Come Good Rain

On Saturday, September 2, Amanda and I went to one of the premier colleges in Uganda, Makerere University. An engineering professor from the US is teaching there for one year and is also interested in the work of EMI. He invited us to the university for “Come Good Rain,” a one-man play recounting the life of George Bwanika Seremba, a Ugandan who lived during the reign of Idi Amin and who was shot by the security forces of Milton Obate. The play was somewhat humorous in the beginning as the actor portrayed life in a British-run school but turned tragic by the end of the first act as the actor portraying Bwanika recounted the sadness of hearing about the 500,000 Ugandans being killed during the years of instability. Eventually, Bwanika himself became directly affected by the violence. He was accused of being a prison-escapee by Obote’s security forces and subsequently tied up and burned with cigarettes. Later, Bwanika was taken to a forest known to be an execution ground. Realizing he was about to die, Bwanika asked to be shot in the front, rather than the back, and to be placed somewhere where his body could be found so his mother would know of his death. Instead of shooting him in the chest, the security forces shot him six times in other places in an attempt to make his death as painful and long as possible.



I wanted to write about the confusion I felt after observing the reaction of more than half of the audience. There were probably 75 people watching the play, of which, seven were mzungos (white people). During the scenes of torture, I would estimate more than half of the audience was laughing as Bwanika was being burned, beaten, or shot. I was in shock and disbelief because so many Ugandans were laughing at this depiction of evil that occurred less than 30 years ago in their own country. Here’s the best way I can think of to help you understand the confusion I felt: Imagine what you would feel if you were to watch the opening scene of “Saving Private Ryan” with a theater full of World War II veterans’ children and saw them laughing. I don’t think it would make sense to you. In both cases, a generation one degree removed from the conflict is laughing at the pain and devastation of their parents. Why?

As I get to know the people here I find myself increasingly caring about their history and hardships. So, while I’m not Ugandan, I care about and want to understand the reasons people act certain ways. The laughter just didn’t make sense to me. It certainly does not seem like a good way of dealing with pain (but then again, I know that I often find myself making a joke to “lighten the mood”). Amanda and I were both unsettled by the laughter and wanted to understand why Ugandans were laughing. Kate and Janet, local Ugandans who work as housekeepers at eMi, were with us and so we asked them, “Why were people laughing when Bwanika was being shot?” They responded, “Because that is in the past” and laughed a little as well. “We know it is in the past and the man was just acting.” We asked the question a little bit differently because sometimes American words don’t equal Ugandan words, but the response was similar. And short. And puzzling.

500,000 people. Dead. Cigarette burns. Six bullet wounds. Laughter.

It didn’t and doesn’t make sense