In the fall of 1972, Bob and Alice Evans (founders of Plowshares Institute) moved to Uganda with their three young children for a teaching sojourn in “The Pearl of Africa.” The excerpt that follows begins their story of nurturing a fledgling resistance movement under Amin’s oppressive regime-and the struggles and surprises they encountered along the way.
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Sunrise was elusive that Friday morning in late September, held at bay by a driving rain. Droplets pelted the roof and sent a reverberating echo through the building, like a barrage of bullets bouncing off the scalloped clay tile. In the kitchen, Cabanesa was already at work returning last night’s dishes to their proper places, sorting a pile of laundry, and brewing a pot of Kenyan coffee that wafted a rich aroma through the open rafters into the bedroom where Alice tried hopelessly to sleep. While the rain had scared away the sun, it hadn’t deterred the mosquitoes. Their buzzing accompanied Bob’s steady snoring, and the cacophony of sounds filled the emptiness of the room. Alice remained restless but still, and hoped that her husband who lay beside her was at peace and dreaming about better places.
At the foot of the bed, their six-month-old son Allen lay in his crib silently, having slept through the night for the first time since his persistent fevers had begun three long weeks ago. Beyond the clapboard wall, Judith and Mellinda were nestled into their bunk beds, draped with mosquito netting, probably already awake and reading, but not yet up and about or Alice would’ve heard them off playing and joking with Cabanesa. Perceptive for their ages, they certainly sensed the fear and tension that had been growing in the country and within their family for the past few months. But, at the ages of eight and nine, they would still be too young to understand its causes and consequences. Or so she hoped.
Alice imagined the city slowly coming to life outside her window. Across the small valley on Namirembe hill, women were sweeping their patios and shopkeepers had swung open their heavy metal doors. The sounds of conversation and activity drifted up from Kampala Road; rush hour had begun. Vendors hawked their goods, while overcrowded public taxies scurried about, weaving between bicycles, motorbikes, and women with children swaddled on their backs. Eventually, the hot African sun would force its way through the clouds and set about its work drying the rain, baking the clay mud huts, and nourishing the plantain trees. To the outside observer, all might have seemed, at first glance, normal.
But, normal, things were not. The shops, once generously stocked with fresh eggs, rice, fruit, cookies and crackers, were quickly losing their inventory. What little remained was rapidly inflating in price. Yesterday, Alice had spent her morning looking for milk. The third grocer she visited was out of stock, like the others, but sold her half of the gallon he had set aside for his own family. It had cost her the equivalent of ten US dollars.
Long walks through town with the children had been one of her favorite ways to pass the time while Bob was teaching his classes. But lately, she had preferred to leave Allen and the girls in the safety of their flat with Cabanesa while she completed her errands. Soldiers, many of them children themselves, now roamed the streets outside the University campus, with black lines of war paint smeared across their cheeks and AK-47s slung over their shoulders. Military trucks sped along the dirt roads and the open countryside with their stereos blaring syncopated Afro beats. A perfect soundtrack for a revolution. Or a bloody rampage.
Just as the long walks and afternoons at the University pool had come to an end, so too had the casual and extended conversations with strangers and friends they encountered along the way. Informants and spies seemed to be everywhere now, and trust had all but disappeared. The keen Ugandan no longer confided in anyone, avoided conversations about politics or their personal lives, and restricted movements to the bare minimum.
With weary eyes and a knot in her stomach, Alice reached for the battery-operated radio beside the bed. She turned down the volume knob before turning it on and said a brief prayer, “Please, God, let me have the BBC.” On good days, the British broadcast would reach their antenna. Otherwise, the only news available would be local, government-controlled, and predominately misleading. Propaganda and chatter. Today, there was only static. It wasn’t a news day. Alice silenced the radio and stared at the ceiling, wishing, if only for a fleeting moment, that they were still in their home in Chicago. While life there had been difficult at times, at least it had been predictable.
Here, the only thing that was predictable was the chaos. Right around the time Allen’s fevers had begun three weeks ago, the death toll among Bob’s university colleagues reached four. Among his students the count stood at eight with another few missing but presumed dead. Right around that time, their doctor had fled the country, as had a number of their new friends, as had half the staff of the United States embassy. Right around that time, they decided their family would have to leave as well.
Unfortunately, leaving had become just as dangerous as staying. Uganda’s new President, Idi Amin had recently thrust a litany of “emergency laws” into effect that prohibited most movement at night and between cities. He forbade the removal of any form of material wealth or possessions from Uganda, and made it difficult, if not illegal, for anyone to leave the country with their belongings. Escaping this madness required its own charade of sorts. And so the day loomed ahead as ominously as the weather.
For the preceding three weeks, Bob and Alice had spent all of their surplus energy devising and reviewing their strategy. Finding its potential holes. Fixing them. Finalizing the planning and preparations. And assembling an arsenal of proof in the event they were stopped and scrutinized. Their plan was to load the children into their small, white Volkswagen Beetle later that afternoon and leave Makerere’s campus inconspicuously, blending into traffic at the peak of rush hour. Once out of the city, they would head towards a rural, northern border crossing, covering the majority of the journey’s distance after dark when there was the least chance of roadblocks along the country highways. If they encountered problems or questions en route or at the border, they would recount their rehearsed tale of spending school break on Kenya’s Pacific coast-innocently unaware of the laws that prohibited their travel, of course. They had told the same story to all their acquaintances in Uganda, except for a few close friends who were instrumental in arranging their departure. As painful as it was to leave friends on the pretense of a prompt return, there was too much risk that word of their departure would reach the wrong ears.
As the rain and haze burned off mid-morning, Alice started to load the car slowly and discretely, bringing small bags down from their second-floor flat a few at a time. The only things she dared pack were those fitting for a week’s vacation at the beach: towels and swim gear, a few changes of clothes, sunscreen and snacks for the journey. While Alice was making preparations at home, Bob set out across campus to the Dean’s office, where the secretary had prepared a manila envelope for him. Inside was a fax from the Kanami retreat center in Kenya confirming their reservation for the week, and an official letter from the Dean of Makerere University validating that the university was on semester break and that Bob and the family were taking a legitimate vacation.
Around four o’clock, Alice fed Allen his dinner, changed his cloth diaper, and tucked him into the wicker basket that would be his crib for the trip. Judith and Mellinda raced through the house, full of the energy and excitement for their upcoming vacation. Not quite old enough to understand the circumstances, they too had been told the family was headed on a long road-trip to the beach. Bob carried a few final props down to the Volkswagen. A cooler, some beach toys, and a white clerical collar borrowed from an Anglican priest of the Church of Uganda, which he’d wait to put on until they were underway. Bob tucked their passports into the glove box along with a few personal possessions and hid a stack of bills under the floor mat-not too much to attract attention if they were found, but enough to buy supplies or satisfy bribes.
At exactly five thirty, they left. Cabanesa waved from the front porch as the VW sputtered to life and bounced down the University Drive, away from the house that had so quickly become their home. “Tunaalabagana Evans!” she shouted as Judith and Mellinda waved back. “See you soon!”
Bob steered the Beetle past the blooming jacarandas that flanked the entrance to the University, through the campus gates, and out into the city streets-Amin’s territory. He looked for reassurance from Alice as they pushed on, both tense and alert, while the girls played a game of “I Spy” in the back seat. At the Namasale Road, they turned right and headed clear across town, past the Embassy District where most of the expatriates had lived before they had fled, their houses left behind, stately and empty. If they could clear the city limits without complication, one hurdle would be crossed. A left by the tailor’s where Alice had taken Cabanesa to be fitted for a new dress. A quick right into the round-about. Three-quarters around, past a stalled car that was stopping traffic and attracting shouts, and across the invisible line that marked the city’s edge. Bob slipped on the clerical collar, then eased the bug to the right lane, pressed the accelerator closer to the floor, and off they sped along the Jinja Road.
On their previous journeys through these streets, they’d routinely filled the car with passengers along the way-usually college students or villagers looking to avoid the hike to or from town and escape the sweltering heat; their small Beetle had paid the price for this gesture. Now, as they sped along the open roadway, the car jolted and lurched with each new pothole or rut, its shocks and springs stretched from being regularly overloaded. Judith and Mellinda made a game of who could bounce higher, while Allen slept soundly in his crib, tucked between the back seat and the rear windshield.
As night fell, they pulled into Mbale, the last major town before the onset of their long journey through the bush. They had chosen to avoid the more traveled routes that would cross them into Kenya at the border towns of Busia and Malaba-busy and well-staffed borders where hundreds crossed each day, or at least tried to. Instead, they decided to drive north toward Kapchorwa, along roads notorious for bandits and through rural lands known for cross-tribal feuds and cattle stealing. These were roads that no one wanted to travel at night, not even the military. But this route allowed them to descend into Kenya at a rural crossing, an inadequately staffed outpost just west of Kenya’s Suam.
At Mbale, they stopped for a bathroom break and to refuel while it was still safe and populated, before heading back out again into pitch darkness. Bob navigated the car along the steep and winding roads as they traversed the foothills of Mount Elgon, while the girls fell asleep in the back to the drone of the motor. Alice closed her eyes too, for what felt like the first time in days, and murmured a prayer for no car trouble. No stops, no military. No drunk or aggressive guards at the border. No trouble.
As the grade in the road began to level out at the base of the ridge, the bug hit a small rut dug across their path, lurched to the left, spun its rear tire, and then pushed through the gully. Its headlights dimmed and brightened with the racing engine and settled over a makeshift curb of stones that narrowed traffic into a small passage through the middle of the road. A few lanterns flickered up ahead, then a flashlight beam swept the road. Bob crept the car forward and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, his hands tingling from their tight grip on the steering wheel and clammy with anxiety. He rolled down his window as two men approached the car from either side, guns raised, murmuring to each other in Luganda. “Muli mutia baseybo” one said, then lowered his head and forcefully glanced into the car, eyeing Bob momentarily, but then surveying the rest of the car to assess the situation. His flashlight darted about, its light bringing Allen’s crib into sight in the back window, then each of the girls’ faces with their eyes fortunately still shut. Then Bob’s face, his beard, and finally, his clerical collar.
“Oh! Good evening Father!” the guard exclaimed in clear English, his deep, rough voice rising slightly in pitch. He released his grip on his gun, and it fell across his stomach and back to his side as he hunched down closer to the window. “Where are you going?” he asked, more bewildered than inquisitive.
“Good evening, Sir,” Bob replied in the softest tone he could muster. “We’re just off for a family vacation in Kanami.”
The guard stared back blankly. Bob’s reference to a distant, costal Kenyan church retreat center was lost on him. Alice held the confirmation papers in her hand and offered them across the car for inspection. The guard raised his hand, palm extended, as if to say, “not necessary.”
Instead, he asked Bob a short string of questions: “Where from?” “Where to,” “For how long?” and “Do you like our country?” After listening to Bob’s responses he offered a smug nod of acknowledgment and broke the tension with a gentle smile. Motioning toward his colleague, he backed away from the car and waved them through. “Have a safe vacation,” he said, and then offered a word of caution, “Stay right at the fork in three kilometers to Suam. Do not stop until you reach Kitale.” The exchange ended with the return of his smile, “And come back to Uganda soon, Father!”
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The story continues as Alice takes up refuge in Kenya and Bob returns to Uganda where he begins nurturing a fledgling resistance movement under Amin’s oppressive regime. The chapter follows the rest of their story, including the struggles and surprises they encountered along the way. Our accompanying curriculum takes a more analytical look at the messages and themes in their story and is designed to help users draw applications to their lives and work. If you’re interested in helping edit and workshop these stories and the resources that accompany them, please contact us.
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