Of adoption and Copenhagen
Dec 19, 2009
FLORENCE Athieno is known to me. Every time I hear the last four words of that sentence, I always remember, with a shudder, the late Benedict Kiwanuka, founder of Uganda’s Democratic Party, using them towards the Ssekabaka of Buganda, Ssabasajja Frederi
John Nagenda
FLORENCE Athieno is known to me. Every time I hear the last four words of that sentence, I always remember, with a shudder, the late Benedict Kiwanuka, founder of Uganda’s Democratic Party, using them towards the Ssekabaka of Buganda, Ssabasajja Frederick Mutesa II, back in the late 1950s.
It cost him the Leadership of Uganda at Independence, which went instead to Milton Obote, and the beginning of Uganda’s woes.
The Baganda couldn’t imagine the impudence of saying, “The Kabaka is known to me!†Why not “I am known to the Kabakaâ€, or even, “I know the Kabakaâ€?
I remember saying to Kiwanuka, when he came to Namutamba to campaign for his DP in the very early ‘60s for the elections leading up to Independence: “Aren’t you the man who announced the Kabaka was known to you?†The people gasped in mock derision. His retort was, “We know who you are, and how we shall deal with people like you!†So did we know, with people like him; very few votes did Mr Kiwanuka garner in our area. For lack of respect a crown was lost. Wily Obote did a deal with the incensed Baganda, whose Kabaka Yekka (Only the King) formed a coalition with his UPC; it didn’t last after he had obtained power.
Kiwanuka was killed by Amin, who according to common legend kept his head in his freezer. Obote sent Amin to kill the Kabaka in his Palace, but this latter failed in the short term, although the poison sent later to kill him in his exile in London did the trick. Open even just a flap of History and you will unearth matters sometimes better forgotten!
*****************
Anyway, I meant to say: Florence Athieno the Pastor/Adopter of children at the very bottom of our society is well known to me. And it is of her work and the mighty hiccup that befell it last week that I bring you. The Authorities, in the form of an Acting Assistant Commissioner, Children Affairs, in the Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development (strange place to place kids in the first place?) paid a visit to her Orphanage, accompanied by a posse of police. She was told all the kids were being taken from her and moved wholesale to another in Naguru, a place notorious for its ugliness and state of ruin, to say nothing of its inability to take adequate care of its pitiful clients.
Partly, many say, it is because most of its workers are wage earners who frankly “carry little heart for their chargesâ€; you know the type. Florence for her part, mother to her myriad brood, was being arrested and taken to prison. Her crime? That she had failed to register her orphanage. She pulled out papers to prove that the process was well advanced. Surely in that case, I said to the AAC, CA (above) on the phone, sending this good caring woman might be vindictive. He said he was trying to convince the police, and in the event the Mother escaped incarceration: victory for commonsense, but the kids were carted away.
The man added that in his view Florence’s place, with some few improvements, would suit 15 of the 40 children, incidentally a figure I had previously suggested to Florence. Her problem always was: which 25 do I give away, and to whom? It resembled the Bible story of two women claiming the same child. It was suggested, with some cunning, that the child be cut into two. Yes, said the non-mother; no, said the real one, let her take the child, then. You can guess who got the child!
On Thursday I called Florence; there was crying in the background. I said, “Oh, you’ve got them back!†She, wearily, “Yes,†- about twenty-five of them. None of the children would agree to stay at Naguru; they would rather take their chances on the streets. Those responsible for the 25 had signed for them to return to Florence, the others had dispersed somehow, awaiting the day something was worked out for Florence. What about the Authorities? “The Commissioner,†said Florence, “promised to come again, and this time put me behind bars, that he had done me a favour before.†The kids? “Most got very sick at Naguru. “You can hear them maybe.â€
There you have it, a Scrooge story for our modern times at Christmas! Don’t just sit and write angry letters to the papers: dig in your pockets and collect something for these detritus of our times, for their medicines and something to eat in the festive season. My number: 0752 770600. Florence’s: 0772 689255.
***************
Somehow my space has run out for the Copenhagen Climate Change story, although by yesterday morning it appeared a major miracle might still happen and a half cake eaten, infinitely better than none! For an even instantly better Christmas present, if you are a Movementist, five Opposition parties agreed this week to field a single candidate against the Movement.
If the elections were in January 2010, it would be enough for our friends to break asunder. But 15 months, excuse me while I snigger. And a merry Christmas to us all!
FLORENCE Athieno is known to me. Every time I hear the last four words of that sentence, I always remember, with a shudder, the late Benedict Kiwanuka, founder of Uganda’s Democratic Party, using them towards the Ssekabaka of Buganda, Ssabasajja Frederick Mutesa II, back in the late 1950s.
It cost him the Leadership of Uganda at Independence, which went instead to Milton Obote, and the beginning of Uganda’s woes.
The Baganda couldn’t imagine the impudence of saying, “The Kabaka is known to me!†Why not “I am known to the Kabakaâ€, or even, “I know the Kabakaâ€?
I remember saying to Kiwanuka, when he came to Namutamba to campaign for his DP in the very early ‘60s for the elections leading up to Independence: “Aren’t you the man who announced the Kabaka was known to you?†The people gasped in mock derision. His retort was, “We know who you are, and how we shall deal with people like you!†So did we know, with people like him; very few votes did Mr Kiwanuka garner in our area. For lack of respect a crown was lost. Wily Obote did a deal with the incensed Baganda, whose Kabaka Yekka (Only the King) formed a coalition with his UPC; it didn’t last after he had obtained power.
Kiwanuka was killed by Amin, who according to common legend kept his head in his freezer. Obote sent Amin to kill the Kabaka in his Palace, but this latter failed in the short term, although the poison sent later to kill him in his exile in London did the trick. Open even just a flap of History and you will unearth matters sometimes better forgotten!
*****************
Anyway, I meant to say: Florence Athieno the Pastor/Adopter of children at the very bottom of our society is well known to me. And it is of her work and the mighty hiccup that befell it last week that I bring you. The Authorities, in the form of an Acting Assistant Commissioner, Children Affairs, in the Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development (strange place to place kids in the first place?) paid a visit to her Orphanage, accompanied by a posse of police. She was told all the kids were being taken from her and moved wholesale to another in Naguru, a place notorious for its ugliness and state of ruin, to say nothing of its inability to take adequate care of its pitiful clients.
Partly, many say, it is because most of its workers are wage earners who frankly “carry little heart for their chargesâ€; you know the type. Florence for her part, mother to her myriad brood, was being arrested and taken to prison. Her crime? That she had failed to register her orphanage. She pulled out papers to prove that the process was well advanced. Surely in that case, I said to the AAC, CA (above) on the phone, sending this good caring woman might be vindictive. He said he was trying to convince the police, and in the event the Mother escaped incarceration: victory for commonsense, but the kids were carted away.
The man added that in his view Florence’s place, with some few improvements, would suit 15 of the 40 children, incidentally a figure I had previously suggested to Florence. Her problem always was: which 25 do I give away, and to whom? It resembled the Bible story of two women claiming the same child. It was suggested, with some cunning, that the child be cut into two. Yes, said the non-mother; no, said the real one, let her take the child, then. You can guess who got the child!
On Thursday I called Florence; there was crying in the background. I said, “Oh, you’ve got them back!†She, wearily, “Yes,†- about twenty-five of them. None of the children would agree to stay at Naguru; they would rather take their chances on the streets. Those responsible for the 25 had signed for them to return to Florence, the others had dispersed somehow, awaiting the day something was worked out for Florence. What about the Authorities? “The Commissioner,†said Florence, “promised to come again, and this time put me behind bars, that he had done me a favour before.†The kids? “Most got very sick at Naguru. “You can hear them maybe.â€
There you have it, a Scrooge story for our modern times at Christmas! Don’t just sit and write angry letters to the papers: dig in your pockets and collect something for these detritus of our times, for their medicines and something to eat in the festive season. My number: 0752 770600. Florence’s: 0772 689255.
***************
Somehow my space has run out for the Copenhagen Climate Change story, although by yesterday morning it appeared a major miracle might still happen and a half cake eaten, infinitely better than none! For an even instantly better Christmas present, if you are a Movementist, five Opposition parties agreed this week to field a single candidate against the Movement.
If the elections were in January 2010, it would be enough for our friends to break asunder. But 15 months, excuse me while I snigger. And a merry Christmas to us all!