Wim Hobo serves as the Chief Pilot for Mission Aviation Fellowship in Uganda, a busy team that flies 7,000 passengers per year across the region. Today, he shares with us the story of one passenger – a striking testimony of transformation and hope.
It was one of those busy days where you need to pace yourself carefully, staying sharp and present. Today was also one of those days where you’re reminded that the journey isn’t just about flying – it’s about the people you carry.
Our shuttle route took me across the middle and northwest of Uganda, with multiple stops and a full schedule.
In Lira, I picked up two passengers. One of them, a Ugandan man in his late twenties, asked politely if he could sit in the co-pilot seat. I appreciated his request but explained that the seat was reserved for a colleague I was scheduled to pick up later.
Sometimes we do allow passengers up front – especially when we’re full or know them well – but on longer days I tend to keep that seat free to maintain focus and rhythm.
Later in Arua, my colleague decided to sit in the back and read, leaving the co-pilot seat unexpectedly open. I remembered the young man’s request. I wasn’t exactly eager to change the plan mid-route, but something nudged me. I turned to him.
“Would you still like to sit in the front?”
His face lit up with quiet, genuine excitement. I helped him with the seatbelt, handed him a headset, and we took off for Kajjansi, MAF’s base in Kampala.
As we settled into the cruise, I asked him about his journey. What followed was an unexpectedly moving story, one that stayed with me after we landed.
His name was Bruno Odur. He grew up in a home marked by poverty and alcohol abuse. By the time he was five years old, he was already addicted to alcohol. He remembers those days vividly, stumbling around drunk, covered in bruises from falling, with no one to guide him.
One day, his uncle came to visit. Seeing the state he was in; the uncle didn’t scold him. He preached to him. He told this broken little boy about Jesus.
From that moment, Bruno began following Jesus. Something shifted deep inside him. He found hope, and with it, a burning desire to see transformation in other children living in similar circumstances. He loves telling his story to kids because he’s been where they are. That connection often opens hearts in ways that polished sermons never could.
As he grew older, Bruno started preaching. He worked in an orphanage, saving every shilling he could, even taking loans to fund outreaches.
His passion caught the attention of the organisation Christ for All Nations, who trained him at their fire camp in Uganda. He later attended their youth crusades in South Africa, where he connected with Jesus Alive Gospel Outreach. They saw his heart and asked him to launch their Uganda initiative.
Now, just half a year into this new chapter, Bruno and his team have already reached many communities in northern Uganda. He told me about the schools they visit, the crusades they hold, and the prisons they enter, places where hope is often in short supply.
In the prisons, they preach the message of God’s love and forgiveness. Bruno described how hardened inmates break down in tears as they hear about grace for the first time. And it doesn’t stop there. In several prisons, they’ve installed TVs loaded with biblical teaching and discipleship content. Even when no preacher is present, the message continues. Prisoners gather around the screens, learning, growing, and in some cases… becoming pastors themselves.
Bruno shared how five inmates recently gave their lives to Jesus and now lead fellowship groups inside the prison walls.
It’s hard to imagine, but in those dark places, light is breaking through.
One story stood out. They had visited a rural school. No guards, no staff, just children playing in the dust. When they knocked on the gate, a small boy in ragged clothes opened it. Bruno tried to give him a small gift, but the boy ran away, scared.
After the outreach, Bruno found him again and gently asked why he wore such torn clothes. The boy whispered, “My parents can’t afford a uniform.” Then, almost afraid to speak, he added, “We are Muslim… but I’ve seen that your God is a God of love. I want to follow Jesus.”
They prayed together. Bruno gave him a Bible and a school uniform. The boy looked up and said, “I want to become an evangelist and share the Gospel myself.”
I sat there in the cockpit, listening to this story unfold, and I felt something shift in me.
“It’s so easy for us pilots to become bus drivers,” I said. “Just flying from point A to B, ticking off the manifest. But hearing your story reminds me why we fly. We’re not just moving people. We’re moving purpose. We’re part of something eternal.”
Bruno smiled. He asked if we could pray for the communities they reach, for hearts to be open, and for the strength to keep going. He also asked for prayer for provision, so they can continue bringing the Gospel to places where hope is scarce.
As Kajjansi came into view, I looked over at Bruno, still quietly thrilled to be in the co-pilot seat, and I thanked God. For the flight. For the story. For the reminder that every seat on this aircraft might carry a testimony waiting to be heard.
And for the privilege of being a small part of God’s work on this earth.