Mosquitoes, martyrs and tears: Five days that shook my soul

Pope Francis censes as he leads mass at Nicosia's main football stadium, in the Cypriot capital Nicosia, Europe's last divided capital, on December 3, 2021. Pope Francis died on April 21, 2025. [AFP] The stamps on my passport serve as my ticket to the most extraordinary week of my professional life. When I boarded that Alitalia flight in Rome with three other Kenyan journalists in November 2015, I never imagined how profoundly Pope Francis's first African pilgrimage would reshape my understanding of faith, leadership, and humanity. The papal plane hummed with quiet anticipation. Unlike commercial flights with assigned seating, we journalists scrambled for spots while veteran Vatican correspondents like Aura Miguel from Radio Renascenca settled into their usual places. "Eighty-five trips with three popes," she told me, her voice carrying decades of stories. "Each journey writes its own chapter." Breakfast was served as we crossed the Mediterranean-Parma ham, fresh cheese, and strong Italian coffee. Then came the moment that still gives me chills. Midway through breakfast over the Mediterranean, Francis emerged from the front cabin. No fanfare, no pretense - just a smiling man in white walking down the aisle. The Pope takes time to individually greet the journalists - some handed to him gifts sent by people, another made him watch a brief video on her iPad. Others gave him possessions to bless (as I did). When he reached my row, I fumbled for the rosaries I'd brought from home. "For my friends" I stammered. His hands, surprisingly strong for a man of 78, cradled them gently as he murmured a blessing. A colleague seized the moment: "Holy Father, are you concerned about security threats in Africa?" The cabin fell silent. That famous twinkle appeared in his eyes. "The only thing I'm worried about are the mosquitoes!" The tension dissolved into laughter, but his message resonated - faith would be our armor. Kenya welcomed its spiritual guest with military precision. Unlike the chaos we'd later encounter elsewhere, our luggage awaited us at the hotel and State House protocols moved like clockwork. But behind the polished veneer, Francis sought to see, experience and feel the Kenya most visitors never see. At the Kasarani Stadium, I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of sweaty, ecstatic youth as his voice boomed: "Fall in love with Jesus. Let that love decide what gets you out of bed each morning." The crowd erupted - smartphones waving like digital candles in the afternoon sun. Later, in Kangemi, he walked through the slums, his cassock brushing against the uneven paths. I remember how he paused to touch a child's face, how he listened-really listened-to the stories of the poor. It was here that he spoke words that would stay with me: "Social injustice is the real crisis. Not lack of protection, not debates about the Sabbath. When live without dignity, how can we look away?" His gift to President Kenyatta - a 17th-century Bernini sketch of St Peter's failed bell towers - now strikes me as prophetic. Like those imperfect towers, Francis seemed to say, Africa's beauty lies in its resilience amid struggle. The difference hit us at Entebbe Airport - the disorganised passport checks, the missing buses, the sweltering heat. But nothing prepared me for the road to Kampala. Where Nairobi's crowds had been sparse, here entire villages lined the route, dancing, singing, waving palm fronds. At Kololo Grounds, under a punishing sun, 150,000 youth chanted his name. He abandoned his prepared speech, opting instead for a conversation. "What do you want from your Church?" he asked. The response was thunderous. "To walk with us!" Later, at the shrines of the Uganda Martyrs, I saw him kneel in quiet prayer. The weight of their sacrifice-their refusal to renounce their faith-seemed to move him deeply. Later, at the martyrs' shrines, I watched his fingers trace the names of those 22 young men burned alive in 1886. "Their courage is your national DNA," he whispered - a truth evident in every Ugandan's proud bearing. That night, as events stretched past midnight, Miguel nudged me: "Look at him - 78 years old and still going. This one doesn't rest. He's a 44 Pope - always climbing to where the road ends." Bangui was the riskiest stop. The armored UN vehicles at M'Poko Airport told the story - Central African Republic was different. Our buses carried armed guards; displaced families pressed against chain-link fences. Many had urged Francis to cancel this leg. His response? "If I don't go, who will?" In a pediatric hospital, I watched him cradle a skeletal child while doctors confessed: "No oxygen tanks. Most won't survive the week." His tear slipped onto the baby's forehead - a silent baptism of shared grief. Then came the gamble - stepping into Koudoukou Mosque amid sectarian violence. When Muslim leaders embraced him, my Kenyan colleague murmured: "Only Francis would think to bring a hug to a war zone." That night, our hotel's backup generator humming under a star-choked sky, I finally understood his mission: not to solve all problems, but to stand where hope was scarcest and say, "You are not forgotten." On our return flight, weary journalists lobbed questions at a surprisingly relaxed pontiff. When asked about his most vivid memory, he didn't hesitate: "The joy. Celebrating on empty stomachs... Africa surprised me. God surprised me." Pressed about returning, he chuckled: "I'm old. Trips exhaust me." But his eyes, scanning the clouds over the Sahara, betrayed a longing. Miguel says: "When the other Popes were on holiday, I would relax. This Pope is not going on holiday. He's an unpredictable man." "I have other colleagues here who have made more than 100 trips with the Pope." She recalls one who has been on 140 papal flights.

Mosquitoes, martyrs and tears: Five days that shook my soul

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