Your Holiness, Pope Francis, our beloved father in faith — your passing on Easter Monday, the day of resurrection and hope, marks the end of an era, yet the beginning of a legacy that will forever echo in the heart of Africa.
You did not merely lead the Universal Church — you walked with us. You wept with the suffering, rejoiced with the humble, and uplifted voices that for too long had gone unheard. In a world often divided by walls, your life was a bridge — between faith and reason, between Church and world, between the mighty and the meek.
In Uganda, we remember your historic visit of 2015 not simply as a diplomatic stop, but as a pilgrimage of love. When you came to Namugongo and stood where the Uganda Martyrs gave their lives, we saw in you a man deeply moved by the courage of our saints. You didn’t just honor our past — you reignited our future. Kneeling before the altar of those youthful witnesses, you reminded our nation that holiness is not far from us, that faith is alive in our soil.
You saw Uganda not through the lens of poverty or politics, but through the lens of promise. You called on our leaders to serve with integrity and reminded our youth that they are not the future of the Church — they are its now. From Kampala to Karamoja, from Gulu to Kabale, your words stirred a generation to dream again, to hope again, to believe again.
Your voice was prophetic. You challenged corruption, inequality, and environmental destruction with the gentle firmness of a father. In Laudato Si’, you invited the world to hear the cry of the earth and the cry of the poor — words that resonated deeply in Africa, where nature is abundant but often wounded, where people are rich in spirit but robbed of justice.
Your encyclical Fratelli Tutti found deep meaning here, where ethnic and religious diversity is both our beauty and our burden. You called us to fraternity — not as a lofty idea, but as a daily choice. In the refugee camps of Bidi Bidi and Nakivale, your embrace of the displaced gave dignity to the forgotten. You showed us that no one is beyond the reach of love.
And then, there was your heart for the Jubilee Year of Hope in 2025 — your final gift to us all. A call to return to God with renewed joy. A call to let go of despair. For Uganda, this Jubilee is a trumpet sound across hills and valleys: a time to forgive, to rebuild, to renew. You told us that hope does not disappoint — and we believe you. We will cross this threshold with our eyes fixed on the risen Christ, just as you taught us.
You taught the Church not to close its doors, but to throw them wide open. You called us to be a “field hospital” — not a museum of saints, but a sanctuary for sinners. In a continent scarred by violence and disease, where too many die from preventable causes and others are forgotten in remote villages, your vision brought comfort and challenge alike. You made us believe that the Church belongs in the streets, in the slums, in the hearts of people — and not just in palaces and pulpits.
You spoke often of joy — the joy of the Gospel, the joy of faith, the joy of mercy. And yet, you never ignored suffering. Your reflections on death, especially in Non Fatevi Rubare la Speranza (Do Not Let Your Hope Be Stolen), offer a balm to a continent familiar with grief. You reminded us: “Death is not the end, but a door to eternal life.” In African tradition, death is a journey — and you, Holy Father, have now crossed into the arms of the God you served so faithfully.
Your simplicity was your strength. You wore humility like a crown. You lived as a servant among us — washing the feet of prisoners, welcoming the differently abled, and greeting children with warmth that disarmed even the hardest of hearts. In a world of power, you chose presence. In a time of noise, you listened. And in Uganda, we noticed.
As you now rest in the light of Easter, we give thanks for your papacy — not for its length or its headlines, but for its heart. For the way you turned the Vatican toward the margins. For your embrace of women’s voices, indigenous peoples, and grassroots leaders. For your courage to call the world to conscience.
We, the people of Uganda and of Africa, promise to carry your legacy forward. We will keep building bridges. We will keep loving the least. We will keep hoping — not because it is easy, but because you showed us how.
Rest well, Holy Father. You have run the race. You have kept the faith. And in this great land of drumbeats and dawns, of martyrs and miracles, your memory will never fade.
Adieu, Papa Francesco.
May perpetual light shine upon you.
Ad multos annos — in eternity.
