Tombstones and Banana Trees by Medad Birungi

Author:Medad Birungi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: David C. Cook
Published: 2011-07-14T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Jesus Wept

It is only when you wake that you realize that what you considered to be normal within your dream was in fact quite unlike anything else in life. So it was with my first confession to one of my former targets: It was only as I walked away that I realized quite how terrified I had been. Eating together had been a practical act of restoration between us, and it was something we had not done for over five years. It meant they finally accepted us. This was wonderful, though I was still terrified.

The fear did not disappear quickly. It was there on Sunday as well, when I stood up at the front of the congregation at Kakiri-Kakiri Church of Uganda. This was the same church where I had hidden from the jigger hunters, the place where my faith had received its first morsels of nourishment and where my academic ability had been called out of its slumber. And here I was, standing in front of all these people who knew me, about to make myself vulnerable as a young man who had become a breeding ground for hatred, violence, immorality, and murder.

I decided not to mention any of the names of people I had wanted to kill but told the congregation about how Jesus had arrested me and breathed new life into me. I finished by saying, “Anyone here who I have had conflict with, I want you to know that I forgive you unconditionally. And I ask that you forgive me, too.”

My stomach knotted as I stood and looked out at the people. Some were sitting on low benches; others were standing or leaning against the mud walls. Yet the nervous feeling I had then was nothing compared with what I felt about the next confession I would have to make. As I left the church I knew whom I must speak with. I might not have liked the idea, but I knew it was the next step to take on this journey.

In fact the man I visited next had no involvement in Peninah’s murder. Our history was long, and I had wanted him dead for one hundred different reasons, all stored up within me over years of hatred and contempt. And then there had been an incident with a goat. Some years before—around the time when I was raging and drinking and fighting my internal civil war throughout the year after Peninah’s death—I had killed his goat, albeit not intentionally. I had thrown a stone at it, and it had died. He was a bad man with a reputation for violence, and so at the time I had denied any involvement with the goat, and the police had arrested and beaten someone else as a result. But I think he always knew I was guilty.

God had reminded me of this incident and told me I needed to confess. I had avoided this man’s house for years—as I had avoided other houses as well. There had

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