PASTORAL REFLECTIONS ON PROSTITUTES AND RELIGIOUS CONMEN

Prostitutes and religious conmen hear me well. I am not a loaf of bread. I am husband. I am a father. I am a pastor. I am a runner. I notice that some choose to follow me. Some are seekers. Some are children. Some are prostitutes. Some are religious conmen. I am amazed at the similarities between prostitutes and religious conmen. I see they suffer from the same root causes. For the seekers and children, I know where you can find life giving bread. I hope we can find a shared answer.

I live in Kimihurura between the Papyrus Restaurant and Cadillac Night Club. Between 9:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. on Friday and Saturday nights I see women who appear to be prostitutes outside my home. They are scantily dressed. My Saturday morning usually starts with a run. My Sunday morning usually starts with leaving home early to prepare for worship at CCR. Many times, I have short conversation with the women who appear to be prostitutes. They call me sweet names, try to initiate conversations, and some even try to touch me. I am 44 years old. I have never been described as handsome. I have a bad back, five kids, and a missionary salary. A young scantily dressed attractive woman who has a romantic interest in me is either mentally deranged or a prostitute. I am a husband. I am a father. I am a pastor. I am a runner. I am not a loaf of bread. When a prostitute calls me, I keep running. They leave me after less than 100 meters.

I am a Muzungu. I at times appear to have money. I sometimes attract religious conmen. They find me at all hours of the day and a multiple of times per week. Their dress is either immaculate or shabby. They try to make me either feel sorry for them, or be amazed by their spiritual power. I have learned not to trust them. However, some of my Bazungu friends will listen to their stories. They speak sweet Kilokole. However, like the prostitute they only see me as a loaf of bread. When the religious conman calls me I keep running. I am not a loaf of bread. They leave me after a few pastoral running strides.

On my morning runs sometimes the children of Kigali choose to join me. We run together. They make me laugh. They seem to know who I am. Sometimes, they chant, “Jesus,” or, “Imana ishimwe.” They follow me kilometer after kilometer. They make me a better runner. They enjoy my friendship and seem to know I seek the bread of life.

At Sunday mornings at CCR and throughout the week, seekers choose to join me. We pray together. We share. We laugh. We cry. Sometimes, we dance. They find my failings and still follow me kilometer after kilometer. They make me a better pastor. They enjoy my friendship and seem to know I seek the bread of life.

As the children join me on a run I notice some are girls. I wonder if the prostitutes who follow me for a few meters once were little girls who shared a run with me for kilometers. Something went terribly wrong.

As the seekers join me for prayer I notice some are hurting. I wonder if the religious conmen who follow me for a few meters were once honest seekers who shared life with me. Something went terribly wrong.

I don’t like prostitutes or religious conmen. I don’t like being treated like a loaf of bread. However, I find that both suffer from the same disease. Prostitutes and religious conmen thrive in a world of non-literacy and poverty. In a way they are victims.

I do enjoy children and seekers. I think they follow me for the much the same reasons. We both seek friendship and the bread of life. Life may have struggle, but we refuse to be victims. We thrive in a world full of love, hope, and joy.

Prostitutes economically thrive by finding those who are sexually unfulfilled. Religious conmen economically thrive by finding those who are emotionally unfilled. I find the prostitute’s and religious conmen’s clients to be more repulsive than the prostitutes or religious conmen. Some like to rant at prostitutes and religious conmen. Some intend to police them out of existence. However, let me propose a few solutions to make Kigali a more pleasant city. Let us build schools and businesses. Let us build a literate and wealthy population. There will always be a portion of our city that is poor. However, let us make the options of prostitution and religious conmen much less financially advantageous.

Next, let us find a way to police the financiers of prostitutes and religious conmen. If we dry up the money the prostitutes and religious conmen will go somewhere else. Maybe, we would be well served to run internet photos of both prostitute’s clients and religious conmen’s financier with a short story?

Prostitutes and religious conmen, I feel mercy for your situation. However, I am not a loaf of bread.

Children and seekers; let us continue to run. Together we can find the bread of life.

RWANDAN SECRECY, HUMILITY, OR GOOD MANNERS?

Why in Kigali is the obvious so difficult to discover? Why do key pieces of information sit hidden underneath the table?

Rwandans will sometimes describe themselves as “discreet.” Our region’s rumor mongers love discussing Rwandan secrets. Those who lean towards paranoia conclude that like King Solomon’s hidden mines somewhere in the deep bowels of Kigali lies a massive store room of files and secrets gathered for the last 50 years.

However, what if Rwandan secrecy is simply humility? What if some secrets are just treasures to be discovered in friendship? What if secrecy is only good manners?

Mzee's wife masquerading as daughter

A few months ago, I returned to Rwanda after a year of healing in the US. I boarded a plane from Brussels to Kigali and pondered what old Rwandan friends I would meet on the plane. As I walked the aisle I noticed a friendly familiar face. She realized I was suffering from a fuzzy memory and had the grace to re-introduce herself as a university student of mine from several years ago. After our flight was underway I went back to see what life had given her. She had two beautiful young children. She had a good job. She asked me about my life. She shared that like many in Kigali my family’s health had been a subject of prayers for a year. She remembered 5 years previously when our church and school were only ideas and I a part-time lecturer. She thanked me for the labor. I realized what ever good I had accomplished was only by the grace of Rwanda and God. After about 15 minutes of conversation I decided to ask her about her husband. She gently mentioned that I may know her husband. I hoped he was not a former student or parishioner that would further embarrass my poor memory. Then she disclosed that she was married to a minister. I had never met him before, but seen his picture in the news. I was a bit shocked as he seemed about 15 years older than she. As she caught my foolish observation she told me their family story. I realized that like many of us in Kigali, the minister had married well to a woman who was his age and intellectual peer, but much better looking than he. I disclosed that sometimes my wife is mistaken for my daughter, and I like the minister am very thankful for a youthful looking wife.

I walked aware from our conversation and pondered Rwandan secrecy. If I had boarded a plane to Entebbe or Nairobi, met an old friend from days of youth, and they had married a minister we would not have spent 15 minutes in small talk. My old friends from the region would have disclosed their relationship power within moments of reconnecting. (In fact, my Bazungu clan mates would have done no better in their name dropping.) Maybe, Rwandan secrecy is actually humility?

As we landed in Kigali we both gathered our luggage and our children. We smiled at one another and wished one another well.

Airports are messy gatherings of humanity. After the order of security it all brakes down. Family and friends reconnect. Hugs and tears; smiles and laughter; warm hearts and broken spirits are the substance of airport meetings. In the joyful messiness of community life the crowd is jumbled. Lines become confused. Systematic order is forgotten. I like airport meetings and suspect many others find people watching at an airport much more enjoyable than the latest episode of Big Brother.

I watched my old student meet her husband. He had driven into the VIP section. He gathered his wife and children and prepared to leave. She noticed me and stopped to introduce her husband. We started a simple conversation, and I was a bit embarrassed.

Then we were interrupted an arguing Buvera Muzungu. He was trying to move his luggage cart, and the minister’s car was in the way. The Buvera Muzungu explained that the minister was improperly parked. The minister closed our conversation and drove away. The Buvera Muzungu moved on confident that Rwanda would conform to his corrections.

I was stunned. If I had been in Entebbe or Nairobi and a Buvera Muzungu corrected a minister it would not have closed so quietly. There would have been no peaceful parting. The Buvera Muzungu would have been introduced to the full force of the minister’s power. Only in Kigali would the minister keep his power hidden. Maybe, Rwandan secrecy is actually humility?

A few days later, I pondered the events some more. What are good manners at an airport? How should one respond to the messiness of life in community? Should life become orderly for every luggage cart pusher? Are there parts of life more important than order? It seemed to me that good manners at an airport are full of grace. Good manners at an airport greet and embrace. Good manners at an airport smile as they watch old family and friends reconnect. Good manners at an airport enjoy making new friends. Good manners at an airport wait. They do not correct a stranger. Good manners at an airport treat one with respect whether one’s status is VIP or not. The Buvera Muzungu was rude. The wife was humble. The minister was kind. Maybe, Rwandan secrecy is actually just good manners?

THERE ARE NO RWANDA EXPERTS

Have you noticed our contemporary plethora of Rwanda experts? Everyone knows one. Many want to be one. Some are quick to take the title. Yet, I propose there are no true Rwanda experts. Webster’s Dictionary defines an expert as one with special skill or knowledge representing mastery of a particular subject. No one within or without has yet mastered the knowledge of Rwanda. All who labor and live in Rwanda are still discovering. A few are wise. A few have mastered a specific area of knowledge. None have mastered Rwanda.

Twenty years ago, Rwanda’s northeastern neighbor, Uganda sought to explain her chaotic post-colonial past. Alex Mukulu wrote the play, “30 Years Of Bananas.” The opening scene involves the search for an unbiased narrator. One by one each narrator option is eliminated. No one from within could narrate Uganda’s history due to tribal and political bias. No one of influence from without could narrate Uganda’s history due to the “view from the Pajero.” Only a Rwandan refugee, Kaleekeezi could tell the story of Uganda through the eyes of an unbiased participant. Kaleekeezi made us laugh with his humble and pointed critiques. He danced, he drank chai, and his fortune followed Uganda. Some today, desire to be voice of Kaleekeezi to Rwanda. Maybe, even those who discovered Uganda through the eyes of Kaleekeezi ponder if they are the Rwanda equivalent. Yet, none have walked the path of Kaleekeezi and been a 30 year humble participant. Some Rwandans find Kaleekeezi offensive. He represented the stereo-type that never permitted them to be at home. Yet, Kaleekeezi’s charm is inescapable. Maybe, Kaleekeezi is the reason so many desire to be his home’s narrator. Let us follow Kaleekeezi’s search to discover a Rwanda expert.

From within Rwanda we search for an mzee. We seek to find expertise through age and history. True there are those with gray hair. They can tell the stories of old. Some have studied and are masters of academic subjects. They are the advisers to both the powerful and the youthful seeker. Yet these men and women of wisdom refuse to take the title of Rwandan expert. Most even deflect compliments about their wisdom and knowledge. The academics have seen the unending rows of books in the library. They know their knowledge is only finite while expertise is infinite. Others just acknowledge their wounds. Many have found healing. They sing, smile, and dance. Yet, the wounds have left scars. A scar upon one’s joints limits mobility. Limited mobility prevents one from turning one’s body and head. Even when one’s ears are attentive and sound, a wounded joint prevents clear discovery. The healed sometimes is unable to turn and fully see. The wounded mzee’s limitations taught him to go forward quickly. His generation’s task is to build. In the building our wounded mzee may not understand all Rwanda requires. His humility knows this and looks to another for expertise.

As our Rwandan mzee refuses the title of expert many pretenders arise. The Bazungu quickly takes the title of Rwanda expert. He knows with expertise comes fame, power, and reward. His appetite for all is unending. Thus he will pretend and even deceive himself to take the title of Rwanda expert. The Bazungu Rwanda experts come in three flavors. You can meet them all on any international flight into Kigali. The first one to be noticed is the V.I.P. Muzungu. He is one of power, wealth, and influence in his home nation. If he has a measure of wisdom, he like our Rwandan mzee deflects compliments to another. He realizes that like Kaleekeezi sometimes the ball just bounced well for him. He was on a winning team when he may have been a poor player. Yet the appetite for expert status is too much to resist. He is met at the airport by another V.I.P. He is quickly ushered through immigration. He is driven to the Serena. He eats and sleeps well. He tours Rwanda in style. He counsels the powerful. If he is proud, he begins to believe the words that are spoken about himself. In the sweet words and posh treatment he misses that the profound is discovered in waiting and suffering. The V.I.P. Muzungu will leave as quickly as he came. He will never sit and wait in an office. He will never be told to return days after days. His children will not be subjected to Rwanda’s medical care nor even have a minor case of malaria. The only humble Rwandans he will know are the ones he meets in a photo opportunity. Because he never becomes a suffering friend of the humble he will never be a Rwanda expert.

The second Muzungu pretender is the Buvera Muzungu. He enters Rwanda with an item he bought in the international airport just before he reached Kanombe. He walks through customs thankful for the wine, chocolate, and perfume of his last stop. He carries his duty free trophy in a plastic bag. Then he meets a Rwandan customs official and is informed that Rwanda allows no buvera. He does not know what a buvera is, but he knows his property rights. No one will take his plastic bag. The Buvera Muzungu comes arguing. He will stay in Rwanda arguing. He will leave Rwanda arguing. He likely will never even discover what a buvera is. If he does learn the meaning of buvera he will search for buvera in Rwanda. He will find the inconsistency of Rwanda practice. Yes, there are buvera in the trash piles of Kigali. The Buvera Muzungu stands upon these trash piles and argues until he reeks of dirty buvera. None can stand him any longer. He simply leaves and with his buvera enters the blogosphere of Rwanda haters.

The third Muzungu pretender is the “I’ve been around the block” Muzungu. These Bazungu come in 2 sub-flavors. The first is the one who entered Rwanda before 1994. His early discovery of Rwanda came through colored lenses. He may be a master of Kinyarwanda. However, his mastery of Rwandan language and culture is seen through lenses that did not experience refugee living from 1959 to 1994. Rwanda was peaceful before 1990. However, not all Rwandans lived in peace before 1990. If this sub-flavor of Muzungu is wise, he like our Rwandan mzee looks to another for expertise.

The second sub-flavor of the “I’ve been around the block” Muzungu has an old history in the Great Lakes Region, but entered Rwanda after 1994. He knows many people. He hears many rumors. His mastery of Rwandan comes through the lenses of friendships with those who were refugees from 1959 to 1994. He ponders if he like Kaleekeezi is just a recipient of good fortune. He suspects that if he is asked to narrate and participate he will still be the subject of secret jokes. If this sub-flavor of Muzungu is wise, he like our Rwandan mzee looks to another for expertise.

In our search for Rwanda’s Kaleekeezi journalists enter the race. Something about Rwanda fascinates the deepest part of their being. Is it the beauty of Rwandan women, a clean and orderly city, or just an unfulfilled longing? They are enticed with the rewards of being a Rwanda expert. The world’s eyes are upon Rwanda and her story teller will be richly rewarded.

The Rwanda critical journalist enters the race as a Rwanda expert.    For those who learned Rwanda through the lens of Kaleekeezi Rwanda criticism stir deep wounds.    The wounds are so deep that first emotions are of self-hatred.   Naively the Great Lakes once heard banter about peace and democracy in the early 90's.    Naively some of us listened to mythology about Rwandan women's sexual prowess that later justified rape.   Naively I even once provided dinner to Bazungu travelers who told stories of Tutsi invaders from Uganda.  The stories sounded reasonable, but the philosophy a few months later justified genocide.   Many of us are still in a season of repentance that may last a lifetime. 

Our scars are full of pain.  The stories of the Rwanda critical journalist are too close to our old wounds.   Our wounds will be healed by time, compassion, and shared labor for coming generations of children.   Kaleekeezi was an expert to our neighbors through humility and humor.    The critic must humbly acknowledge our pain, and be with us until our tears of grief become tears of joy.   That day is not here yet.   When it comes we'll be overwhelmed by how God's grace took us through such painful reality.

The Rwanda booster journalist may also pick up the title of Rwanda expert. His history is likely entangled with Rwanda. He may be young, but his stories are old. He is well read and connected. His fascination with order reflects his hidden wounds. His childhood heroes are disappointments. He has found a new savior in Rwanda. He pours his full energy, intellect, and resources into Rwanda boosterism. The Rwanda mzee will quietly try to usher the booster away from Rwanda salvation. The mzee knows his and Rwanda’s failings. Another expert must arise. The pretenders must cease.

Rwanda experts are arising. They will be numerous in number. They can be found today in Rwanda’s nursery, primary, and secondary schools. A few may cluster in universities. They are true believers in Rwanda unity. They see the wounds of the bzee and feel no disdain for the bzee’s lack of expertise. They are friends with both those who were refugees in Uganda and Congo. They listen well and ask many questions. They seek before they speak. They know suffering and waiting are the uniting principles of a new Rwanda. Yet, they are not content to live in destructive cycles. They study history not to complain about the past. They study history to discovery Rwanda’s future. They are masters of Kinyarwanda and understand the complexities of Rwanda’s history and culture. They listen to the Kigali’s many radio languages. They choose a favorite radio station, but not a favorite language. Rwanda’s future will be discovered in Kinyarwanda, but implemented in English, French, German, Kiswahili, Lingala, Luganda, Arabic, and Chinese. Languages are only the tools of trade. Rwanda’s experts will arise as her youth become bzee. They will manage complexities with grace and show their expertise through comprehensive wisdom.

So today Rwanda is a nation with no experts, but great wisdom. The wise acknowledge their colored lenses and wounds. They giggle at both their failings and the pompous pride of the pretending experts. The wise listen well to the ambitions and questions of Rwanda’s youth. The wise suffer with a smile and wait for Rwanda’s youth to become mature. Rwanda experts are coming.