Martyrs Day? Again? Already? I’m coming off as ignorant (HA!) here. I need not mention that I am not, because knowing me; it would be only too obvious mine is a mind obese with knowledge.
Anyway, to explain the Martyrs day amnesia, this day falls into that part of my brain reserved for repressed memories. You know, the ones you want to put in a bottle, lock in a trunk, chain and padlock, seal with anthrax and throw on a deserted island inhabited by immortal man-eating starved beasts.
I remember previous such days with nothing less than revulsion and dread. Calling upon these memories can send me to Mulago and I am not being hyperbolic here. For real!
My dad didn’t start this whole Namugongo business until about five years ago. I have no idea why and if I knew the guy who gave him the advice, I would beat his head to pulp and feed it to the gate-keeping vultures of hell. Or maybe it was a dream he had about the rapture or something equally deserving of a drastic change in modus operandi of life.
Well, start the tradition he did. Eventually it died out, because c’mon man, human beings can only endure so much. Regardless, every eve of every Martyrs Day from the time he made the decision, he would inform us we’d be going before hand (so we wouldn’t plan anything funny). And I think these are the nights God looks back on and smiles His big gentle smile then chuckles a bit, the kind of chuckle that builds up to gentle rocking laughter. By the time He’s done, He’s crying big celestial tears of laughter and can’t breathe for the love of Himself.
Reason for his mirth? Every eve of Martyrs Day would have me praying my little heart out.
I mean really pray. I grew up in a Catholic home. You said an “Our Father,” maybe a “Hail Mary” and you called it a night. I think I prayed to shame Job. That guy did nothing. I ‘d pray for a variety of catastrophes, traffic, an accident (I didn’t mind whose, at this point anybody would have to do and play Jesus… die for the sins of others), a flat tire, whatever.
And as always, we, that is father, brother and I made it to Namugongo just as the policemen were letting in the cars and smiling at everyone and showing us to the parking lot where convenience (that dratted thing) dictated there be space to park ten Bush convoys. So much for fervent prayer, huh?
A round of applause for the guys at UBC. You never know the horror of attendance until you’re part of it. It’s always too hot, too crowded and irritability levels sore like cage birds let loose. God rest the souls of the martyrs, but really! Need they have died so noble a death that we should have to converge at Namugongo year after year to commemorate this? Isn’t their life what we should look upon with awe and admiration, seek to emulate and all. I know, that’s a dead argument but you haven’t been there. You would be on my side, trust me.
I have faked sunstrokes, feigned faint, cut myself intentionally or “come down with diarrhea” so many times at these events I can hold championship title in any of these events if contest should arise. It is not a fun event. It is not a fun event, at all.
These memories were released from captivity this morning when I woke to the very sounds that this horrific event characterize. The TV was turned to full volume and my mother was watching attentively, the procession of Martyrs day by the grace and benevolence of UBC, without the hassle of having to be there. Would that I could have learnt of the experience from good ol’ TV where all most experience in the modern youth’s life is garnered.
More to my defense, many a great person in the history of man have died a “best seller worthy death.” Look to Socrates, Aeschylus, Diana and Dodi, Marvin Gaye… the list is endless. Should we then Martyr them and travel the world to commemorate their deaths? I’m just saying.
Disclaimer (I make a lot of these, don’t I?); anyway, my father is to blame. Dragging me there in the first place. Blame him for this direction of reason.
