Some people return from Kenya with a Maasai necklace. Others come back longing for chai (the tea, not the small bribe). And then there are those who simply return convinced that, sooner or later, they’ll put down new roots there.
Then there’s Sandro Ferretto, a 55-year-old from Padua, a former Catholic priest and missionary, who came back from Kenya carrying something far more demanding than souvenirs: love.
After spending twelve years among the mountains of Baringo County, where everyone knew him simply as “Father Sandro,” he returned to the very same place to marry Sharon, the woman who changed the course of his life. Not in a villa overlooking Lake Garda or a countryside estate in northern Italy, but in the village of Seretion, during a colourful traditional African wedding filled with songs, laughter, vibrant dresses and, we imagine, plenty of red dust on everyone’s shoes.
The ceremony included the traditional Koito rite. To Italians with a mischievous sense of humour, the name might sound amusing because of an accidental resemblance to certain words in Italian dialects—but in Kenya it is one of the most important steps in a traditional marriage.
Kenya, after all, is a dangerous place.
Not just because of rough roads, elephants or baboons stealing your fruit.
It’s dangerous because it gets under your skin. Or perhaps because you find yourself immersed in something completely new.
Many Italians who came here “just for a few months” can tell you the same story. Doctors, volunteers, entrepreneurs, retirees, divers, chefs and even a few journalists. They arrive thinking they are going to help Africa, only to discover that Africa ends up helping them instead.
Sandro once summed it up with a sentence that today sounds almost prophetic:
“I was sent here to evangelise, but I found myself being evangelised.”
It wasn’t just a clever quote. It may be one of the most beautiful ways to describe what it truly means to live in Kenya—even if, in this particular story, some might mistakenly read it as a loss of faith.
For twelve years, today’s Bwana Sandro travelled impossible dirt tracks to reach twenty-six scattered communities in a region where electricity is a luxury and mobile phone coverage depends more on luck than technology. He celebrated Mass, listened to people’s stories, shared meals and simple homes, and experienced a culture where hospitality remains sacred and where, even when people have very little, that little is willingly shared.
Then came the return to Italy.
Parishes around Padua, work with migrants, a long period of reflection and, eventually, the decision to request dispensation from the priesthood.
There was no scandal.
No dramatic escape.
No double life worthy of a novel.
Simply the honest realization that his vocation had taken a different direction.
Some will see it as a defeat.
Others may consider it one of the bravest acts of honesty a person can make towards himself.
And once again, Kenya was there waiting for him.
Some will say he left the Church for a woman.
Perhaps it would be fairer to say that he never stopped pursuing the same calling that had first brought him to Africa: the search for love, compassion and service to others.
Only this time, “the other” had a name.
Her name was Sharon.
The curious thing is that in Kenya, a story like this is often accepted far more naturally than it might be in certain Italian sacristies. Here, people know how to distinguish between faith and profession, between respect for a man and the role he once held.
Many of Father Sandro’s former parishioners were probably genuinely happy to see him smiling in a wedding suit instead of a cassock.
After all, this too is Africa.
A continent that loves reminding us that life rarely follows the plans we carefully make.
And perhaps God has a much better sense of humour than we do.
Because, let’s be honest: if a man leaves Padua convinced he’s going to convert Kenya and ends up marrying a Kenyan woman in the very same village where he once celebrated Mass… well, one can’t help suspecting that Someone up there had great fun writing this script.
Or perhaps, just as often happens here in Africa, Someone simply had a different plan all along.
