Phibi tilts her head to the side and clasps her hands in front of her stomach. “Yes, it is my dear. He was killed in your honor.”
I am horrified at my obvious faux pas and go back to the table to repent and eat the chicken, only to find that the Tutankhamun mummy has scoffed the lot! I can’t believe this frail old woman’s appetite—it is insatiable.
To the right-hand side of Miriam are a pile of raffia mats made out of palm leaves. As we are getting ready to leave, she pulls one from the pile and gifts it to me. I am moved by her kindness.
Miriam doesn’t want me to leave, I can tell. She keeps hold of my hand and affectionately strokes it. She asks to pray with me and leads us all in an emotional prayer of thanksgiving to God for the miracle of today and for the family in Scotland who loved and cared for Frankie until he was reunited with Janet in heaven. After saying Amen, she starts softly singing an old spiritual song that I know well from my childhood, “Kumbaya, my Lord”. Everyone in the room joins in.
The Wounded Healer
Dad often laughed about his “shameful” upbringing. In today’s society his illegitimacy wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow. But it is amazing how shame functions in families and how twisted the road to good intentions can become.
He always knew something wasn’t right, that he felt different in some way. Dad couldn’t explain it, but he knew that there was a secret surrounding him. Children are much more intuitive than we give them credit for and from an early age he had learned to read between the lines. Dad often said to me the most shameful secrets are exposed by their silence. He taught me to listen carefully to what people didn’t say. It was a good lesson.
After the de-closeting of Dad’s illegitimacy, he claimed that coming partly from unknown stock gave him a feeling of all things being possible. It was as if it gave him permission to stand apart from the crowd, to develop a different interior from the rest of the family. Dad’s illegitimacy somehow released him from his family shackles. However, the deep wound of being rejected by a mother he knew and a father he didn’t, and the shame surrounding his birth, left a painful hole in his heart.
Our beautiful dad
Dad was also a premature baby and therefore taken directly from his biological mother and put in an incubator. It’s not surprising he arrived early considering that there had been two failed home abortion attempts. Dad was a born fighter. There have been studies done to suggest that children who are incubated directly from birth have some of the same abandonment issues as those of adopted children. I have often wondered that if his mother had been allowed to hold him after his birth, if her maternal instinct might have kicked in and the pair of them would have had a chance to bond.
You’d be hard pushed to know that Dad was minister of the Church of Scotland. He was very liberal, totally down to earth and had a great sense of humor and drama. We didn’t pray at the dinner table, and he didn’t deliver biblical text at home. I think he had a bit of an aversion to the indoctrination of small children. Of course, we were baptized and brought up with what I would say were Christian morals, but Dad believed in each person’s right to choose their own spiritual path—or none at all. We did attend Sunday School but were never forced to go. Neither were we forced to read the Bible or quote biblical text.
Dad didn’t expect Mum to attend church either. After all, she had married a handsome, rugged bulldozer driver whose aspirations were more Hollywood than heavenly. Mum and Dad loved to tell the story of his road-to-Damascus experience. People were always curious about his dramatic conversion, so it became a bit of a party piece known as the morning after the night before. This is how I remember Mum relating it to me when I was in my teens.
“The day your father told me he’d found God, I thought he was still drunk from the night before or had progressed to drugs. I swear you could have knocked me over. I thought he was having a laugh and enjoying winding me up. He had been out all night on a bender and there he was, standing in front of me still reeking of booze, dripping wet, telling me he’d gone into a church and spoken to God, and he was going to become a minister. He’d never been in a church in his life!” Mum laughed. “I knew your father was bonkers when I married him, but this was his craziest stunt yet.”
“What did you do, Mum?”
“I told him to go to bed and sleep it off. Didn’t I, William?” She nudged Dad, who was pretending not to listen.
Dad faked a yawn. “Ah, but I didn’t sleep it off. And I still haven’t, all these years later.”
“I’ll never understand what happened to your father that day, but when he woke up he was still high. You’d have thought he’d won the football pools—I wish he had because we were destitute. But your dad kept saying he’d found something better than gold—he had found God. Honestly, I was ready to pack my bags and leave him and God to it!”
“Och Och, your mum was just concerned that there’d be no more sex! She somehow equated me finding God with becoming celibate. I kept telling her it’s only Catholic priests that have to give up sex, not Church of Scotland ministers.”
“I did not!” She slapped him playfully on the shoulder, pretending to be embarrassed. “I just wasn’t so sure I’d fancy you in that big black cassock. I happened to like your long curls hanging down over your face and those tight trousers and work boots. Look at you now—all suited up.”
Mum wasn’t your typical minister’s wife. Frankly, she would have looked more at home gracing a catwalk rather than a church aisle. She kept hoping to find the kind of faith Dad had found, but her faith was always rooted in him rather than in God. Still, Mum took her role as a minister’s wife seriously. As busy as she was raising three children and working as a full-time nurse, she still found time to join the choir, the Monday Night club, the Woman’s Guild and to attend every coffee morning she could. She baked, knitted, sang, and she drank—well, she had the odd tipple or two.
After the congregation’s initial shock at her long hippy skirts, Afghan coats, and beads, they loved her. She was the perfect hostess, loving nothing more than a party—as did Dad. The manse was always full of people. Mum loved to sing, her favorite being Barbara Streisand. Dad surprised her one day by going out and buying an amplifier, two big Marshall speakers and a microphone. No one had this kind of gear in their homes in those days, unless they were a pop star or in a band. It was amazing, and unsurprisingly the parties became even more popular. The manse was like the local karaoke club before that trend came to Glasgow. The cultural and social diversity was incredible, with conversation and drinks flowing till the early hours.
The comedy and tragedy of people’s lives were what made the manse such a tremendous place to grow up. Mum and Dad rolled with the punches and there was always a spare bed for someone in dire straits. I learned from a young age that life is not easy and people can find themselves in unbelievably bad situations.
Divorce, financial ruin, loss of a child, scandal, drugs, alcohol, suicide, rape – you name it, Dad dealt with it. Even if some of the details were a little shady for children’s ears, I learned to read between the lines.
Dad was not afraid to fight for justice and to confront the law. He used his agile mind to help the underdogs of his congregation and his friends. Our life was peppered with many people, not just ‘the Christians’ as Dad would sometimes jokingly refer to his flock, but judges, lawyers, theologians, politicians, football players, drug addicts, alcoholics, gangsters, prisoners, the tortured, the mentally ill and the victims of rape. Dad knew them both confidentially as a minister and as a friend. He helped them out when they needed him. People trusted him; although Dad had found God, he was still a man of the people and equally as at home in the pub or in the pulpit.
Dad did his best to protect his family from the harsher realities, but at the same time he didn’t shelter us from the awareness that life could throw some pretty big storms into the lives of even the nicest of people. From a young a
ge, I learned that no one was immune to pain, that it was part of life. This was a valuable lesson.
I wish there was one word to describe my father, but he was many things to many people. At his funeral, Dad’s friend and fellow minister described him as “the Wounded Healer.” Whatever deep wounds were left in Dad from the painful rejection by his biological mother and father, he was somehow able to overcome them and in so doing help others navigate their own pain and darkness.
I adored my father. But even as a child, I knew he was wounded. He appeared to the world as very together, charming, funny, intelligent, and compassionate—and he really was all of those things. But he was also lonely, depressed, misunderstood and insecure. I know this because my dad wrote all the time, not just sermons but lyrics, poems, and journals. He had even started a libretto for a musical and after his death, as with Frankie’s adoption papers, I inherited it all. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been privy to them, but what I read was a window into his soul.
While writing this book and going through the paperwork I inherited, I came across some letters my dad wrote to the General Register Office for Scotland in 1993. The date ties in with Frankie’s request to know more about his biological family. I had previously overlooked these letters as they weren’t in Frankie’s adoption file.
It looks like Dad had been trying to obtain Certificates of Birth for them both. Unfortunately, as they were both adopted he was only able to receive an extract of their original birth entries rather than the more conventional full Certificate of Birth which includes the time of birth, residence, and the name of both parents. He was eventually successful at getting a time of birth sent to him. However, it was obvious from the letters back and forth that Dad wanted to know if his father’s name was on the original documents. It would seem that frightening curiosity had eventually got the better of him too.
It’s a Wise Man who Knows His own Father
Uganda, 2012
It’s my last day in Uganda. Frank tells me he wants to take me to his church and then to visit his dad. I assume that means after church we are going to another grave. Frank has hardly mentioned his father in the three weeks we’ve been here, but he obviously wants me to go. So, out of respect I tell him that would be nice.
I’m surprised Frank is not with the Ugandan Church he was indoctrinated into by his grandfather. He tells me he left the Church of Uganda to join the Pentecostal Assemblies of God because the Church of Uganda let him down when his friend died of AIDS.
Frank is almost electric when he talks about the Watoto church. He’s excited to take me there. I have seen the gaudy ten-foot-high adverts for the church all over Kampala: they are hard to miss. The over-sell of this church doesn’t impress me, but I am prepared to give Frank’s church the benefit of the doubt for his sake.
As we drive toward the church the traffic is piling up by the minute. Frank points enthusiastically to a huge white marquee in the distance. “There it is. That is the church.”
Wow. It’s like a venue for a rock concert. Our car and bags are searched for bombs and guns then finally we are shown where to park the car—miles away. There must be over two thousand people here.
The tented venue is rigged with enough lighting and sound gear for a Rolling Stones concert.
The band starts up and they are good. I mean, really good. I know why everyone is here—for this incredible gospel music. They play a full forty-five minute set. I get right into the music. I love it, all the people singing and dancing and really whipping themselves into a frenzy. But this is just the warm-up act before the main act—the pastor.
The lights change on cue and with them so does the mood. The messiah has appeared! Is that dry ice I see? Hey, hold on, he’s white. I’m disappointed. I kind of hoped there would be a black preacher. I was looking for someone like the James Brown character from the Blues Brothers film. But this white man welcomes us all with his wide-open, white arms. Hold on a minute—that’s a Canadian accent. I have lived in Canada for eighteen years and never heard of him, yet he is a superstar over here.
It’s a two-hour marathon of hellfire and brimstone over the subject of tithing. Basically, we are being told we must give ten percent of everything we have and everything we earn—otherwise, God will punish us. But if we give to the church, God will reward us.
Neon quotes from the Old and New Testaments flash on and off on the screens to reinforce the word of God. If the preacher says tithing once, he says it two hundred times. He tells us how he lives modestly and drives a modest car. He subjects the congregation to a massive guilt trip just before the collections baskets are handed round.
Members of the congregation look and sound like they’ve devoured more LSD than fans at a ‘60s rock concert. Some of them even start speaking in tongues—even Frank does. I’m sure more people go down to the stage to be touched by this preacher than Elvis ever received. Personally, I am more drawn to his sweaty, brow-mopping sidekick choir leader. I can’t keep my eyes off him: think James Brown meets Mick Jagger.
It’s movie time. The big, wide screen in front of us shows us some well-constructed documentaries about the wonderful work Watoto Church is doing for the orphans in Uganda—in particular, the AIDS victims. I’m moved by the films they show. They are well produced but I do wonder if there could be a bit of child exploitation going on here. This church may well be assisting these kids—they are showing us evidence that seems to prove they are doing a great job—but where does one draw the line between help and exploitation?
It takes us at least thirty minutes to get out of the Watoto car park and away from the guard who wants to charge Rony for smoking a cigarette. Fortunately, the offer of one from his pack is enough to ensure he puts his gun down.
Frank wants to know what I think about his church. I don’t want to insult him. I tell him it was very different from our churches back home and it was like going to a rock concert. I tell him the churches back home are pretty much empty these days. He can’t believe it. Everyone in Uganda goes to church. I laugh and tell him maybe the churches back home should be producing shows like today’s to entice people back into the fold. I tell him, rightly or wrongly, a preacher who talks about tithing in our country probably wouldn’t have a congregation. He is shocked.
We negotiate the Kampala traffic for about an hour, talking about the differences between churches back home in Scotland and in Uganda. When I tell him old church buildings in the UK are being turned into nightclubs and bars he simply can’t believe it. In Uganda, new churches are being built every day.
Frank’s dad
All this talk helps the journey go quickly. We soon arrive in a small suburb, where Frank asks the driver to stop outside what looks like another small hole-in-the-wall shop. I think he’s just stopped to pick up something—perhaps some flowers for his father’s grave? Frank motions us to get out the car. Oh, great. Do I have to buy the flowers? We follow Frank into a dimly lit, narrow room. Sitting in the corner is a petite, frail old man dressed in collar and tie, wearing a Chicago Bulls basketball cap and large rimmed glasses. He is reading a newspaper and listening to a sports channel on the radio.
“Dad, I have brought some friends from Scotland to meet you.”
Oh, my God! Frank’s father is still alive. The old man looks up from his paper. The baseball cap and spectacles take up practically his entire face so I can hardly see his features. I guess that once upon a time the spectacles fitted his face nicely. He puts the paper down and shakes hands with us. He offers us a seat. There is a row of wooden chairs lined up against the wall, and we each pick one to sit on. I’m thinking this must be some kind of small office dwelling— although there is nothing obvious to suggest what exactly it is.
Frank and his dad exchange a conversation in their native tongue. I think Frank is telling them about Frankie, but I can’t be sure until Frank asks me for the photographs of Frankie. Frank sits beside his father an
d shows them to him. His father shows little to no reaction as Frank narrates the story.
His father finally starts to communicate in English.
“I told you to try and find the boy when you first heard about him—did I not?”
Mmm, I’m thinking, his father’s rather defensive. Frank looks somewhat cowardly in front of this tiny man.
His father looks at the photograph of Frankie in the kilt and tells us he wore one of those at school and how much he loved it. I surmise that he was well educated in a private school.
He looks up at Frank. “Did you tell them about Janet?” He speaks as if we are not in the room.
Frank says, “A little.”
What did he not tell me?
The old man continues to look through the photograph album, pushing the large glasses back onto his nose now and then.
Everyone else we have met has been curious about the circumstances surrounding Frankie. There have always been lots of questions from people and comments on how much he looks like Frank, but this man isn’t saying anything or asking any questions. He just sits with his arms folded in front of his chest, letting Frank go through the pictures one by one.
Finally, Frank says, “Don’t you think he looks like me, Dad? Here especially. Look.”
He nods. “Yes, yes I can see some resemblance.”
Frank goes on, “He even has the same name as me.”
His father doesn’t remark that it is strange he has the same name, as others do. There is an awkward silence. Eventually, his father asks, “Where is this boy now?”
Frank tells him he died in a fire. His father folds his arms even tighter across his chest and does a little seat shuffle. He says nothing. Now, this I find even stranger. Most people say something when they hear he died. At the very least they say they are sorry to hear that. But he doesn’t say anything.
I remember Frank said his father had been to the UK and my gut instinct kicks in. Good God, could he have been in the UK when Janet was there? Could this be Frankie’s father sitting here, right in front of me? It suddenly adds up. The name Frank. Frank was born before Frankie; they could have had the same father. Could Janet have been leaving a trace back to the father—the name means “a boy who knows his father.” Frank has been upset about the fact that they both have the same name and keeps asking why his mother would do such a thing, but this could have been a clue she was trying to leave for Frankie’s future. Has Frank suspected this all along?
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