When Salvation Took Flight

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The sun was out in Kampala despite the cold, frigid air. The ground was still wet from the heavy downpour last night and grass on the verge of the roads still glistened with fresh dew. Most residents in the south side of Kololo were going about their business on January 6th, 2018, when St. Catherine’s Catholic Church went up in flames that morning. The small leafy neighbourhood was shaken to its core as the iconic church, a cornerstone of the community since 1938, was engulfed in a raging inferno. Thick plumes of smoke billowed into the sky, casting a dark shadow over the entire neighbourhood, except for Regency Apartments that seemed to defy the smoke, towering majestically out of it. Its large glass windows looked untouched by the smoke while its balconies were full of residents staring down upon the burning structure.

As the fire department rushed to the scene, sirens blaring and lights flashing, onlookers gathered in disbelief. The old red fire trucks took a whole hour to arrive at the scene. The crackling of the flames could be heard from blocks away and the heat was so intense that it could be felt even from a distance. The once serene neighbourhood of Kololo was now filled with chaos and despair. The townspeople stood helplessly and in disbelief as they watched the historic church crumble right before their eyes. Precious memories of weddings, baptisms and funerals flashed through their minds. Generations had worshipped in St. Catherine’s, finding solace and community within its hallowed halls.

Amidst the chaos, Father Matayo, the beloved catechist of St. Catherine’s, stood outside the burning church, his long face etched with sorrow. He had dedicated his life to serving the parishioners of Kololo and seeing his beloved church reduced to grey ashes was a devastating blow.

Father Matayo, as the members of the congregation at St. Catherine’s fondly referred to him, was a very humble man with very few words outside the church walls but very different when inside the church, preaching about heaven and hell. He had been brought in 1986 by the white fathers from Italy who were long gone. Some had died from old age and their white gravestones glimmered in the sun, behind the church. Father Matayo was always seen personally uprooting whichever weeds grew around the sacred graves, often replacing them with lilies or hibiscus flower plants. His long wooden rosary hung around his neck like a yoke, but he did not show any signs of exasperation.

His movements were graceful yet powerful, a testament to years of training and dedication. The congregation always erupted in praise whenever he called upon sinners to repent lest they suffered for eternity in hell. Some even went ahead to drop cash offerings into the large straw baskets that sat in front of the church, next to the altar, but Kwetu, a very prominent politician, sat in his seat like a king, unshaken. His belly protruded through his Kaunda suit and his navel peeped out of his shirt. Whenever mass was done, he struggled to get up because his limbs could not allow him to.

As the flames finally subsided and the smoke began to dissipate, a solemn silence fell over the entire neighbourhood. The evening was now cooler. Doves perched on the branch of the mango tree outside my apartment. A white sedan raced a few blocks away followed by the sound of a police siren and a dog barked in retaliation. I slid on my loafers, wandered towards the window and puffed a long brown Marlboro cigarette. A white cloud of sweet-pungent smoke crawled lazily out of the window and I coughed, throwing the cigarette butt across the street.

Fela-Kuti was playing.

Written by

Stephen Ruhinda

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