I captured this image with a church about an hour after a funeral service of a first cousin in Moyo town – Monday, 23rd June 2025. Walking from the cemetery to this spot again to view this otherwise rural scenic beauty, and a church to complete the scene, brought with it a sombre mood. A lonely, mournfully desolate one. I decided I would immortalize it in photo. For this ground stirred a flood of memories way back in time before the tragedy now — some joyful, others haunting, spanning war and peace, childhood curiosity and mischief — and adult grief.
I recall that about forty years ago, as children, we once cautiously approached this church with awe for its size. Then, it appeared a towering granite monument, with its large mahogany double doors. The tiny kids we were, wide-eyed, sneaked to the corner of the door to peek at the massive statue of the Virgin Mary in radiant splendour, arms lifted to the heavens. Our tender eyes sparkled with naivety and awe.
And one Saturday evening, I recall strolling beside the high church walls. From inside, the soprano melody of boys and girls harmonised with the gentle plucking of adungu strings, their voices streaming through the walls. They were rehearsing for Sunday mass.
Then there was the Sunday display of bell bottoms and towering shoes called platforms. The young men of the time, with their tight polyester shirts — top buttons undone to reveal a hint of chest and a rosary — stood tall under Jacaranda tree shades. Some couldn’t afford the fashionable platform shoes, so they wore bright, striped slippers (which elsewhere would strictly be for bathroom use!) with exaggerated high soles. With one foot placed slightly forward, a thumb hooked into a pocket. They rarely entered the church, choosing instead to listen to the sermons and hymns from the loudspeakers outside. Then mass would end, and the ladies in floral dresses of all colours and shades would stream out from the church. They disengaged themselves from family and faded into the crowd to meet the young men waiting outside. The throbbing pairs of hearts would never make it back in time for Sunday lunch at home — often for supper as well.
I remember a wedding day of a wealthy couple, who emerged from the church after exchanging vows, hand in hand through the giant church doors to the cheering and ululations of the people waiting outside to receive them. The couple tossed coins to the excited crowd. In the scramble, someone stepped on my fingers, pinning them to the gravel. I winced. One coin hit me squarely on the head; I didn’t see it come. I gave up the hustle and instead found my way up to the church veranda and watched as cheers erupted, and the newlyweds sped off down the same path now silent in the photo.
And then the civil strife of 1981.
We were caught between government troops — the Uganda National Liberation Army — and rebel forces trying to return an ousted president to power. But who was truly fighting for us?
One Saturday morning, the “liberating” army withdrew tactically from our entire region, only to return with fury, sweeping through the region and shooting down anyone in their sight. Many survivors were caught off guard, with no time or cover to escape across the border to the Sudan. So, they fled to the Catholic Mission for refuge. Tales remain of how both sides tried to force the priests to hand over young men under their care. But the clergy — tough Italian priests, rumoured to have military backgrounds — stood firm.
People sneaked out at night to ‘steal’ food from their abandoned gardens. Many never made it back. Those who returned often did so with bullet wounds and no food. The mission’s small health unit was overwhelmed. The cries of the sick and dying children echoed down the corridors and verandas. The staff and clergy could do little, stretched thin between desperate need and the constant threat of armed men.
It was said the priests — with assurance of safe passage from the soldiers — organised groups of young men to bury or cremate the rotting corpses in abandoned compounds. Many were disembodied either by bullets or the handiwork of dogs now gone wild. Many lay twisted in grotesque postures. Some with eyes frozen in eternal stare. The sight and stench were unbearable. Everyone on the mass burial mission began smoking — the priests handed out cigarettes. It became the only way to cope with the smell of death.
That was all over forty years ago.
And yet, today, this place looks unchanged. The same church with the same appearance. The same compound. But now, as in the photo, it stands a desolate scenic beauty, emptied only an hour before by mourners carrying yet another loved one to his final rest.
