Michael Mumo’s First Papal Flight with a Revolutionary Pontiff » Capital News

When Pope Francis boarded Alitalia flight AZ 4000 on the morning of November 25, 2015, he was embarking on his first journey to Africa as the 266th Pope of the Roman Catholic Church.

For many, it was a historic visit. For me, it was personal. I was among four Kenyan journalists granted the rare privilege of joining the Papal press corps on that flight from Rome to Nairobi—a moment etched in my memory forever.

It was my first time covering a Pope who died last week aged 88. I had travelled to the Vatican alongside senior editors and photographers from Kenya’s major media houses, selected by the Catholic Secretariat in Nairobi to chronicle the Holy Father’s landmark visit to Kenya, Uganda, and the Central African Republic. As we waited at Fiumicino Airport, the air buzzed with quiet reverence and nervous excitement.

We watched as Pope Francis walked up the stairs of the plane—unaccompanied, no pomp, just the gentle wave and smile that had come to define his papacy. Unlike his predecessors, who often flew separately from journalists, Pope Francis travelled with us. He didn’t just allow it—he welcomed it.

Inside the aircraft, there was no VIP section. The Pope sat among the Vatican officials and reporters, not apart from them. As we settled into our seats, I found myself next to Aura Miguel, a veteran Portuguese journalist on her 85th Papal trip. I was full of questions—how should I address him? Would we really get to speak to him?

Aura smiled knowingly and told me, “He’s the people’s Pope. You’ll see.”

Sure enough, not long after take-off, the Holy Father rose from his seat and made his way down the aisle, greeting every journalist with a handshake, a blessing, and a warm smile. When he got to me, I introduced myself. “Holy Father, I’m Ben from Kenya,” I said nervously.

He held my hand and said simply, “Ah, Kenya. Asante sana.”

That quiet moment—so brief, so powerful—still gives me chills.

We landed at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport late that evening, welcomed with song, dance, and a full state reception led by then-President Uhuru Kenyatta. But the Pope’s energy seemed unaffected by the long journey. The next morning, under grey skies and steady rain, he celebrated Mass at the University of Nairobi grounds before hundreds of thousands of faithful.

I remember the rain pelting our umbrellas, soaking the crowd, yet no one moved. The Pope, too, stood unwavering. In his homily, he delivered a powerful message against materialism and corruption, calling on Kenyans to protect the family unit and live in service to others.

But it was in Kangemi—a sprawling informal settlement in Nairobi’s Westlands area—that Pope Francis revealed the depth of his heart for the marginalised. There, amid corrugated iron roofs and muddy footpaths, he met the poor, embraced them, and condemned the injustice of exclusion and inequality.

“By respecting the dignity of others, we strengthen our own,” he said. His words rang with urgency—and love.

Everywhere he went—whether addressing youth at Kasarani Stadium or meeting interfaith leaders—he carried a message of peace, dialogue, and inclusion. For many young people struggling with unemployment and hopelessness, he became a beacon of encouragement. He urged them not to be tempted by radicalisation or violence, but to believe in the power of goodness.

In Uganda, he honoured Christian martyrs and embraced the vibrancy of the local church. In war-torn Central African Republic, defying security warnings, he insisted on travelling to Bangui, where he opened the Holy Door of the Cathedral—weeks before the official start of the Jubilee Year of Mercy. It was a bold and prophetic act, full of symbolic weight.

Looking back now, ten years later and in the shadow of his passing, I realise how transformative that trip was—not just for Africa, but for me.

I had seen popes on television before, but this was different. I saw a man unafraid of muddy streets and slum alleys. A man who sought out the forgotten. A man whose gospel was action.

He once said, “I prefer a church that is bruised, hurting and dirty because it has been out on the streets.” That was the church he modelled. And that was the church he inspired many of us to believe in again.

As the world mourns Pope Francis, I remember him not as a figure behind bulletproof glass, but as the humble shepherd who walked down the aisle of a plane and took my hand.

And in that simple gesture, he reminded me—and perhaps reminded the world—that true greatness lies in humility.