I sit on the edge of my bed. My feet are throbbing from the long walk from the train station to our cramped two-bedroom house in Parow. When I reach home my arms are also tired from carrying heavy shopping bags full of food for tonight’s New Year’s celebration. Yes, in a few hours’ time, we will kill the year. Should I be excited about the New Year? Maybe yes. Maybe no. Now that the shopping is done, I can at last rest my aching feet. These feet that carried me thousands of kilometres across many countries deserve to be kissed. I owe them my life. My feet should have their own page in the Guinness Book of Records. Yes, in a book of records!
A wave of longing surges through me as I think of my homeland, Rwanda. I had to flee from my country when I was only fourteen. I decide that this last day of the year will be a day of remembering for me. A time to remind myself of where I have come from. And so I take out one of the few photographs I have from Rwanda.
It was taken at our home in the capital, Kigali, in July. In that month it is hot in Rwanda, so hot that little kids would walk in the street naked.
There is my dad standing, taller than all of us. What a big moustache he has, almost concealing a skewed smile! I remember the words he used to say: “Family always sticks together, no matter what.”
I release a deep breath. I feel warm tears wetting my cheeks.
In the photograph, the lawn in front of our house looks like a green carpet. My dad, Xavier, is standing in the back row, my older brothers, André and Philippe, on either side of him. In the front, my mom, Valérie, is looking tired, maybe from her long day at work as a nurse. My sister Claire and I rest our hands on Mom’s shoulders.
In the photograph my brothers are wearing cool T-shirts, shorts and sandals. Claire is wearing a navy blue sleeveless dress, with small white dots in it. I’m wearing an orange shirt, also sleeveless, and a plain white skirt. My mom has a green flowery dress on, with a broad white belt.
The avocado tree under which we stand is loaded with fruit. It could feed an entire village. The red roses, the plum and papaya trees fill in the blanks of the garden.
Only a part of our three-bedroom house can be seen – this house that my father built. I remember the day when he came back and announced to my mother with a huge smile on his face:
“I have found a nice plot of land. I want to buy it and build my own house. I cannot rent forever.”
“Did you win the lotto?” Mom asked, mouth and eyes wide open.
“I knew you would not believe me. It will take time, but we will build one,” he said confidently.
So, after two years, the three-bedroom house was complete. Claire and I shared one room, André and Philippe had the other room while the third one was for my mom and dad.
It is twenty-four years since that photograph was taken. So many things must have changed in that time in the country of my childhood, but I have not been there to see these changes.
Rwanda is a country so small, it is like a dot on the map of Africa – but it is at its heart. A country with sparkling lakes and lush, green, rolling hills, and many rivers meandering through those hills, mountains and valleys. There are no winters there. The weather is warm all year round. Some people have called it, ‘the land of eternal spring’.
Our home in Rwanda was full of love. Every evening we used to sit together at the dinner table and listen to the evening news at 7 pm on Radio Rwanda, eating my mom’s delicious food.
One night in October 1990, three months after that photograph was taken, we were sitting around the dinner table as usual, listening to the news. Mom had prepared my favourite meal. I can still remember the steaming chicken, smelling of garlic, and the sweet potatoes and peas sitting next to it on my plate. I was ten then, still in primary school. I wanted to become a nurse, like my mom. Claire was eight, also in primary. My two brothers were staying in boarding schools, far from home.
We listened to the voice of the news broadcaster in shocked silence. I think everywhere in Rwanda people were silent when that broadcast was made. It was a monstrous silence shouting fear and disbelief.
“Tutsi exiles have attacked the North of Rwanda from Uganda. Many people have died, others have fled their homes.” The broadcaster’s voice was unsteady, full of emotion. Claire, mom and I were all in tears. Mom hugged each one of us tightly. Our brothers were in the North.
What would happen to them? What would happen if the war reached us in Kigali? We were Hutu. Would we be killed?
“Philippe and André?” Mom looked at Dad with fear in her eyes. My brothers were in the heart of the fighting. “They must come home,” she told my father. She wanted to gather all of her children close.
“Let’s not panic.We will follow the news. That way, if things get worse, we will know,” my dad said, trying to keep us calm.
That radio broadcast was the start of bad things to come. I am ashamed to say now that the first thought I had, was not of the safety of my brothers, but of Louis. He was my best friend. Not a boyfriend, we were too young for that, but he was my closest friend. On Saturdays we used to catch fish together down at the river. We shared secrets with each other. I wished I could speak to him that night. What did he feel about this war? Was he as scared as I was?
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Tell us: What do you think it feels like to be forced to leave your happy home? Will Odette’s brothers come home safely?