I had one of those lingering thoughts a couple of weeks ago. It persisted no matter how I tried to dispel it or banish it from my mind. It was one of those bizarre thoughts that stop you for a second because it’s so far ‘out there’ it borders on the crazy yet it couldn’t be ignored.

        “You should go to the prison”, it repeated persistently, whispering in my head. I reasoned that although I had been inside the Kitale prison on a couple of occasions before it had only been to assist others in their ministry of operating mobile medical clinics. And even that had been maybe three years ago. I hadn’t had contact with any of the staff who worked there since and even if I had they would surely have been transferred by now and if not I had no contact numbers anyway. Besides, what in the world would I do there? What do I have to offer? I have no funds for a medical clinic or any other request I might be met with, I would look like an idiot showing up for no reason with nothing to offer. The whole Idea was absurd.

        But no matter how I tried the thought persistently lingered in my head.         Now I’m aware that God has an infinite number of ways to communicate with us but for me at least, it’s usually by putting ideas into my thought process. I try to make sure I’m listening to the ‘right voice‘ if you will, and at first the idea of going into an African jail for no particular reason I considered may be straight from the devil as I think he spends a lot of time there himself. So to dispel the thought once and for all I decided to pay a visit to my old friend sister Freda and her husband Richard. Freda had been the one to make arrangements to enter the prison the last time I was there. It seems that if you arrive anytime between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. at Freda’s cottage hospital you have arrived just in time for lunch so with plates in hand we sat in the old farm cottage to catch up on the latest news in ours lives. After a while I popped the question to them and asked if they had been in contact with anyone from the prison or been on any visits recently.

Bernard's Office

        “The last time I had any contact with anyone at the prison”, Freda said, “was when we were there with you. I don’t think I know anyone there anymore and even if I did I will have lost the numbers when my phone got lost”, she continued, “but let me try”.         With that Freda pulled a phone from her pocket and began punching buttons.         “Good”, I thought to myself, “problem sorted. What a crazy idea anyway.”         “Eh”, Freda exclaimed, “I don’t believe it. How is that number still there? This is Bernard’s number, let me try”.

        I remembered Bernard, the welfare officer at Kitale prison, he’s an impressive looking dude, maybe 6’4’’ and 250 pounds with the physic of a wasp. But more than that he had seemed to have a genuine heart for his work and the men under his custody.         “Hello Bernard’’, Freda suddenly said in slightly raised tone. “Hold on please”.

        She turned and handed the phone to me.         “Hi, Bernard, this is Paul Holgate, do you remember me from a couple of…..”.         “Yes, yes Holgate”, he interrupted, “of course I remember, how are you Holgate?”         “Fine Bernard, I was just calling to see if I might be able to visit you sometime”, I blurted out, not really knowing what to say.         “Of course, I would love that, but next week is the agricultural show in Kitale so I’ll be very busy. Where are you, can you come now? Maybe today at 4?” he asked         “Sure”, I said, “I’ll see you in your office at the prison at 4 o’clock. I’m looking forward to it”, I lied. “How in the world did that happen?” I thought to myself as I hung up the phone while Freda was repeatedly saying how she couldn’t believe she still had the number.

Kitale Prison

        At 3:45 I drove through the main gate at Kitale prison and parked my truck in the courtyard. I walked over to the big steel doors at the prison entrance and told the guard on duty outside that I had an appointment with Bernard. He tapped on the door with his stick and another guard peered out from a slot in the door. The sound of jangling keys from the inside preceded the heavy door swinging open whereby I was invited to step inside. The door clanged shut behind me and the same jangling keys locked it. I now stood in a large, arched shape tunnel, with the heavy door I had just passed through behind me and a pair of large, steel bared gates in front of me that separated use from hundreds of men wearing striped uniforms on the other side, all milling around in groups.

        “Please wait here a moment sir”, a guard said as he disappeared down a hallway to the left. I nodded my agreement, all the while trying not to stare at the throng of guys in stripes at the other side of the iron bars. Soon he returned and escorted me to an office. There sat Bernard behind an old battered desk with a row of six young guys seated on a bench in front of him. Bernard jumped to his feet and came from behind the deck to greet me with a warm smile and a firm handshake. He looked as impressive as ever and the handshake must have lasted a full minute as we exchanged greetings before he asked me to have a seat and give him a few minutes to finish up with the row of nervous looking guys in front of him.

        As he went back to his task at hand I looked around the room. Steel bars on the windows, the last coat of paint looked like it had been applied in 1965 was now a dirty yellow white. A file cabinet stood in one corner and a battered wooden cupboard stood against the opposite wall. I surmised it probably had books in it as it seemed to buckle under a heavy strain. The only décor was a picture of president Kibaki hanging on the wall over Bernard’s head. I felt like I was watching a movie as I sat in a plastic chair, my back against the concrete wall watching the proceedings.

        I knew enough Swahili to figure out that the six men perched on the wooden bench had just arrived; their tattered street clothes confirmed my observation. One by one they gave Bernard a phone number which he then dialed. A ten second-phone call ensued alerting the receiver of the call that their son, husband or friend was in jail. They were lucky for this is not protocol in Kenyan prisons and Bernard was alerting the relatives at his own expense. Eventually the men were led away by a uniformed guard who had entered the room, leaving Bernard and I alone.

        “Holgate I’m so happy to see you”, Bernard grinned, “Where have you been?”         ‘I could ask you the same question”, I replied, “Except I think I know the answer. But to tell you the truth Bernard, I have no idea as to why I’m here, except that I had this thought to contact you and see if there is anything I can help you with. For Instance, do you have a library here?”         “Where in the world did that come from?” I thought to myself, “probably from trying to guess what was in the cupboard”.         Bernard threw himself back into his chair, “Oh my God Holgate, this is amazing”, he said, “just this morning I was discussing the same, same thing with a teacher. We have a few books but not nearly enough and we have started a classroom and library where the prisoners can study and learn some skills, but we have no writing books or pencils.”         Just then there was a knock on the door and it opened enough for a man’s face to peer inside.

Inmate

        “Oh, here he is as I speak”, exclaimed Bernard, getting more excited by the minute, “come, come,” he motioned to the man. The door swung open and a slightly built man wearing a stripped prison uniform walked in. “This is Emanuel,” Bernard said, “he is a teacher and he is in charge of the classroom at the prison. Emanuel, this is Holgate, my good friend.”

        I stood and shook hands with Emanuel. The three of us then sat and talked for perhaps the next 15 minutes during which time I composed a list of materials they needed to operate the classroom and library. The list contained basis items such as books, pens, pencils, paper and medicines for the clinic. Anti-malarials, painkillers, anti-biotics, and the like. But what really struck me was that before they requested any of these things they asked for religious tracts and Bibles. Wow!         I promised to see what I could do to meet their needs. Our meeting over, Bernard escorted me back to the same big iron door through which I had entered. The guard swung the door open and I stepped into the fresh, open air outside. As we passed through the door I noticed an old battered truck had reversed up to the entrance. It had on it a large tank from which buckets of water were being filled. A line of men in strips formed a ‘chain gang’, handing the buckets of water one to another. It was apparent the mirkey water had been brought from the river.

        “Is the well not working?” I asked Bernard, remembering that there had been a ‘disturbance’ due to the lack of water the last time I had been there and that order had been restored by the use of batons and rifle butts.         “No”, Bernard replied, “the well failed. But we have tapped a near by spring and even installed pipes although we have no funds to buy a pump.”         A few minutes later, upon my request, I had a copy of a quotation they had received for the purchase of the pump. I bid my goodbye and drove back through the main gates and into the wide, open country. I felt slightly overwhelmed by the experience and glad to be away from the grasp of the prison walls. And all the more grateful to be in His grasp.