1. Rather than fall into decrepitude in old age, why not a dating agency for the greyheads – matching seniors with juniors! Tongue in cheek perhaps. But I am deadly serious. This crazy thought flashed across my mind as I devoured news of the dignified, but sad assisted suicide of the departed professor David Goodall. He died in a blaze of publicity; some commentators clearly in support of his decision to end his life, while others were mortified at the thought of ending one’s life regardless of circumstances. The Guardian, for example, painted a portrait of the seeming equanimity of the occasion thus: “Australia’s oldest scientist, David Goodall, has ended his own life at a clinic in Switzerland, surrounded by family and while listening to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy…The British-born 104-year-old professor was forced to travel on a one-way ticket from his home in Western Australia to Switzerland where liberal assisted dying laws allowed him to end his life legally, in contrast to Australia where it remains forbidden…In his final hours, Goodall enjoyed his favourite dinner: fish and chips and cheesecake. And in his final minutes, he listened to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, best known for its last movement Ode to Joy, reportedly passing away shortly after the piece of music finished…Family members were with Goodall until his death…”
I too once courted death
2. I do not judge the professor for choosing to end his life as he did; decrepitude in old age is not easy. God forbid that I should! But, as I continued reading in a different paper, my eye fell on words like: “That’ll do me” – apparently, these were the last and final words he is said to have uttered, as Beethoven’s final bars played in the background. Professor Goodall is reported to have calmly drifted off to sleep and died, after he had personally, and, according to Swiss law, turned the valve, which released into his body the fatal dose of barbiturates. I could not help but feel a certain pang, a sharp pain of sorrow shoot through my entire body. I felt crushed in body and spirit; my head reeled, and my hands trembled. I suppose I was uncomfortable about the whole idea of suicide. A sense of embarrassment came over me, as I recalled my own particularly painful experience back in the 1990s. With the current migration crisis very much in the news…our daily meat and drink as it were, I recalled the time how, after a careful review of my unhappy personal circumstances, I came to the conclusion that I amounted to a ‘Nothing’ in England. I remember looking upon my classmates with whom I had studied at law school with envy, coveting their circumstances, as they made headway with their legal careers, while I, all I could do, was to sit and wait. I remembered how I cast eyes upon my situation, and the sum of my entire life seemed at that moment to come to a Big Fat Zero! I too courted death; for I considered death at the time as that which would be the happy conclusion of all my profoundly complex troubles in England. I had run myself into despair, and given up all for lost.
3. One of the astonishing discoveries in the loneliness of life as a refugee is the realisation that the lean kine do indeed eat up the fat ones. I found to my shock and horror that my thoughts were filled up with evil only, and wished that I had never got on that aeroplane in Uganda, which brought me to England in order for me to take up my place at Cliff College in Derbyshire. I felt like a trapped animal; I so wanted to die. I must, however, place it on the record that I did not go so far as to seriously contemplate taking my own life; as I did then, and still do today, strongly believe that the taking of one’s life is an offence against both the law of God and nature. I understand the commandment: ‘Thou shalt not kill’ to means ‘Thou shalt not voluntarily give up thine own life’ any more than take the life of another. Yes, I had grown weary with the long drawn out processes which Her Majesty’s Department for the Home Office is famous for; the Home Office’s Kafkaesque, chaotic and opaque procedures had really got to me; they had got the better of me. But rather, I instead pleaded with my Father in heaven through prayer that it should please him to end my life. And, in my pleadings, I considered it a tremendous kindness that God should be pleased to deliver me of my wearisome earthly life; for to do so would have been something of a coup de grace – a stroke of favour, as it were.
Depression – the trouble of the mind
4. Though I cannot pretend to understand professor Goodall’s particular set of circumstances which led to his carefully thought out decision to end his life, for a man’s character must not be taken from a single act; I do know a little about the trouble of the mind. Trouble of the mind, which is also known as depression, is probably the sorest of troubles. My darling wife, for example, has just endured several years battling with acute depression; she is, God be praised, presently emerging out of a very dark tunnel. I now know that when men are in a deep depression, it is fit and proper for those of us who are not, to afford them plenty of space, grains of allowance if you like; that is, we must endeavour to put a favourable interpretation upon what passes their lips; because when we make the worst of every word that passes their lips, we do not do as we would be done by.
A heap of dust
5. I also discovered that we all of us stand upon a heap of dust; some have a higher heap of dust to stand on than others do, as was evidently the case with the much respected professor Goodall; but still it is a heap of dust that holds us up regardless of our status in this life, it is a heap of dust which in very short order, can also swallow us up. We will all of us be crushed in some form or other; our bodies are nothing but mere dust; we die and waste away; we are crushed as one would a moth, crushed between one’s fingers, as easily, and as quickly; one may almost as soon destroy a man as destroy a moth. Such is the uncertainty of life – no matter who we may be. It was a very foolish prayer on my part; for we, and I am here speaking as a Christian, are specifically called upon to pray the Will of God according to the Holy Spirit; my prayer was in the circumstances a very presumptuous daring of God Almighty. I should have known better.
A sinking feeling
6. Not that I am defending my foolish prayer at the time, but I believe that when all things are considered, there was merit in my pleadings, at least merit in my own eyes. For I felt betrayed and bitter, a cast-away; I felt tricked into leaving Uganda on a promise of a new and exciting chapter, which would probably have led to a glittering career, either at home or abroad. But when the news came that my world had changed for ever, I experienced the same sinking feeling I had when I discovered that I had been tricked by my parents into going to a boarding school. One minute they were there, and the next minute they were gone; leaving me all alone among strangers, I remember hating them very much for treating me thus. And, as most children who were sent away to boarding school will tell, I quickly got over my rude awakening and ended up having a time of my life; I never suffered from home sickness while at school.
7. But the experience at Cliff College was different, however. The sinking feeling, the knots in the pit of my stomach did not go away for many years. All I knew was I had to survive the ordeal somehow; quite how, I had no idea. For I had no money, no bank account, no clothing except for the few items I had packed into my small suitcase on the understanding that new clothing would be provided for me once I got to England. One has to understand that I left Uganda in something of a hurry; it was done clandestinely, as father who at the time was under a ‘bind over’ court order, was most anxious not to alert the authorities; I left Uganda with the very bare minimum. Moreover, because of the hush hush nature of the departure, my Scottish step-mother, who accompanied me, left Uganda with the least amount of money possible, I think, it was less than £200 pounds in all; all our assets were at that time frozen. I well remember her rebuking me for handing a chap £5 for a cup of coffee at Gatwick Airport, asking him to keep the change; I have no recollection precisely how much the cup of coffee actually cost, I naively assumed £5 was reasonably fair. I now know the price of a cup of coffee. But, at the time, my mistake was perhaps to equate the value of the Ugandan Shilling to that of the British Pound. She very kindly dropped heavy hints that our family fortunes had changed, and that they were more likely to get a lot worse. It really never occurred to me how desperate things had become for the family, that is, until that fateful day at Cliff College.
The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel…
8. On leaving Cliff College, I removed to Cheltenham Town, the home town of a fellow Cliff-man(woman); it did not take me long to discovered that the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel, juice of sour grapes, sharp enough to set teeth on edge. Some African men in England, upon discovering my true identity, tried to take advantage of the situation. May it not be held against them! But a particular instance may now be mentioned. One African businessman, who in the interest of discretion shall remain nameless, offered to help me with an extraordinary financial package amounting to £20,000 pounds. He had heard that The University of Buckingham had offered me a place to read law, and that I was on the verge of surrendering it for want of money; he stepped into the breach, rather like a knight in shining armour riding to the rescue of a damsel in distress. Sceptical as I was at the apparent generosity from a complete stranger, and fearful that I might be the victim of a sophisticated deception, I asked my new found friends at Cheltenham, one of whom, as it happened, a prominent local solicitor – to make enquiries on my behalf in order to test the genuineness of the offer. Extensive enquiries were duly made and all the findings which came back were in the affirmative; and, adopting a belt and braces policy, a solicitor acting on my behalf (pro bono) contacted the businessman’s solicitors who were based in Gloucester, and a legal document was accordingly drawn up, stating that the businessman was committing himself to underwrite all my university tuitions fees plus the cost of accommodation up to the tune of £20,000 pounds, provided I supported myself the first 6 months of my studentship at the university. That is how I was able to secure my place at the Buckingham Law School, and the Home Office left me alone for the duration of my studentship.
9. But when the time came to take up the African businessman’s undertaking; his response astonished everyone who knew about the situation. He completely disavowed the agreement and in doing so, wrote me, in his own hand, probably the most offensive letter imaginable. I have kept the letter for future reference. The gist of the letter was basically that I had made up a ‘cock and bull’ story, feigning hardship in order to garner sympathy, that I was something of a fraud; he wrote that he knew for a fact that I was a son of one of the richest men in Africa (not true by a long mile), and that I should not embarrass myself and the African people, going around England begging for money. And, finally, he said that if I had any issues with the new government in Uganda, which in his view was one of the most enlightened governments in Africa he had ever seen; his advice to me was that I should get on the plane back to Uganda and face-down the Ugandan authorities in person; besides, he went on to add, my father’s wealth was probably ill-gotten, as was often the case with most so-called big men in Africa; and, in which case, whatever befell me was according to him ‘just desserts’ – pure and simple. Africa had suffered too long for being ruined by thieving men like my father, he said. Would that it were true; for I would have gladly taken the so-called ‘just desserts’ on the chin. The letter left me both shocked and speechless!
The Pilkington Trust (now Windle Trust International)
10. As a consequence of the above repudiation, my studentship at The University of Buckingham was subsequently suspended, as it looked for all intents and purposes that I had obtained the place by false pretences; it appeared to the university authorities that I had claimed to be in possession of funds to finance my education, which I clearly did not have. The university launched an investigation to determine what really was going on, and in so doing, the Emeritus Professor Peter Watson, the University’s Pro Vice-Chancellor and Acting Vice-Chancellor at the time, asked me if I objected to the university making enquiries to ascertain my true identity; he wanted to ask a contact of his in East Africa to go and look up my father in person. I gave my permission and the long and short of it, my identity was duly verified by Mr Robin Shawyer, the then Executive Director of The Pilkington Trust (now Windle Trust International) in a report he prepared after his trip to Uganda. I never saw the report myself, but it must have been sufficiently compelling that it persuaded the university authorities to throw their weight behind me, they offered to assist me in any way they could; my studentship was accordingly reinstated after an absence of about three months, the time it took to carry out the investigation. The university supported me with bursaries, which were supplemented with gifts of money from a circle of friends – the ordinary men and women in England I am anxious to honour. They were the means through whom God providentially answered my prayers.
Local Agenda 21
11. So when I completed the academic stage of my legal education at the end of 1993, the Inner Temple advised me not to proceed to the professional stage and read for the Bar of England and Wales; as my legal status in England was at the time still in question. I was told to wait until my outstanding legal matters were completely resolved, before I could be eligible for admission into the profession. Wishing to keep myself busy while I waited for a satisfactory resolution, I took up a role with a small charity in Cheltenham, The Rendezvous Educational Charity (now Global Footsteps Charity); I had done some work for them previously in 1989/90, during which time I ran a lecture series entitled, “Africa in an African lens.” I was also involved in preparing the first group of local Cheltonians who travelled to Kisumu, Kenya, under the auspices of the Cheltenham-Kisumu Twinning Association. This time I was asked by the charity’s executive director, the late Mr Dennis Mitchell, to help the charity promote Local Agenda 21 in Gloucestershire, following the 1992 Earth Summit in Rio de Janeiro in Brazil; Gloucestershire County Council had commissioned the charity to manage Local Agenda 21 on their behalf. I launched the campaign by successfully organising the first ever Gloucestershire Cycling Marathon in 1994; Sir Jonathan Porritt, the renowned environmental campaigner, kindly presided over the start of the marathon. I was ecstatic at having made the best of things, given the difficult circumstances. But my joy was short lived; for I was brought down to earth when I received an official letter from the Home Office forbidding me from taking part in any activity that would legally be construed as work – paid or otherwise. Thus begun my long wait in a state of limbo and, as the years rolled by, the more hopeless my situation appeared. It’s no wonder I wanted to be relieved of my life, that is, if God were pleased to do so in answer to my prayer.
A very unlikely friendship – a greyhead
12. But I am much indebted to God for his sparing mercies; not only did he supply all my necessaries during that sore period, but he also answered my prayer by putting me in the hopes that I should yet see a good issue of all my troubles, I was comforted by a series of strange providences. A particularly strange providence may now be mentioned. As I grappled with the reality that I was to remain in a state of limbo, without the slightest idea as to how long it would be before all my problems were resolved, I struck up a very unlikely friendship with a lady of whom some might happily describe as belonging to the old school, Mrs Edna Millwood; she profoundly touched my life in ways I could have scarcely imagined more than twenty five years ago. This was before I met Mr John Cornwall, the Nematode worm of Buckingham.
13. Mrs Edna Millwood was one of a small band of friends I became acquainted with, they were mainly of a certain age, greyheads to you and me; I came to know them particularly well, and they enriched my life exceedingly. Although nearly all of them have now gone to sleep, they continue to exercise an extraordinary influence upon my life as I will show below. I will, however, limit this discussion to Mrs Edna Millwood. I think of her daily; for I am reminded of her life by an old battered black book, ‘The Book of Common Prayer, Hymns A & M,’ which sits on my desk, along with my equally battered childhood RSV Bible. I have no idea how old it is, but, as I understand it, Edna had the prayer book for the majority of her adult life; she gave it to me as a token of our friendship in Christ, several months before she went into the Willen Hospice in Buckinghamshire, where she subsequently went to sleep. I take the two books with me wherever I go, in good times as well as bad; they are my trusted companions, along with my darling wife.
14. I have no precise memory of the circumstances in which our paths crossed. However, serendipity saw to it that we regularly passed each other in the High Street of Buckingham Town, and Buckingham being such a small place, it did not take long before our faces took on a colour of the familiar. I suppose we noticed each other as we respectively went about our lawful business; the next thing I knew, we were acknowledging each other, that is, giving each other the odd node or breaking into a knowing smile. And, in keeping with the typical English tradition, when dealing with strangers, it was a while before each of us plucked up enough courage to formally say to the other: ‘How do you do!’ Often enough in England, the reply one gives to that simple greeting, in addition to the sound of vowels that comes out of their mouth, is enough to betray their social background, the part of England they were born and bred, and their education.
Mrs Edna Millwood – a woman to reckon with
15. Not that it would have mattered much, but her reply, ‘How do you do!’ – which was accompanied with a strikingly disarming smile, immediately told me that here was a woman to reckon with. She did not suffer fools gladly. I was struck by her bearing: despite the fact that the left-hand side of her face was writ large with marks of cancer, for she had a glass eye in her left eye socket; Mrs Edna Millwood had about her that indefinable air of someone who has known better days, as indeed she had. I discovered afterwards that she had served in the Second Great War as a civilian officer, probably at RAF Bomber Command, and, if my memory serves me well, I think, her paths may have even crossed with the paths of that great man of the RAF, Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris. Moreover, I noticed that she was the sort of woman who was accustomed to exercising personal influence, the kind, when she entered a room by way of illustration; it had the effect of immediately raising the tone of the conversation, and as if purifying its very character. Her presence was transforming.
16. In addition to being marked by cancer which claimed her life at the tail end of the last millennium, Edna’s life was also touched by great tragedy and personal loss. She lost her father in the First Great War; Edna was lucky in that she had a resourceful mother, who successfully brought her up against the odds as a single mother. Her childhood was not easy, but comfortable, she was brought up in the discipline of the Christian faith; the theology of the Evangelical Baptist Church, of which her mother was a member, literally ran through Edna’s veins. I believe she was an active and lifelong member of the Church Mission Society. Her deep faith held her in good stead during the Second Great War; her husband, an officer in the RAF, if my memory serves me right, was one of the 57,205 RAF personnel who never made it home alive, leaving her a widow at a very young age.
17. In Uganda, I was brought up in the tradition of annual remembrance of the Armistice at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918; I remember finding the whole exercise something of a bore, despite having distant members of the family who had lost their lives fighting for the English King and Empire, in the Kings African rifles. But meeting Edna profoundly changed my attitude towards the Armistice. For ‘Remembrance Sunday’ was a very personal affair to Edna; the memories of the two wars were very vivid and fresh, they left deep scars in her soul. Edna never remarried despite many offers of marriage; for she was a very attractive woman, but she wanted to keep the memory of her dead husband alive, she used to say that he was the only man she ever truly loved. She adopted a Jewish baby girl (name withheld in the interest of discretion), whom she brought up as a single mother. It is Edna who taught me: “The hand we are dealt with is seldom the one we envisioned, but God is wise in all his dealings…”
Let friendship creep up gently to a height…
18. Our friendship crept up gently to a height; I was at first afraid of rushing things, lest our friendship should run itself out of breath owing to some misunderstandings or worse; I was particularly afraid of an accusation of a possible undue influence. But then, after several months had slipped by, and add to the fact that we were also near neighbours; Edna lived in a flat at North End Court, a retirement home in North End Square, Buckingham, and my Cottage was literally next door, at number 15; our friendship took on a life of its own. We found we had more in common than we at first imagined; we consequently bumped into each other more often, including inviting each other to our respective homes. However, in keeping with Proverbs 25:17, which states: “Let your foot be seldom in your neighbour’s house, lest he become weary of you and hate you,” we came to an understanding in that we set a specific time for me to visit her.
19. We agreed that I should visit her every other Saturday in the evenings, with a view of breaking bread together; our arrangement had flexibility built into it to accommodate for special occasions thus allowing us to see each other more often than once a fortnight. I got to meet her family (the adopted daughter is now a wife, a mother, and a grand-mother) including her extended family and friends. Those evenings where we often shared a meal together and a little glass of Port afterwards, to help with the digestive process, were probably the best moments in our respective lives; Edna was cured of the keen sting of loneliness in her old age, and I had someone to worry about other than myself. Moreover, those evenings were not only special to us in the sense that we ministered to each other’s needs in the ‘Word’ [we lingered long in the Word] – in accordance with 2 Timothy 3:16-17, namely, “All scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work;” but they also broadened our understanding of each other’s world, she gaining a deeper empathy with the challenges of black Africa, and I gaining a rich and subtle appreciation of the eccentricities that make for Englishness.
Strict discipline – in the company of illustrious historical figures
20. It was thanks to those lovely evenings that the idea of forming ‘The Swan and Pen, The Literary Society of Buckingham’ was born. Edna soon discovered that I kept a strict regime, to keep myself from drifting, wasting away my life; I was afraid I might make a ship wreck of it, afraid of falling into sundry temptations which lead to ruin and destruction. My fears were driven in part by the letter from the immigration authorities forbidding me from engaging in any activity that would legally be construed as work; we all know how the devil finds work for idle hands.
22. Upon receiving the dreaded letter, I immediately resolved to surround myself with the best possible company to help me kill time while I waited; father had taught me years ago that when push came to shove in a difficult situation similar to the one I was in, the best company was to be found in biographies of illustrious historical figures, they would, he said, show me how they handled particular challenges in their own lives and that I may learn from them a thing or two. I was therefore desirous to learn from them. Father had told me of how sons of great men, who having gone abroad had fallen on hard times and had sunk into oblivion, never to be heard from ever again. I was afraid that I might end up being such a one, a laughing stock and, an embarrassment to my late father, Mr Stephen Kamugasa, who held me accountable to the highest standards. I resolved to start putting together a small library; I started collecting books, buying books in local charity shops, the local flea-market, and a second-hand bookshop opposite the Post Office in Buckingham; friends also contributed to my growing library. My collection of books covered a myriad of subjects: politics, history, theology, law, literature, economics, business, and current affairs.
23. I resolved to rise early, in order to be at my desk by 4.30 o’clock in the morning (I still rise early to this day), where I worked until 9.00am to break for breakfast, which was followed by morning prayers at 9.45, joining in with the BBC Radio 4 morning service; back to my desk at 10.00 to 12.00pm to break for household chores and run errands, including picking up The Times at the local corner-shop; I would have a light lunch at 1pm in time for BBC Radio 4 – World at One, which was followed by an afternoon short nap, and returned to my desk at 2.30 to work until 4.45pm in time for the afternoon cup of tea and BBC Radio 4, PM – 5 o’clock news as it was then. I spent the remainder of the day taking long walks along the river Great Ouse in Buckingham, and getting to know the local natives.
Getting to know the Buckingham locals
24. The Buckingham locals are a mixed bag of people; a mix bag of people just like any other place on the planet. I enjoyed debating with all sorts of locals including some who might be described as racists, though, I rather suspect; most of them were merely misguided for want of relevant information, very few of them had any meaningful relationships with people different from themselves. By racists, I mean people for whom regardless what everyone else might say; genuinely believe that there is a qualitative difference based mainly on values, which distinguishes one race over another. I enjoyed going toe-to-toe with some of them debating Europe; many of them believe that the 1975 referendum on European Community was secured by fraud, and that the UK should never have acceded to the European Union in 1972; and, as for European Single Currency, it was a complete no-no! The sentiments expressed by Jose` Manuel Barroso in his acceptance speech of the European Union Nobel Peace Prize, in which he set out a vison of Europe: “As a community of nations that has overcame war and fought totalitarianism,” would have sounded like a clanging cymbal to their ears. Our debates also touched on the sore subject of immigration. They could not find it within their hearts, to be empathetic about other people’s suffering; the woeful stories broadcast on the radio and television designed to elicit sympathy, merely alienated them. They took particular exception to the apparent stupidity of multiculturalism and political correctness; we never could agree on anything really. The Brexit referendum result in 2016 did not surprise me at all! But there were some very enlightened locals in Buckingham, who counter balanced the so-called racists; they enriched my life with their local pearls of wisdom. Some other friends, greyheads mainly, and of whom I will write in the future, introduced me to the delights of wine from different parts of the world, including having a go at making sloe gin and elderflower cordial, and managing an allotment. These were the people, including those in Cheltenham and London, who supplied me with books.
How about starting a book club?
25. Thus was the background that led Edna to ask: “How about starting a book club?” She went on to add: “Surely, the authorities can’t stop you from running a book club…that is surely not work or is it?” Until Edna mentioned a book club, it had never occurred to me that such thing was possible. I had no idea how to get a book club started. Edna recommended I start by looking up the university seeing that I was a graduate; she had heard from one of the locals that the university had a very good literature or history department, she was not sure which. Edna went on to tell me how a certain Dr Jane Ridley (afterwards Professor Ridley), was actively encouraging locals to sign up to her biography writing programme, and that a retired lady she knew had signed up already. As a law graduate, all this was news to me; I had heard of Dr Jane Ridley during my studentship at the law school, but I had never met her personally. After sleeping on the matter overnight, I went to the university reception at Hunter Street and enquired about Dr Jane Ridley. The long and short of the story is that one meeting with Dr Jane Ridley led to another and the next thing I knew, the idea for a ‘book club’ had evolved to a full blown literary society, which was launched in January 1998. Many people were involved in bring the idea to fruition, but the greatest credit must surely go to Mrs Patricia (Pat) Phillips. Mrs Pat Phillips not only opened wide the doors to her home to accommodate the society’s early activities, but she also continued to hold the rope in support of it, long after I had moved on. It is sufficient to say however, Edna was the originator of the idea, I played a very small part in the planting, but it fell to Mrs Pat Phillips to establish it and keep the society going to this day.
Africa – a great need
26. But it was in two other respects that Edna’s intervention would have a very profound impact on my life. First, Edna was the first to see, that is, really see the woman that would later become my wife; she foresaw our marriage, long before a thought for a possible relationship between us had existed in our respective minds. Second, Edna challenged and made me see Africa in a completely new light, and it is in this regard I must now turn. Her active involvement in the Church Mission Society as a young woman inevitably informed the direction of our discussions on Africa; and the horror of the genocide in Rwanda of 1994 served only to add impetus to our conversations, she was particularly shocked at the continuing “man’s inhumanity to man” in the 20th century, it appeared to her that we had not learned anything from the horrors of the last two Great Wars. One evening towards the end of 1994, as it happened, I found her crying quietly; when I enquired what the matter was, she responded by asking a simple question: “How can it be that a born-again Christian could take part in an orgy of mass murder?” I knew at once she was crying about the lost souls in Rwanda. I am ashamed to place it on the record that I had no answer to her question. I still cannot explain the seeming incongruity nearly 25 years after the event. But Edna was a stubborn woman. She was not the sort of woman who would settle for: “I don’t know!” The “I don’t know” answer was not good enough for her, and thus begun a debate that would exercise both our minds until the time came for her to go to Willen Hospice, her health had deteriorated so much on account of cancer; there was a certain urgency to our discussions, as she wanted to get to the root of the matter.
27. Alas, we never did get to the bottom of the matter; and by the time she died, we were none the wiser. We were nevertheless agreed that the notion, that the legacy of missionaries was one of bitterness and impoverishment in Africa; was a grossly distorted and inaccurate view. We accepted that while it was true there were missionaries, who were racists and had done many bad things; missionaries were on a whole, a force for good. Recalling her active days in the Church Mission Society, she genuinely believed that their passion was and still is to rescue people from eternal damnation; it was her passion also, and it was the reason she continued to maintain an interest in Africa and other places where missionaries work. And, since the entire rationale of missionary work was Christ, that is, their overarching aim was to proclaim the Good News Gospel, namely, the glorification of God for his mercy; that mercy was therefore not a mere end in itself, but a means to the ‘big picture,’ which is, to glorify God. It was for that reason, she rationalised that missionaries could not continue to stand by at the sight of gross injustices perpetuated by colonial powers; they were, she argued, compelled to became political activists of a sort, to bring about political reforms by first transforming the minds of the African natives through sound education and wholesome medicine, in the years leading up to self-government on the African continent.
Dictatorship and authoritarian rule
28. But the subsequent political reforms which followed after independence in Africa were not guided, it appeared to us, by the renewal of the mind; a strange corruption set in, undermining the very institutions missionaries had worked so hard to establish. This is not just a problem in Africa, but history shows that wherever there have been political reforms without the transformation of the mind, the result has always been one of failure. We have seen it here in Europe, Edna would say, leading to two devastating world wars. And in Africa, post-independence Africa was characterised by military coups, which were followed by pseudo democracy; tyranny found a ready home, perpetuated thanks in no small part to the ballot box. Over twenty years since those conversations, it is bitter for me to place it on the record, that it has become acceptable in the 21st century Africa for scoundrels to carry out authoritarian coup d’état(s) by appealing to a largely ignorant people; we must remind ourselves that nearly 80% of those on the African continent are not educated, and of the remaining 20%, a considerable proportion of them have been poorly educated. I remember Edna and I wondering aloud whether democracy or rather the idea of democracy had been thrust down the throats of Africans much too early, as colonial powers attempted to accelerate the education work missionaries were engaged in, in a mad dash to quit Africa; leaving many Africans suffering from an acute case of indigestion, it may explain, we surmised, the persistence of dictatorship and authoritarian rule in Africa.
The culture of low expectations – little space for a well-educated African
29. In exploring the possibility of an African case of indigestion owing to democracy going bad, we continued to examine the educational contribution missionaries made on the continent as a whole. Edna shared with me how she specifically supported charities promoting education; for she considered the need for sound education in post-independence Africa to be particularly acute, second only to good health care. But she was alarmed when she heard stories from returning missionaries, how the seemingly well-educated Africans were not pulling their weight in the great work of building institutions capable of supporting new countries. I countered with an argument, it is an argument I had heard before from my father years ago, that we should perhaps go easy on well-educated Africans; we should cut them a little slack. I remember telling her how difficult it was to be a well-educated person in Africa; I told her how my father often had to financially help out friends of his discreetly. I personally remember seeing eminent professors at Makerere University reduced to virtual destitution, because they had gone for many months without pay. I think the authorities often forgot that they too had families to feed, including sundry expenses regarding the smooth running of their homes; they were often left financially embarrassed, and their plight was made worse because their families and relatives found it difficult to believe that a ‘professor’ could possibly be impoverished. Father used to call them, the ‘highly educated poor.’ If then professors could suffer such a fate, I remember asking Edna: what was the likelihood that a well-educated man could possibly have, to influence Africa through ideas?
30. If Edna were alive today, and given what I now know, I would impress on her that there is a reason why authoritarian dictators prefer to keep their people poorly educated; for poorly educated people with few ideas are less likely to ask difficult questions touching on say, the rule of law, freedom of speech, the management of public finances or general corruption. Ignorant people are not sophisticated and therefore will not make the mistake of asking difficult questions, it is probably the general thinking in the minds of authoritarian dictators; poor people are easily satisfied with the odd trinket or two from the hand of a benefactor-dictator, they do as they are told, they follow the big man’s every letter or syllable of his word. And, as a consequence of the low probability of any meaningful change of government, poor and unsophisticated people have also grown more realistic about their prospects under dictatorship; they have grown wise to the fact that if they do as they are told, they are less likely to get into trouble. It’s a question of survival. So there is a collective lowering of expectations.
31. They have worked out in their own minds that in order to get peace and quiet, including the possibility that an odd crumb or two might fall from the big man’s table, their best chance of survival lies in shutting their mouths; they have become content with whatever little money they can lay their hands on, be it a donation in a brown envelop or getting a job within the parameters set by the authoritarian dictator. They have seen with their own eyes that it is to no purpose to aim at becoming a professor, if becoming a professor leads to seeing oneself and one’s children starve; thus self-preservation outweighs all other considerations, and a deliberate choice to settle for ‘low expectations’ is accordingly made. This probably explains why the seemingly well-educated people appear to have given up as it were, they too want peace and quiet, they too want to sleep easy in their beds; thus raising people’s expectations is no longer the noble cause it once was, and if the cultivation of ‘low expectations’ is what it takes to get peace and quiet, then the culture of low expectation is the order of the day, foreign powers appear to endorse this view also, they too have given up. The focus now, at least in the minds of those who manage foreign Aid is, to maintain the status quo; why would anyone want to antagonize a dictator, when everybody knows that there is no hope of challenging the culture of low expectations; besides, it is easier to throw money at an African problem in the hopes that the problem remains on the African continent, as far away as it is practically possible from European shores. The current European migrant crisis appears to disabuse this view somewhat; for some Africans are risking all for a slim chance to make it in Europe.
Striking out on a new radical venture
32. Having finally accepted that there is never going to be an occasion for me to be useful in any meaningful way in England and, having also accepted that Uganda is now as good as lost to me (though not forgotten by any means); I now consider the chance meeting with Edna, a godsend. Those challenging debates were to me the foundation stone for a vision I am attempting to superintend. I would, of course, be a liar if I told you now that I knew what life would look like today more than 25 years ago, but the unexpected meeting of Edna, and many other greyheads in Buckinghamshire, Gloucestershire and London, have helped me discover that I probably have another calling. I believe this is what the lady at the Samaritans meant when she said after I resigned my role in the Magistrate’s Court at Aylesbury: “think it possible that God wants you to do something entirely different.” And, over the last 20 odd years, providence has helped me refine those ideas and thoughts to such a degree that in 2013, I finally summoned up the courage to embark on a new radical venture, the Ebenezer. It was a case of starting all over again, but this time with a clear eye on a purpose much bigger than me, namely, to inspire others to turn challenges into coherent and meaningful solutions – focusing on humanity, leadership and citizenship. I have no illusions about this undertaking. It is, on the face it, a hopeless task; but desperately necessary, and a worthwhile endeavour. It is in this regard that I can still hear Edna’s voice even as I write: “The hand we are dealt is seldom the one we envisioned, but God is wise in all his dealings.” I also hear her say, “Let God have complete sway in your life; embrace everything God sends your way, including suffering.”
33. As well she would say that: for life is indeed a constant struggle. Therefore, I say with confidence by speaking thus: what are the difficulties before me! Well, they are challenges to be deciphered. Dangers! What of them? Are they not things to be met and encountered! Impossibilities! They are to be searched out as a nightmare, a delirious dream. My job as a Christian is to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ. Things that are impossible with me are possible with God in Christ Jesus. Accordingly, we may correctly say that Edna has yet again provided the seed, and my role is to plant it; I must leave it to another to do the watering in the hopes that a mighty tree will one day emerge, stand tall, to give shelter that others might find rest, to the glory of God.
A Warning!
34. Whereas one must marvel to see a man live to a ripe old age of 104, to have lived long enough to have his life’s work done; to be willing to die, to go to his death as it appears cheerfully, and not to be forced thither, as one whose soul is forcefully required of him; we must nevertheless question the wisdom of taking one’s own life. The recent sudden deaths of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain are but a tragic reminder that suicide, regardless of circumstances is a reality. And, writing as a Christian, it seems to me to fly in the face of the notion that our times are in God’s hands; it is well they should be in his hands, for he will see to it that those who are his shall die in the best of time: however their death may appear to us untimely, it will be found not unseasonable. We should accordingly do all we can to discover practical solutions to counter the rise of suicides in our midst – medically assisted or otherwise. And one of the ways to reverse the trend is, perhaps, the strange idea of facilitating the meeting of people, especially linking up the greyheads with the young. This candid recital of my personal experience is not intended to boast about anything, but to show the extraordinary and untold benefits flowing in both directions, to the mutual joy and satisfaction of both parties. Meeting Mrs Edna Millwood and many other greyheads has been a life transforming experience, for I got so busy with my new relationships and activities that I completely forgot all about my personal woes.
35. I am personally grateful to God that he chose to answer my desperate plea to die with peculiar providences he put in my path. Mrs Edna Millwood is but one of many people through whom God worked this strange miracle; for had he answered my prayer as I had wished, I cannot begin to even describe the wonderful things I would have missed out on. I believe I am the better for it, and better fitted to usefulness, to play my part in this rapidly changing world. That’s why I sighed: “Rather than fall into decrepitude in old age, why not a dating agency for the greyheads – matching seniors with juniors…” But I must end this blogpost with a caveat: if this simple thought is to be taken seriously, and I think it may go some way to answering a real need in our aging society, it must however be carefully studied by those better qualified than me, in order to avoid tragic exploitative situations that tend to fill our press, especially the tabloid press. It is a sad fact that these things happen. But I believe the thought has merit as I have clearly demonstrated above. I comment it for your consideration.
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