked away with a big smile.

We need more smiles in Washington D.C. to keep the human connection alive.

Funny, Talkative and Deaf on the D.C Metro Commute

Girl Sings at Farragut North Metro

Today I had a conversation with the funniest, most talkative, deaf man I've ever met.

So I was minding my own business as usual, waiting for the train, when this guy walked passed me and suddenly turned around. He tapped my shoulder.

DG: Excuse me!

Me: (I turn)

DG: Where are you from?

Me: Uganda

DG: (Drops his hands - the sparkle in his eye deems - he was disappointed. He thought I was from Ghana.)

Me: You from Ghana?

DG: Yes! But I don't like Ugandans

Hello Assassins

We blossom and flourish like leaves on the tree, then wither and perish,
but naught changeth thee.

Hello assassins

Did you sleep well?

Did you dream sweet dreams?

Of flower petals and beautiful meadows?

Of children's laughter and cheerful celebrations?

Did you lay your head on your pillow and stretch your feet?

Did you yawn and seek a comfortable position, grateful for a job well done?

Race and the Ugandan in America

He is dark, 5ft 7 inches. On most days he’ll wear a hoodie and a pair of jeans. As I watch him walk to the bus I think, there goes my baby – my Japadhola/Mufumbira/ Etesot. A Ugandan boy who holds no grudges for his ethnicity. In the world we live in, he is a “Young black man!” - not the description I would use for my son, but like the police here would say – “he fits the profile.” Can one tell that he is not an angry black man when he walks into a store with a hoodie? In moving to America I exchanged one set of issues for another.

Walking Miles for the Vulnerable

"As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path , we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path , we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives." Henry David Thoreau

Walking is therapeutic and magical. It clears the mind and strengthens the body, make that walk for a cause and you've made life more meaningful. I stumbled upon a young man who has made an art of it. Mile by mile, little town after little town he plans to walk through Uganda to raise awareness on issues that affect the poor and disadvantaged in his community. I was curious to know what got him on this journey. In the corner of the office library one cold January afternoon Edwin Barungi shared his story. Thanks to a good what'sapp connection an hour went by swiftly.

It was our first conversation but that didn't get in the way.  An exchange of a few pleasantries got us onto the right footing. “Let me tell you my story" he said, "I was born in Nsambya hospital. My only sibling died at the age of five. I lost both my parents to AIDS when I was eight years old.” He didn't hold back. I listened in silence as his story tagged at my heart. Between primary one and seven Edwin had attended thirteen different schools.

Young Man In Pursuit of A Dream

His size matched his bass – large. They stood out. He played a calm tune. The white note at his side reads: “Please help send me to Interlochen Fine Arts High School”. In the heat of the afternoon a young man sweats in pursuit of a dream. Passion. Pursuit. Purpose. We live for this.

Freda Omaswa - A Life Well Lived

I visited a funeral home for the first time to celebrate the life of a pretty girl called Freda. 

She was a doctor, a wife and a daughter but to me she was just Freda - a friend I got acquainted with in September of 2014.

I arrived early to a friend’s birthday lunch and she walked in shortly thereafter. We introduced ourselves and spent close to 45 minutes talking about life since relocating to America, about intermarriage among people of different ethnicities. We discovered we were both from Teso land. Sitting in that restaurant and waiting for the birthday girl we had a lot to talk about.

I was struck by her grace; her sweet smile and I loved the way she raised her eyebrows when she talked. There was an excitement in her spirit. She expressed her ideas with clarity and precision. Talking fondly about her husband and her parents back in Uganda.

She didn't mention she was undergoing chemotherapy. That some days were dark, that she had stage 4 colon cancer.
I didn't mention that I knew. That the birthday girl and I prayed for her often.

She was careful about her dash, you know? The little flat line that sits between the years of life: 1982 - 2016. She was careful without effort. I soon forgot that she was unwell and enjoyed good laughs with her and her humorous husband at yet another party.

I got news of her death on Monday and on Monday I found out she was a sister to a good friend. A daughter to a well-known Professor in Uganda. It seems to have slipped through the cracks. I wished I had known but I'm glad I didn't because she was large all by herself, she left a mark all by herself.
Tonight as Dr. Omaswa talked about her daughter I couldn't agree more. She was kind, selfless, graceful, elegant and confident. Large!

I met her at the end of her dash. She finished it straight.

Tonight I think of Paschal her husband of 2 years, Professor and Dr. Omaswa her parents, Mark her brother and Gloria her sister and my dear friend.

May Freda's life be celebrated always.
#WeloveFredabecause: Beauty shone from her soul and her bright smile. Her quiet spirit resounded with wisdom. Our friendship brief and sweet.

Freda's body will be laid to rest on the 10th of February 2016 in Ngora district.

Freda shares her diagnosis and battle with Colorectal Cancer

Millie - A Woman of First's.

She is a trend setter. A lady of first’s; - First lead alto for the Watoto choir and the creative mind behind Gospel Dancers. Hers was the first wedding with a dance procession in church. The first married lady to dance on the Kampala Pentecostal Church stage and the first mother to return to the dance ministry. She was the first female worship leader at Kampala Pentecostal Church now Watoto church. 
She helped shape the church's perspective on music and dance and started a revolution that spread through several churches. “I want to church the un-churched” she would say, “to appeal to young people who think Christianity is boring”.

Sheila - A Rose in Bloom

“The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mode but the true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives - the passion that she shows. The beauty of a woman grows with the passing years”. Audrey Hepburn

Ever seen a red rose bloom?

The green bud closed tight as a fist settles in the bush. Its stem stretches towards the light, slowly it begins to unravel, tiny bit by tiny bit. Slits of rich red hue peak at its corners. Gradually it bursts open into full glorious bloom. Its opulent petals unlace with layer upon layer of leafy lush beauty. Where once a green dull space now it explodes with intense red garnish. Passers-by may stop to smell the roses but there is nothing more magnificent not quite as beautiful as to see an ordinary girl grow into a beautiful, talented, spiritual woman. She changes the world around her. All who see gaze amazed as she steps on the world stage, they are blown away by her beauty, her talent, her determination and steady zeal. I have seen such a one - Sheila Dorcus.

Remembering Evelyn

“The value of life is not in its duration, but in its donation. You are not important because of how long you live, you are important because of how effective you live. And most people are concerned about growing old rather than being effective," ― Myles Munroe,

"The people who have impacted the world didn't live long. Martin Luther King. John F. Kennedy. These people who impact the world were not old people, but they lived so effectively that we cannot erase them from history,”― Myles Munroe,

On this first day of December I remember Evelyn, a graceful leader, elegant, intelligent, compassionate, thoughtful and selfless. She was here for 24 years and left a precious imprint. She led a school, she was a faithful friend, a big sister and a wonderful daughter to her parents.

At a young age few things terrified more than being dropped off to boarding school. I watched clouds of dust rise as my dad drove away. My stomach plunked down on my pelvis and like a full stop there was nothing more to say. It was going to be a while before I saw him again. I faced the enormous school campus with resolve and trudged down to the dormitory. Oblivious to the possibility that the sun would shine again I sat on my bed, unpacked my suitcase and begun to count down to visiting day.That changed when I received a note from Evelyn. I had been wrapped up in my own little world I forgot I had a family friend in the school. She became the head girl and with that came a private room. She showed me where she kept her key and gave me access to her stash of grab. Compared to the O'Level dormitories crammed with 10 girls on double Decker beds, this was a welcome change.
As a junior in college little else topped access to the head prefect. I felt invincible. Chances of being bullied were slim to none. In a sweet spot between students and the school authorities, I heard both the dormitory gossip and administrative decisions passed on to the prefects.
One day a girl said "The head girl is back. Have you seen her legs, they have black dots. She is sick." I was puzzled. I knew Evelyn went home on occasion but I assumed that was a privilege head girls enjoyed. Clueless as a sheep, I mentioned what I heard and asked her what she was suffering from.
I found out she had HIV. She was probably 18. The first young HIV patient I knew.
She excelled and joined university for a Law degree. She came back to school often, sent me a success card and wrote me letters about life at the University.
She fell seriously ill but that didn't rob her grace, even on her hospital bed. At the end students, parents and teachers from schools near and far packed the church service and filled her parents compound. She loved and was loved by many in those 24 years.

Today I think about Evelyn and the many young women who have faced and are facing AIDS.
There is hope. Let's Focus, Partner and Achieve an AIDS-free Generation.

 "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose." Romans 8:28

Worship with Danstan; Kampala Pentecostal Church in the late 90's

"The greatness of a man is not in how much wealth he acquires, but in his integrity and his ability to affect those around him positively"
...and if that man's life is under Jesus' Lordship his purpose has been fulfilled.

Some people come into your life for a period and at the time you may not realize that their influence in that season will be a pivot for life. Today, I celebrate Danstan Kisuule for his influence as a worship leader. He taught me to revere God's presence, to love God's Word and to worship with abandon.

As a young Christian in Kampala Pentecostal Church I found my gift of service in the Worship ministry. Danstan selected the worship teams, scheduled the backup rotas and chose the choir specials. He exhorted us to keep time and make good on our word. To be present in "the moment" and not to worry about things we couldn't change. He encouraged us to tithe and dress well. "If you have just one shirt or dress, wash it every night if you must but always be clean”. When we compartmentalized songs in praise and then worship he reminded us that it was all worship regardless of whether songs are fast or slow. By the end of choir practice one had not only learned a new song but been given a few principles by which to govern life.

I always looked forward to spending time at church.There were times as a student at Makerere University, I would give the taxi conductor the last 200 shillings I had without a clue of how I would get back to campus. Eager to attend choir practice I would walk up the steep slope in a hurry and hope that if nothing else Andrew (one of the sound men) would escort me back and he always did.

The day I received my first schedule as a backup singer the ground softened under my feet, there was a spring in my step. A good voice was only half the equation. Danstan's intuition coupled with consistency and integrity served to determine whether or not one made the cut so I knew I had done something right. 

I pinned the schedule up in my campus room and flipped it over more times than I care to mention. My heart was a flatter from Saturday morning before rehearsal until Sunday evening after the fourth service. I never tired of leading worship. I learned that I had signed up to live a public life, I would be recognized anywhere. I also learned that even though the congregation looked like a sea of unrecognizable faces, standing before them gave them permission to scrutinize my life.

When I listen to  Don Moen and Hosanna Integrity, I recall the days of my first love. The days when I learned to sing Scripture. Every Friday Danstan taught us songs he had listened to during the week. Some times we covered full albums of Integrity music. We raised the roof of the cinema hall with songs like "Mighty Man of War". Our voices went hoarse in joyous celebration of the mighty God we serve!

On days when course works were difficult, relationships were rocky, or I just needed direction,these songs would come to memory.

"If your presence doesn't go with us, Lord we don't want to leave this place"; Don Moen off the album, "Let Your Glory Fall".

"If we call to Him, He will answer us, if we run to Him, He will run to us" Don Moen off the album "I Will Sing"

"Trade your heavy hearts for a heart of Joy, celebrate what God has done" Don Moen off the album "God For Us". 

One afternoon I got the privilege to ride in his car. A song begun to play that continues to lift my spirit today “Lord We’ve Come to Worship”. He soaked in the songs and played them over for private worship and for instruction. His car was a worship room on wheels. He knew the songs back to front and ensured that the choir learned them right. He took the time to sharpen his skill.When he played the drums, he hit every last cymbal with passion and precision. His song selection involved intricate preparation. He knew in which key each song was played. Just like with King David, God didn't consider his appearance or his height. “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” I Samuel

He raised his hands, closed his eyes in prayer and danced before the Lord. He led the congregation into God’s presence and left them there.

He encouraged us to lift up our voices in prayer “ Don't peer through the crowd to see if your friends have come. Your audience in one – God.”

Today, I know God looks at my heart  it doesn't matter whether I stand still, kneel down or sit. In the privacy of my room or among people who may be less expressive in worship, I can lift my hands and dance knowing that my audience is one - God.  He busks in my praise an act cultivated over 15 years ago. 

Worship is not just the songs we sing on Sunday morning but a lifestyle of prayer, reading scripture and obedience. 

Other days an old worship song will make me smile as I remember Uncle D's dance moves; the swift simultaneous movements with each hand and leg ..."oh sing for Joy to God our strength..." Thanks Uncle D for being faithful. You made a difference in my life. God looks for true worshipers, those who worship Him in Spirit and in truth, thanks for showing me how.

Wole Soyinka visits George Mason University

Wole Soyinka reads from his work at George Mason University

Lakunle:"Let me take it"

Sidi: "No!"

Lakunle: "Let me" (seizes the pail. Some water spills on him).

Sidi: (laughs) "There! wet for your pains. Have you no shame?"

Lakunle: "That is what the stew pot said to the fire"

Opening scene from The Lion and The Jewel a play by Wole Soyinka

For weeks this script run its course in our home. Our lazy afternoons were spiced with rehearsals as my sister incorporated us into a mini production. She had been selected to act the role of Sidi in the play, The Lion and The Jewel. Sidi is the beautiful belle in llujinle village being wooed by Baroka the village lad and Lakunle the educated young man. As she weighs the two potential lovers, the influence of education on African culture spills through the lines.

Our literature syllabus in the 90’s was strongly influenced by great African writers: Chinua Achebe; “Things Fall Apart”, “God’s bit’s of Wood”, “No longer At Ease” and Wole Soyinka’s plays: “The Trials of Brother Jero”, “Kongi’s Harvest”, “Death and The Kings Horseman”. These are the fathers of African literature. Writers who sought political asylum for communicating the perils in society through soft forms that made for good entertainment but also identified the glaring problems.
Plays by Wole Soyinka were on the UACE literature syllabus and on our book shelf. We laughed at his humor in The Trials of Brother Jero but noted the hypocrisy of so called preachers all around us.

As a literature student growing up in the 90's Wole Soyinka’s plays; "The Trials of Brother Jero" and "Kongi’s Harvest" were core to our Literature syllabus. We explored the themes of neo colonialism and the influence of Christian religion on traditional Africa. We discussed plot and structure; humor and satire as means of communicating the issues of society. Literature and English students all over the African continent read, laughed and pondered Soyinka's plays. More than the entertainment, our success depended on grasping these ideas and presenting them in the exam.

Wole Soyinka with literature students and attendees

As part of their International week, the Global Affairs department at George Mason University, invited Wole Soyinka for a panel discussion and a reading. I cancelled all plans for the day and got there as fast as I could. 30 minutes to the start of the event, the hall was nearly empty, I confirmed with the people sprinkled in the front seats that indeed I was in the right place. Publicity was poor, I could only imagine the scramble if Wole visited Uganda.

My eyes lit up as he walked onto the stage, his signature white hair filled his head like one big cotton ball. We clapped and sat in reverence, leaning forward to shut out any distraction. The 6 foot representation of academic success, acknowledged universally by the presentation of the Nobel prize for Literature in 1986. This African man, who broke stereo types and placed Africa on the map, showed that we too were an intelligent race.  

Akinwande Oluwole Soyinka, know more commonly as Wole Soyinka was born on July 13, 1934 in Abeokuta village Nigeria. He eagerly talked about his life events as though they were folk tales and we like grand children gathered around a fire at story time, sat attentively to drink in all the wisdom that we could gain in his presence. His humor transcends his work,

"I escaped on a motor bike through the Nadeco route" he said referring to the time he fled Nigeria which was under the oppressive dictatorship of President Sani Abacha.  He said Abacha pronounced a death sentence on him but he denied him the pleasure of hanging a Nobel laureate.

Prior to that Soyinka spent 22 months in solitary confinement because he protested the military dictatorship in Nigeria. No warden could speak to him, they were under strict orders to feed him and provide his supply of cigarettes. But an empty small room could not confine the numerous thoughts bubbling in Soyinka's mind; he turned the cigarette foils and toilet paper into mini writing pads, and somehow managed to manufacture ink. He turned his environment into allies - the mind is capable of incredible ingenious under pressure. As with any system, he found the loop holes and had his books smuggled into his cell where he wrote his poems in between the white lines. Now I know, experience makes a man. 

Wole Soyinka answers questions from an attentive audience

When asked about his favorite writing location he said it was his home in Nigeria. He added that any place and any time is a great to write but one needs to close out the world around and concentrate. This comes with a sacrifice he said, that means in many cases you will be the last to know what is happening in the world. He cited the time in 2001 when he was traveling to the United States and was so engrossed in his work when the plane landed in Buenos Aires. On inquiry as to why they were there he was told two jet planes had been hijacked and crashed into the twin towers - 9/11.

As for Africans in the diaspora he had one piece of advice "Don't lose touch with your home country". He recommended a visit for several months a year, to engage and offer free services in one's profession. "You can't lose who you are" he said

His humor, intellectual brilliance and awareness of the world around him shown through.

His poems were intellectual, some were hard to understand but I certainly got the sense that there were profound ideas being communicated. But listening to him read them out loud, made them more palatable.