Confessions of a Godfather

After an ambien-laced redeye from London, I was greeted Saturday morning at the Entebbe Airport in Uganda by blue skies, clean air, and friendly faces.  Unfortunately, the friendly faces checking my passport were hiding behind breathing masks.  As I handed in my health questionnaire swearing I had no bloody stool or vomit, no fever, and no rash, I received in return a muffled “you most are welcome” and a temperature sensor aimed at my forehead.  It was reassuring to see that Uganda is exercising caution in an effort to prevent Ebola from migrating the 2,981 miles from Monrovia, Liberia to Kampala, Uganda.  So far, so good — there is no Ebola in any part of East Africa.  In fact, I have been asked multiple times if I am fearful of catching Ebola in Kampala.  As a practical matter, this is much like asking whether I would be afraid of catching the bird flu if I went to India during a bird flu outbreak in Hong Kong.  Um, no.

On the way to the hotel, I talked to Justice K on the phone and learned for the first time that my Godfather duties the following day included a 6-10 minute speech to the hundred-plus gathered for the after party.  I must confess that I failed miserably in my first duty as Godfather – asking in advance what the duties of the Godfather were.

When I arrived at my hotel in Kampala, Henry was already there waiting for me, having left his medical school apartment at 3:00 a.m. that morning.  Over lunch, we had a chance to catch up and prepare for the afternoon meeting with his aunt about what appeared to be her efforts to take Henry’s family home and land from them in the wake of Henry’s father’s passing earlier this year.

Henry and Jim

The beginning of the meeting went according to plan.  We’d decided in advance we would hear her out first before making any accusations or veiled (or not-so-veiled threats).  Knowing all three of us are Christians, I opened the gathering in prayer and presented her with a box of Belgian chocolates I brought with me.  Both were well received.  She expressed disappointment that the land dispute was creating friction among the family, and she acknowledged Henry was the leader of the klan (of almost one hundred extended family members).  We all agreed we wanted to avoid any lasting enmity among the klan, and I asked her to tell us what her understanding was of the ownership of the property on which Henry’s family has lived for more than twenty years.

What she told us wasn’t what we expected to hear, which served as an important reminder I must again confess to having failed to fully learn.  When you have only one side of the story, don’t make any judgments about the full story.  She proceeded to explain that she isn’t Henry’s aunt (which Henry knew, but I didn’t), but is Henry’s father’s aunt – her brother was Henry’s father’s father, who died when Henry’s father was young.  She also explained that she took in Henry’s father in his teens for several years and helped get him a job as a mechanic.  She says that she bought the property in question in the early 1980s and allowed Henry’s father to live there until he was able to afford some land of his own.  The story sounded convincing, but still could have been made up, save for one important detail – she has the land title and took out a mortgage on the property three years ago, well before Henry’s father got sick.  (Later that day, Henry accompanied her back to her house and personally reviewed the paperwork).

Needless to say, Henry was quite surprised because all of this was news to him.  At some point in the conversation, his father’s aunt asked him what he’d been told about the property.  Henry said his father told him the land belonged to him.  She was quite surprised, and tears flooded her eyes when the realization dawned on her that Henry and the others believed she was trying to steal his father’s land.

So where does this leave things?  Well, up in the air.  Over the next week, Henry is going to try to get a handle on just how much she has borrowed against the land and then to see what sort of short- and long-term arrangements that can be reached that might allow his mother and his siblings to stay on the land.  Not a great situation, but at least there is now peace and understanding in the family.

On Saturday evening, I had dinner at my favorite restaurant in Kampala with Andrew Khaukha (Ugandan legal officer with whom I work closely) and the two Pepperdine Nootbaar Fellows – Megan Callaway and Jory Canfield – who arrived in Uganda a month ago and will be here for a full year.  Megan is serving as the first-ever, court-accredited mediator in the Family Division of the High Court (she worked for that court as a student during the summer of 2012), and Jory is continuing the tradition of Pepperdine alums serving as court-accredited mediators in the Commercial Division of the High Court.  Both are also doing some work on the side with me on the various other initiatives we are working on, including the full roll-out of plea bargaining across the country.

I spent most of Sunday morning talking with Henry and preparing my Godfather speech, which followed the late service at All Saints Church.  Justice K’s older two kids were adorable, but young Mark stole the show in his white tuxedo.

When Mark’s turn came, my job was to hand him to the priest and then “name the child.”  I did so with my best Ugandan accent – Mark Musiime Mweru Kiryabwire.  I actually got a smattering of applause at nailing the last name (Justice Geoffrey Kiryabwire is known as Justice K to Pepperdine students because of the difficulty of correctly pronouncing his last name).  When the priest scooped some water from a bowl and dribbled some over Mark’s forehead, Mark instantly became enamored with the source of the cool liquid (in the warm church) and reached down for the pool.  The priest accommodated Mark’s interest while he spoke, and Mark proceeded to splash in the water (to the delight of the crowd) until the ceremony was over.  As I took Mark from the priest, Mark swung his hand up and slapped some water on my forehead.  One can never be baptized too many times.

From the baptism, we went to a portrait studio for some official photographs, after which we went to the big celebration party.  After dinner, it was go time.  I recited the history of Godparents (9^th Century Germany – Council of Munich) and said a few words about how much Justice K and his family mean to me.  I closed with four blessings, one for each of his names:

Mark means warrior, and I prayed he would be a warrior for peace, justice, and reconciliation.

Musiime means thankfulness, and I prayed he would always have a word of thanks on his lips.

Mweru means brown (this was tough one), so I explained that since all the colors of the rainbow when combined make brown, I prayed he would be a vessel for bringing people from all tribes, nations, and races together in harmony.  (Corny, I know – but nothing else came to me)

Kiryabwire is literally translated as he who eats time (or eats at night), which means someone who is productive all day so he only has time to eat at night.  I made a few jokes about eating time and presented the family with a gift Joline had picked out from Harrod’s in advance (a silver-plated utensil set) and prayed that Mark would be as productive with “eating time” as his highly accomplished parents are.  It was a relief to have it done and the audience laughed when I hoped they would.

On Sunday evening, I had an opportunity to catch up with Dan Owens, director of Sixty Feet’s operations in Uganda.  They are such a great organization and it was good to catch up with him.

Monday was filled with wall-to-wall meetings, each of which went as well as I had hoped – lots of irons in the fire and some promising prospects of funding for the bigger ones.

On my way to my gate on my layover in Kenya, I ran into two of my favorite people in the world — Tim and Lucy Perrin.  The world is smaller than I thought.