When I received a call one morning from a number I did not recognize, I assumed it was a wrong number. But, as it turned out, the man on the other end was looking for me. He said he had gotten my phone number from David Abitekaniza, a police officer I had been hoping to interview regarding the brutal murder of a 14 year-old boy. I had been trying to meet with Abitekaniza for weeks, so I got excited.
Weeks earlier, a lawyer from my organization and I led a team investigating Innocent Kirungi’s murder. You can read about the case here, here, here, and, for those of you who read Luganda, here. As you can see, it has gotten some press. My organization, with a few others that protect children’s rights, held a press conference about the boy’s murder and what we were doing about it. Here are the press release we drafted, the executive summary of a report we are completing, and the complaint we filed against the people responsible. (I’ve also posted some pictures from the press conference.)
In case you don’t have time to read the linked documents, here’s a summary of the gruesome facts: Innocent Kirungi, 14, was brought to a temporary remand home (similar to a juvenile detention facility) to be watched over for 5 days before he was to be transfered to a more permanent remand home for rehabilitation. The only crimes he had committed were petty thefts. Over the course of the next five days, he was forced to perform hard labor, beaten unconscious, buried alive, then taken out of the ground — alive — and beaten to death. The kicker is that the person who had hired his (and the other remand home boys’) services was a police officer, one David Abitekaniza.
So, as you can imagine, when I got that early morning call from a stranger telling me that he had gotten my number from Abitekaniza, I was excited but also a little concerned. You see, I hadn’t been looking for Abitekaniza to find out how his investigation into the murder was going; I was looking for Abitekaniza so I could investigate him about the murder. The man on the phone told me that Abitekaniza had refused to speak to me because I was from a human rights organization. But then, he said, "I am Abitekaniza's friend. He will talk to you now. Where are you? I will come get you and bring you to him."
When I heard those words, I began to wonder...Had Abitekaniza sent this guy after me, to lure me away, take me to some empty field, and slice me to pieces with a machete? I quickly forgot about Innocent, the poor murder victim, and started thinking about myself and my family and friends. Had I finally crossed the line? Had I been so naive all this time? I am living in Africa, I thought, in Uganda, in a country where I have watched a police officer beat a young man in the middle of the central police station; where cops rape poor, weak, defenseless women; where powerful leaders are trying to kill every gay man, woman, and child. And now my fight against these injustices was coming to bite me in the ass. My family and friends were right. I was being too provocative over here. I had crossed one too many powerful people. I was finished. I was scared.
But I was not stupid. I told the man that I would call him back. When I got to my office, I spoke with my organization's legal officer and executive director. They told me the obvious: speaking to this man could be crucial to our investigation, so we needed to find out as much as we could from him. We decided to have him come to our offices. There was no way he would harm any of us there.
I called the man and asked him how he could take me to Abitekaniza if Abitekaniza lives in Masindi, 3 hours outside of Kampala. He said that Abitekaniza was on a security detail here in Kampala and that he could bring me there. I told the mysterious man that I would not go anywhere with him until we sat down and spoke. I gave him directions to my office and told him to come by immediately. He said he would.
Two hours later, a tall, harmless looking, poorly dressed man entered our offices. He, another attorney from my organization, and I went into our conference room to talk. I asked him who he was and why he so badly wanted to take me to Abitekaniza. Three minutes later, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The man was a witch doctor.
According to this witch doctor, Abitekaniza’s family had hired another witch doctor in Masindi to protect Abitekaniza, to prevent the police from arresting him for Innocent’s murder. It appears to have worked since he wasn’t, and to this day hasn’t been, arrested. But when my colleagues and I showed up in Masindi to snoop around and I started calling Abitekaniza to try to meet with him, he got scared. So, his family got in touch with a higher-level witch doctor in Kampala to try to get me off his scent. That higher-level witch doctor was the person sitting in my office telling me this incredulous story.
Part of me thought this was all a joke; I asked the man right to his face whether he actually believed in witchcraft (dumb question, I know, but I just couldn’t believe this whole thing). He naturally confirmed that he did, and startlingly enough he’s not the only one. According to the premier independent newspaper in Uganda, 6 million Ugandans, or about 20% of the population, believe in these doctors’ special powers.
It turned out that Abitekaniza’s family had not been able to afford this particular witch doctor’s fee and so he was hoping to play the double agent game. He promised either to bring me to Abitekaniza so that I could interrogate the police officer or to get us whatever information, documents, photographs we wanted from Abitekaniza — all, naturally, in exchange for a fee. He was a scam artist, just like any self-professed sorcerer I might come across in the U.S.
We refused to pay the doctor but were able to learn some more important information from him about the case, so the meeting was helpful, and I was grateful for the call, despite being afraid for a little while.
For all I know, everything he said was a lie, and he actually was there to put some sort of spell on me. But spells are one thing I do not fear. Especially not from that witch doctor. He just didn't seem all that powerful.
In case you don’t have time to read the linked documents, here’s a summary of the gruesome facts: Innocent Kirungi, 14, was brought to a temporary remand home (similar to a juvenile detention facility) to be watched over for 5 days before he was to be transfered to a more permanent remand home for rehabilitation. The only crimes he had committed were petty thefts. Over the course of the next five days, he was forced to perform hard labor, beaten unconscious, buried alive, then taken out of the ground — alive — and beaten to death. The kicker is that the person who had hired his (and the other remand home boys’) services was a police officer, one David Abitekaniza.
When I heard those words, I began to wonder...Had Abitekaniza sent this guy after me, to lure me away, take me to some empty field, and slice me to pieces with a machete? I quickly forgot about Innocent, the poor murder victim, and started thinking about myself and my family and friends. Had I finally crossed the line? Had I been so naive all this time? I am living in Africa, I thought, in Uganda, in a country where I have watched a police officer beat a young man in the middle of the central police station; where cops rape poor, weak, defenseless women; where powerful leaders are trying to kill every gay man, woman, and child. And now my fight against these injustices was coming to bite me in the ass. My family and friends were right. I was being too provocative over here. I had crossed one too many powerful people. I was finished. I was scared.
But I was not stupid. I told the man that I would call him back. When I got to my office, I spoke with my organization's legal officer and executive director. They told me the obvious: speaking to this man could be crucial to our investigation, so we needed to find out as much as we could from him. We decided to have him come to our offices. There was no way he would harm any of us there.
I called the man and asked him how he could take me to Abitekaniza if Abitekaniza lives in Masindi, 3 hours outside of Kampala. He said that Abitekaniza was on a security detail here in Kampala and that he could bring me there. I told the mysterious man that I would not go anywhere with him until we sat down and spoke. I gave him directions to my office and told him to come by immediately. He said he would.
Two hours later, a tall, harmless looking, poorly dressed man entered our offices. He, another attorney from my organization, and I went into our conference room to talk. I asked him who he was and why he so badly wanted to take me to Abitekaniza. Three minutes later, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The man was a witch doctor.
According to this witch doctor, Abitekaniza’s family had hired another witch doctor in Masindi to protect Abitekaniza, to prevent the police from arresting him for Innocent’s murder. It appears to have worked since he wasn’t, and to this day hasn’t been, arrested. But when my colleagues and I showed up in Masindi to snoop around and I started calling Abitekaniza to try to meet with him, he got scared. So, his family got in touch with a higher-level witch doctor in Kampala to try to get me off his scent. That higher-level witch doctor was the person sitting in my office telling me this incredulous story.
Part of me thought this was all a joke; I asked the man right to his face whether he actually believed in witchcraft (dumb question, I know, but I just couldn’t believe this whole thing). He naturally confirmed that he did, and startlingly enough he’s not the only one. According to the premier independent newspaper in Uganda, 6 million Ugandans, or about 20% of the population, believe in these doctors’ special powers.
It turned out that Abitekaniza’s family had not been able to afford this particular witch doctor’s fee and so he was hoping to play the double agent game. He promised either to bring me to Abitekaniza so that I could interrogate the police officer or to get us whatever information, documents, photographs we wanted from Abitekaniza — all, naturally, in exchange for a fee. He was a scam artist, just like any self-professed sorcerer I might come across in the U.S.
We refused to pay the doctor but were able to learn some more important information from him about the case, so the meeting was helpful, and I was grateful for the call, despite being afraid for a little while.
For all I know, everything he said was a lie, and he actually was there to put some sort of spell on me. But spells are one thing I do not fear. Especially not from that witch doctor. He just didn't seem all that powerful.
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