My Fears

I once alleged I would write on the fears of a man. I never did. The responses obtained were enough to ascertain the sensitivity of the subject. Nonetheless, it is a subject worth exploring and this endeavour is most profitable if done at a personal level. I need not add that at my 28th birthday, it is an apt enough time to do so.


I worry - where I should be-what should I be -when I should be-how should I be...Sometimes, I take a long hard look at myself and cry out, “ what a wretched being I am!”; a mere mortal, a blind worm writhing its way through the earth. Then other times, I envision myself journeying on the road less travelled. I look up yonder and see the rays of the morn sun peeping over the brow of the hill. Somehow, even though I may not see what lies beyond the hill, my feet keep going. The hope that tomorrow I will wake up a better man lingers in mine heart and this I would not let go. This, I cannot let go.


Ambition, a good thing it is but a dose too much and it becomes a burden; the kind that leads to fires in the stomach, otherwise known as ulcers- the ambitious man’s disease. “Great expectations make frustrated men”, I believe Achebe once quipped. I have my moments of frustration. My ambition then cannot be contained by my present circumstances. Somehow, I am led to believe that its time has not yet come. The most annoying thing is that it burns within me-a raging fire that consumes my very being. The most exquisite of foods looses taste and turns to gravel in mine mouth. Sleep eludes me like the Kenyan shilling. It is in these moments that I consider settling for less. At least then, I would save my body from ill-health and my mind from insanity. Then again, I walk into the future and hate what I have become. The thought of looking into my wife and children’s eyes, turn away and wish I was living a different life haunts me. Hence, with this hindsight, I choose to live with gravel in my mouth and sore eyes.


I often wonder what my task in this life is. I pick an autobiography and take a glimpse into the lives of men who once walked on this earth. Some I love. Some I loathe. Yet in all of them, I see a little bit of me; men unsatisfied with where they are in life; men craving for more endowments; men who seem to live in the future-their present times not worthy of them. Still a few of these men lay their heads on their pillows at night and know peace. Some have their lives ebb away from them, and still they know peace. Better still, very few, at their death beds are able to utter in unbridled conviction, “I have brought you glory on earth by completing the work you gave me to do” and these very few experience true peace- the kind that confounds the minds of men. I do not yet fully know my task in this life. I am not sure whether I will. However, along the narrow way I perceive what it is. Sometimes, it is impressed heavily on me that my mind inquires of nothing else. Sometimes they jump out of the pages of a book as they once did in Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities.

“The mill which had worked them down was the mill that grinds young people old; the children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age, and coming up afresh was the sign, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal, among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the baker’s shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead dog preparation that was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomies in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.”


Indeed hunger is that old ogre that robs you off your dignity. God forbid that I sit and do nothing to severe its head from its body and hereafter, hear my Lord utter those dreadful words, “I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat.” God Forbid!


I am a bachelor. That means I have the pleasure of smelling armpits, rotting socks and rugged quarters as company. It also means I can freely break wind and not worry about being sued as some were threatened awhile back in good ‘ol Malawi. However, in due time, this deceptive liberty will be shown the door. My money won’t be mine alone and definitely my quarters too. I fear coming home with nothing to put on the table. I dread to see those inquisitive eyes of my daughter when she discovers daddy’s flaws. Or the look of disappointment in my son’s eyes when it dawns on him that his dad is not the hero he bragged to his friends about. Worst of all, I fear yielding in to the alluring advances of that beautiful lass and consequently, betray Lucy, the love of my life.


Talking about love, it is indeed is a beautiful thing-until it is wounded, then it becomes a source of most gruesome pain. I fear love. Is it any wonder that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? However, as gallant as it may sound, it is not the love of a woman I fear most. It is God’s. Being the apple of His eye is a nice place to be...until you turn your back on Him. That is when the understanding of a loving God also being a jealous God really sinks in. There are some passages in the holy writ that make me shudder. Humour me if you will, and consider the following excerpts of Deuteronomy 28.


“However, if you do not obey the Lord your God...your carcasses will be food for all the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth...you will eat the fruit of the womb, the flesh of the sons and daughters the Lord your God has given you...the Lord will scatter you among the nations...there the Lord will give you an anxious mind, eyes weary with longing, and a despairing heart. You will live in constant suspense, filled with dread both night and day, never sure of your life. In the morning you will say, “if only it were evening!” and in the evening, “if only it were morning!” –because of the terror that will fill your hearts and the sights that your eyes will see.”


I have often caught myself thinking if I wasn’t an object of His love, then should I go wrong, I need not be an object of his jealousy. How utterly foolish! If His wrath towards those He loves are of such proportions then how about to those who have refused to receive His love, the kind He gives freely?


28 years on this earth, this have I learnt. Fear the most Him who loves you the most. Place your fears in His hand, for they are but specks of dust that He will blow away.

Miaka Sita!

There are some people who are not sure when their Christian journey began. All they know is that they stopped swearing, engaging in old sinful habits and had that deep-seated assurance that Jesus Christ is Lord and Saviour of their lives. On the other hand, there are those who clearly remember their first step in faith. They remember the prayers they made, the tears they cried and the unspeakable joy that bubbled within them as they received Jesus in their lives. I am of the latter kind. I remember it like it was yesterday. The memories of that Sunday, 10th July, 2005, are forever etched in my heart. There was no indication that the events of that day would forever change my life. It started out like any other but ended in a most blissful manner. I was in St. Lawrence High School, Kampala doing my A-levels. Two events were up for the attendance; The Mock Debate and a music concert dubbed “Jesus festival”. One had to be senile to miss the former. It had all the ingredients that a 22 year old male student could be looking for; girls, music and above all, a chance to get out of school. Indeed one had to be senile…or in search of answers. I had some questions that needed answering like, “how comes trouble seems to follow me everywhere?” I went to Uganda because my life in Eldoret was plagued with drinking, clubbing, never-ending family quarrels, discipline cases in school…the list was endless. However, even in Uganda, it was the same old story- Evans this or Evans that. I was caught up in a web of dramas and I did not have the slightest inkling of how I could disentangle myself. I needed change but where or to whom does one go to when in need of it? I did not know the answer to this question but somehow I knew I would find it in the music concert. Hence, it is with a troubled heart that I boarded that van that would snake its way to the concert. I did not mind much that I was the only one aboard who adorned trousers. I needed answers. Besides, their sweet angelic voices in song were, oh, so soothing. It was a rare treat to one used to hearing blaring noise in clubs in the name of music. Now this was music. It sounded right. It felt right. Above all, it prompted one to think of life hereafter. I thought a lot.
We alighted from the van and couldn’t help dancing to the music that was already underway. It wasn’t long before the preacher stepped on stage to wind things up. Time flies so fast when you are having fun. Gerald (the preacher) told the story of a cripple who was invited to dine with King David. I cannot quite recall all he said that afternoon but this I do-the cripple remained a cripple even though he was in the King’s presence. Gerald then went on to elaborate how some people have been in God’s presence since childhood but are still crippled with sin. I drifted off and reminisced about home. I grew up in a Christian home. We went to church on Sunday morning and recited our prayers every other evening. During school holidays, my mother ensured that we attended Vacation Bible School (VBS). They were fun but didn’t hold much meaning to me then. My father steered clear of such matters. My guess is he didn’t know how to go about them. Asking him to thank God for a hot meal was torturous. The struggle within him was evident by the look on his face-a blank stare. Mother would save him by asking one of us to pray. That said and done, I know someday he will surrender his life to the Lord-like I did when Gerald made the altar call. I had tried everything else. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Hence, on that beach in the outskirts of Kampala, I accepted Christ as my Lord and Saviour. No sparks flew about. No home-coming party was held in my honour (at least not here on earth). However, this one thing I was certain of-that I had found what mine heart yearned for-peace; the kind that comes from above and confounds the minds of mere mortals.
It has now been six years since I was found by Him. As each day draws to an end, I realize how much I have changed. I long to be in solitude and silence, that I may know Him more intimately. Before, I didn’t know what those two words meant. Above all, I realize how gifted I am and I long to serve Him in every way.

This Cup of Tea

I love tea. Sometimes, I think this is fueled by my passion for all things English; the language, the green picturesque countryside, the movies, the monarchy… In fact, it has been my longtime wish to be invited to the Buckingham Palace for a “cuppa tea” with the queen. I wonder what our discourse would be about. Swirling the deep brown tea in our silver cups, perhaps we would reminisce how “A girl went up the tree one evening and came down the next a queen.” Then again, maybe we would dwell on a subject that we both love-literature; the enchanting children’s stories of Rudyard Kipling; Shakespeare’s captivating plays; the arresting prose and interesting characters of Charles Dickens. That would most definitely be our cup of tea. To top it all up, we would then attend a church service at the Westminster Abbey where the preacher would be none but that Brilliant Bible expositor, John Stott. Now that would be something! However, deep down, I know my love for this much-enjoyed beverage comes not from England but a Faraway land and was brewed by an anomaly earlier in life.
How can I forget those days? When mother would hold women meetings, popularly known as sindikiza, at our home? The image that forever lingers in my mind is that of the women’s exuberant faces, holding cups of tea and engaged in hearty conversations. From time to time, roars of laughter would erupt ensued by sighs of breathlessness. I honestly used to think the tea must have been laced with some powerful laughing gas. How else could a 14 year old explain such mirth among those women-folk? It was in search of this mirth, which led me to perilous places. I spent more time with friends than I did with siblings and parents. Clubbing and drinking became my first priority. My life was quickly going down the drain and I didn’t know how to stop it. I did not see eye to eye with my father. My siblings thought God must have erred in making me a firstborn. My mother was heartbroken but kept on praying that I may change. She seemed to know that one day I will, or just simply believed to sooth her aching heart. All in all, I was caught up in a web of dramas and mine heart longed for some sanity. However, none seemed to be in sight.
During the sober moments, which were rather few, I did some serious soul searching. Glimpses of mother singing with her friends would oft come my way. I would then recall their laughter over a cup of tea. Overtime, I rightly came to associate tea with genuine friendship and true joy. Hence, if I got an invitation to one for the road or a cup of tea, I chose the latter-the “Karibu Chai” synonymous with many a homes, was not just a gesture of hospitality but an invite to a saner life. In spite of this positive step, there were times when I drunk myself silly. At every drinking spree, I would convince myself, “just this once!” How naive I was. I sunk deeper in the quagmire of alcohol and eventually hit rock bottom. It was here, a dismal sight I must have been, that I warmed up to God’s love. It is amazing how one can find relief at the lowest of places.
Now every time I hold this cup of tea, I perceive the love and patience that was taken in its brewing. I hear the soothing words of a true friend encouraging me in this path of life. I see the angelic faces that stood by me through thick and thin. Most assuredly, I feel God’s arm over my shoulder and I know all is well. That is why I love this cup of tea.

What Easter Means to Me

The Easter holidays have fast drawn to an end. “A little bit too fast, some may say-those are the fun-lovers. Few, may complain that it was too long-those are the workaholics. It is regarded as the most important time in the Christian calendar. Christianity as a way of life hinges on this historical fact; that Jesus died and rose again. Some have tried to refute this only to end up believing and defending it zealously (Read Frank Morison’s who moved the stone?). Anyway, it is not my intention to delve into the intricacies surrounding His death and resurrection. This has been done by many intellectuals (even though it is my personal view that some phenomena are to be perceived rather than comprehended). Nonetheless, there is one thing that I cannot simply come to terms with. I may once in a while perceive it but only for an endowed holy moment. Such knowledge is far too high and lofty for a mere mortal such as I. Time and time again, I come across individuals who seem to have grasped it. They carry an aura of nobility about them that is simply alluring. Yet sometimes, as they reflect on this quality that astounds many, they as well are baffled. Forgiveness-God’s Forgiveness.

Some things come easy for me, like Generosity. In fact, I have been fairly warned that one day, this might be my undoing. I tend to overdo it, or so am told. However, I have dismally found that I am not so generous in forgiveness. A wrong done unto me tends to linger in my mind and heart. I do not seek revenge but I grow cold. I disappear into this shell and any hints whatsoever that the same wrong might be repeated are dealt with in the most efficient and expedient manner. It is a shame that at such times I forget- or at least want to forget- that I am Christian. You have heard that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned but now I tell you hell hath no fury either like a lover betrayed.

Jilted Lover Stabs Wife to Death

Such are the headlines that grace our dailies quite often than not. Whenever, they do, I tend to go, “there go I…” Why? Because I know firsthand how it feels to be betrayed. I have been down that treacherous path several times before and boy, it is nasty. All manner of feelings conjure up inside you and in a moment of insanity, anything is possible. You then choose to walk away before you do something that might earn you a corner in Guantanamo Bay. And then someone asks you to forgive! Forgiveness my foot! How dare they? Were they there when I gave my precious time, energy and resources? Were they there when we dreamed of life together only to find out this better half has been cosy in another’s arms? Were they… (Breath in, breath out). Okay, maybe that is my old nature talking but you get the drift.

Believe it or not, it is through such betrayals that mine heart warmed up to God. I came to see the frailty of men and the greater frailty in trusting them. Better still, blinds fell off from mine eyes and I saw my true self before Him who sees all. What wretched sight! I turned my back on Him, not once twice but time and time again. If He would have smitten me every time, I would have been beyond oblivion. However, He did the grander thing. He forgave me over and over again. Why? Because I am His beloved and He is mine. Now, it is easier to forgive not because I understand men better but because I have perceived Him. And that, dear reader is what Easter means to me.

Pursuit of Happiness

Happiness, that ever-elusive lass,
Men, tall, short, young and old alike,
Pursue her, here, there, till they pass,
Yet she remains that needle in a hay-stack.

I did my share of chasing,
Sweating, panting, I kept reminiscing,
What sent me down that perilous path?
Pursuit of happiness, Ah! It is no mirth.

Then I thought, perhaps am doing this all wrong,
I should hold my horses, wait, she would come along,
Alas! It wasn’t long before I saw her up-yonder,
A rare beauty she was, it made my heart ponder.

Could such mirth be freely given men?
No strings attached, just a simple amen?
The chase abated, I had found purpose,
Happiness abounded, in that old rugged cross.

A Tribute to the One I Love

Life, it seems, has its best and worst of times. These times can be traced back to but a few moments. Therein, the actors as on a stage, awe the watching world with their unfolding drama. From time to time, most take a walk down memory lane and revisit such moments. Some moments they would rather quickly forget, impossible as it may seem and some they would cherish ceaselessly and give anything to relive them over and over again. Looking back over my shoulder, I cannot help but reminisce of the latter kind.

There she was looking lovely as ever. She was the finest specimen of the human race that mine eyes had ever laid upon. It was that time of the year when that university on the great hill was opening its iconic iron gates to its students. By an unseen hand of providence,we travelled in the same bus and sat side by side. A hearty conversation ensued. We virtually talked about everything under the sun; our past-its failures and successes, our hopes and dreams for the future, family and friends, power and politics… First in low tones and then in charming crescendos as we excitedly found we had a lot in common. I tried very hard to avoid our eyes meeting. The emotion was just too much. It is the sort that a child feels at the kindness of a stranger, only this time it was much more intense. The warnings melt away and that distinctive intuition tells the child, “this “stranger” is the long-time friend that I have never met.” And there, a bond is created that is forged into a marvellous relationship. I have always enjoyed a good book on a long journey. It was my way of travelling to worlds beyond through the lives of men and women written therein. However, on this day, I was enchanted by this living book that I just couldn’t put down. Every word she spoke rang with an angelic tone. I couldn’t get enough of them. In the few moments of silence-like when she gazed at the African sunset-I stole surreptitious glances at her. She had unparalleled grace and poise. Her shiny black hair was well bundled at the back of her head and her rosy cheeks revealed slight dimples when she smiled. Several times she caught me and several times I blushingly looked away. However, this one moment our eyes locked. Time stood still. I recalled all that I ever wished for in a woman. I recalled the few moments we chatted in high school and why I had grown to respect her and yes, even fear her. In that slice of time, that mesmerizing moment, I knew this was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. When and how that was to be realized, I was soon to find out.

I will never forget that terrific Tuesday as long as I live. Sitting in my room, chatting with a neighbour, my phone rang. On seeing the caller’s name, blood rushed through my veins. After calming my silly self down, I picked it up trying to sound casual as if I was expecting her call.

"Hallo there?"
“Hi Evans, I’ve just arrived. Are you at your place?”
“Yep and am doing a lot of nothing except catching up with my neighbour.”
“Can I come over?”

I looked towards the heavens and moved my lips inaudibly, “Thank you!”

“Sure. I’ll be waiting.”

I put the phone down and did a Shaka Zulu dance around the room to the amazement and pleasure of my neighbour. After a while, a soft knock came through my door. Knowing who it might be, I took a deep breath and opened it. She smiled coyly. I almost forgot my manners by not asking her to come in. We hugged and got down to some catching up. It had been a while since we last met. At the back of my mind, I knew there was something delightfully different about this evening. I could not quite place my finger on what it was until she popped the question. No not that one! It was too early for the M-word. Besides, should it have been, the onus was not on her but on me.

“Evans, What are we?” She asked ever so tenderly.

Now there are certain times in a man’s life when he wishes the earth would open and swallow him alive; when caught in an adulterous affair, when declared bankrupt, when named in the Ocampo list, when sleeping and drooling in a public transport vehicle with his head resting on a stranger’s shoulder in the next seat, …or when on the verge of something beautiful that it is too good to be true.

“We are friends, though deep down we know we are more than just friends. I would not be too quick to call us lovers but I have to admit that the thought of you and I together has crossed my mind. Once, twice…well, maybe every other time. I was hoping that this evening might be the beginning of something beautiful-you and I”

How I wish those were the smooth words that came out of my mouth. Instead, I spewed out a deluge of incoherent gibberish that left her in stitches. She had not understood a thing I said. I could not blame her. Neither had I. God must have sympathized with the predicament His boy found himself in. That was why He made her understand my heart. That it was in the right place and we (her and I) were “good to go”. That marked the beginning of a most fulfilling commitment.

I travel ahead of time and see us sitting in the front porch of our humble abode. We are happily married. We have raised our children in the way of the Lord. They have grown, flew out of the nest and are testing their wings in a cold world with their Maker watching over them lest they stray. In retrospect, I muse over the series of moments that led to this grand finale. As I do, a tear rolls down my left cheek. I quickly wipe it away; tug the one that I love closer and thank God that He dared give me Lucy.

Up Yonder

After spending a better part of the day indoors, he decided an evening walk would do him good. He took a path less trodden and thereupon, heard an eerie tune. Initially, it was low and far off. Then it got louder and more melancholic. He turned around facing the direction whence it came. It was then that he saw its source-a group of women aboard a truck in a funeral procession. They sang in moan full tones and their faces expressed much pathos. Red ribbons dangled from the side mirrors telling the onlookers that someone had crossed the river. The question that lingered in their minds was, “who could it be?” Time stood still as the motorcade made its way to an unknown destination. Death is indeed the common foe to all: young and old, rich and poor, wise and foolish…six feet under, we would all be. Death is the maiden who wiles and beguiles the unwilling suitor. Death is the iron curtain that opens and closes, never to open again. A dark cloud of despair hung over all for a moment, then it disappeared with the passing of the procession. The few curious bystanders went their way, pondering over the businesses ahead. However, for Richard, what was to be a usual evening walk, turned out to be a soul-searching endeavour.

He had worked in a hospital before, and in spite of its high profile in provision of healthcare, death was a common occurrence. Eventually, Richard came to accept it as a way of life- we are born, we grow, we marry, we bear children then we die. He thought it the inescapable vicious cycle. Those who embraced it lived in serenity. Those who did not lived in quite desperation. However, what astounded Richard most was the response of patients to this age-old monster. There were those whose bodies exhibited a struggle. Their eyes popped out, their muscles were more tense than usual and their throats as dry as a bone. They looked as if they had just seen a ghost. Many struggled. Then there was the rarer kind, whose bodies exhibited grace and ease. Most had their eyes shut and those who did not gave the impression they had just seen an old friend. Their muscles were relaxed and their arms rested on their chests or peacefully on their sides. They seemed to have a smile on their faces. One could almost say they saw it coming…and embraced it.

As Richard pondered over these things, a theory on death was formulating in his mind. He thought it a portal into another realm. One realm that is of unending bliss and mystical mirth or the other, that is of untold suffering and perpetual pain. How one lives on this earth is a pre-cursor into either of the two realms. If he is good, then the former awaits him. If he is bad, then the latter is his inevitable destiny. Looking back over his shoulders, Richard thought himself a relatively good person. He lived at peace with most people (his mother-in-law tried him on this one). He had a stable marriage and educated his children to such levels that many esteemed him highly. He occasionally went to church and gave generously to its projects. “Yes” he thought to himself, “I am a pretty good bloke…but then, so was Francis.” They had gone through the University together and grew to be very good friends. Francis was a man of the people. His charisma was enviable-he had a way with people from all walks of life and oh, how contagious was his laugh. Half of his six-figure salary went to philanthropic projects within the community and beyond. In fact, several professors in the local university owed their distinguished positions to his generosity. His wife simply adored him. “A better husband and a loving father, I would never find,” she would often quip at the thought of him. His children looked up to him and strived to surpass his achievements. As for his peers, well, let us just say they thought him a genius of life. Many sought his counsel and put it to good use. You could say Francis was a lucky man. However, on that tragic day, hooked onto a dialysis machine, Francis was anything but lucky. His fingers dug deep into the sheets. His muscles tensed. His throat was parched. He had a look in his eyes that Richard would never forget. He was petrified, as one who had just seen a ghost. On that day, Francis died. On that day, good Francis struggled. Richard’s theory crumbled like a house of cards. It was at this point that the story of little Rodger (supposedly true) heard in one his sporadic visits to church, came to mind.

Roger’s father was an unusually godly man. Every day, it was his custom to gather the family after dinner and ask them ever so tenderly, “Are you still friends with Jesus? Have you hurt his feelings today or have you made him glad?” Each member of the family would then relate how they spent their day in reference to the question. On that day, little Rodger with a gleam in his eye and excitement in his voice, gave his account.

“Daddy, I took a nap after lunch and dreamt I went to heaven. There was this big angel with a big white book. He called out your name and you said, “present.” Then you entered heaven. He then called out Mummy’s name and she said, “Present” and followed you…finally, he called out my name and because I am so short he could not see me, I jumped up and down saying, “Here! Here!” The gates opened and I entered heaven where you were all waiting for me”

Rodger’s father laughed heartily as did the whole family. He then leaned over, pulled Rodger to his side and said triumphantly, “Jesus is smiling.” Several days later, Rodger was involved in a tragic accident. He went into a coma. Friends and family gathered at his bedside praying. From time to time, they would sing a hymn (to the comforting of other patients too) accompanied by the regular beeps of the clinical monitors. Suddenly, Rodger’s lips moved. He was mumbling something under his breath. His father moved closer and leaned his ears towards his mouth. “Here! Here!” Little Rodger whispered. The monitors stopped beeping. His eyes teary and a lump in his throat, Rodger’s father turned and smiled saying, “It seems Rodger would be the one waiting for us up yonder.”


It then dawned on Richard what he must do. The question is, did he?