Kwibuka 30

I was a secondary student in 1994 and while at school, I heard news of the Rwanda genocide.

Unable to grasp the calamitous effect, we spoke about it and I remember writing a story, too. I stood in front of the class and asked if them if they knew that there was a genocide in Rwanda and how we should all empathise. 

The protagonist in my story was a six-year-old girl who sat on an upturned bucket. She wore pigtails and her skipping rope lay beside her. Minding her own business, she is shot and as she keels over, her blood forms a red river in her memory. 

How could I forget that story! It was the only way I could make sense of the genocide.

Ten years later in 2004, I visited Kigali, Rwanda's capital and also the town of Butare, about three hours southwest from the capital. Being my first visit to Rwanda, I stepped off the bus and was almost knocked over by the appealing and handsome men that populated the city. 

How could one city be filled with numerous men of such physical agreeableness! I needed to find an internet cafe at once and email my friends to let them know that not only had I arrived safely in Rwanda but that this country would solve our singleness anxiety.

Staying at a friend's house, everyone made so much effort to be as courteous and engaging as possible. I took walks across the city, made friends with the waiters at Hotel Continental, which is now Serena and marvelled at the tall guard at the entrance, who was easily seven feet tall.

I recall some of the names of the staff; Celeste, Jean-Pierre and Jean-Claude. Walking in the city was a treat. Even though entering the taxis was a bit strange at first, given that passengers entered from the right side and not the left, people were generally calm. It was impossible not to sit with someone for ten minutes and not ask about the genocide.

Upon visiting the Kigali Memorial Centre, which opened that year, the tenth anniversary of the genocide, I could hardly keep it together. The tragedy was recent. The trauma was still palpable. The air was still thickened with unanswered questions and here I stood, reading about first hand encounters of babies being ripped from their mothers' arms and families being torn apart.

There were open graves, commemorating the 100 days that shifted the country in ways nobody could ever comprehend.

There are many countries around the world that have experienced deep-felt tragedy, including Uganda. And yet, every year, I am always cognizant of the Rwanda genocide. 

I have watched films, documentaries and read biographical accounts of it.

On visiting Butare, the National University loomed ahead and I walked into the breathtaking path, from the university gate. There were stately pine trees and benches for students to sit; almost like wonderland. Kind students gave me a tour. 

It was at towards the end of my tour of Butare that somebody asked me if I had noticed the makeshift graveyards. Yes, I had.

And yes, it was impossible to remove myself from this reality, as I tried my best to maintain my tourist stance.

On my numerous visits to Rwanda, I marvel at the growth of Kigali city. Its immaculate and cosmopolitan appeal and the rapid advancements. In 2022, the CHOGM village was one of my best attractions, with bicycles for hire for a city tour or exercise, families taking jogs on Sunday and the spotless roads and pavements.

When I visit a place that sits well with me, in my heart of hearts I know that home is where the heart finds contentment. It's not a place defined by genealogy or surnames, by ancestral grounds or birthplace. It is where the heart finds contentment.

I always look forward to travelling, to find more places where my heart is content.

May we think of the thousands of people who continue to face genocide everyday and pray that the world will become a place where everyone can find a place where their hearts are at rest.

Bless!

Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva