The new camp was not our journey’s end. Neither was it the end of our suffering. One by one we came down with terrible bouts of malaria.

Every day my dreams of a better life, a new life, receded further and further away. It was like trying to catch butterflies. I struggled more and more to remember details of my life in Rwanda, and this upset me. My brothers did not seem to be as depressed as I was. Luckily, I had Louis to offer me constant comfort.

We all agreed we must escape this camp as soon as we were well enough to travel. And so we paid a man who knew the way out to help us escape the camp.

Then we walked again.

But once again, we ended up in a camp for we had nowhere else to go to eat and rest properly. The next one was Dzaleka in Malawi, which used to be a prison. There we slept in dormitories according to our nationalities and at the beginning of every month we were given rations to survive on by the Red Cross aid organisation. We received rice and sugar, beans, peanuts, cooking oil and some toiletries. From time to time they gave us paraffin and blankets.

Even though life was dull in Dzaleka Camp, we decided to stay there until we had recovered from our journey and rested our feet. We couldn’t go on. Not yet.

The days stretched into months and the months into years – three years.

My road team and I started attending school in the refugee camp. It had been organised by refugees themselves, with a few Malawian teachers. On Saturdays, my brothers and Louis went to sell our hoarded paraffin and blankets in the villages. That way we could buy some of the necessities that we did not get from the Red Cross.

Every time a new group of people arrived in the camp we asked them if they had come from Mugunga, desperate for news of our mother, sister, and uncle. We had not been lucky. Most of the newcomers had come from Katale, another big refugee camp in eastern DRC at that time.

Then I decided to attempt sending a message to my mom via the Red Cross Society. The prospect of getting a reply was almost non-existent.

Four months later, I was called to the Red Cross office. My hands were trembling as the man handed an open message over to me, something that looked like a post card. My heart was beating fast as I was trying to find a corner where I would sit alone and read. How could this letter travel this far across borders to land in my hands? Where was it from? What was it saying? I released a deep breath.

I recognised my mother’s handwriting…

Cape Town, 28 March 1999

Dear children

We arrived in Cape Town, South Africa one month ago. We travelled with your uncle and his family from Kenya. It was a long journey but we survived.

Bana nkunda (My darling children) I have very sad news for you. And you will have to be strong for each other.

Your father was killed in the shooting in Kigali as he was trying to escape. Claver was shot in his shoulder but he survived. I don’t know where he is now. Your uncle Thomas managed to escape with his family. They are still in Nairobi, Kenya. They found us there and gave us all these updates.

Be strong my children. We will meet again.

Mukandutiye Valérie, Telephone: 27 21 930 2249

I read those words – ‘your father was killed’ – again and again. I was crying when I took the message to my brothers and Louis. We sat in silence and then Philippe spoke.

“We have to go to mom. We have to go to Cape Town. Whatever happens, family must stick together.”

“I can’t go on,” André said. “We haven’t any money. And the bloody roadblocks… no, South Africa is very far.”

“We have to…” I said, feeling a desperate urge to see my mom and Claire.

And that started the last, long journey to join our mother and sister.

From Dzaleka Camp, we took a bakkie to Lilongwe, then crossed the border to Mozambique. Kind villagers fed us and gave us shelter along the way. We kept off the main roads as we didn’t have the correct papers.

From the border of Mozambique to Maputo, we took a bus. As we got off the bus I heard a shout of joy.

“Odette! André! You are still alive! Where are your parents?” It was our neighbours from Kigali, Ladislas and his wife. We embraced.

“My mom is in South Africa. My dad is no longer. He died in Rwanda.”

“Nibyo? Mwihangane bana bacu. (For real? Be strong, dear children.) We are also heading for South Africa. We can travel together. There are guards who we can pay to get us across the electric fence into South Africa. There are taxis waiting the other side that can take us to Johannesburg.”

“How much will it cost?”

“We will pay for you. We will help you,” Ladislas told us.

“Muratubyaye,” (You have saved us.) I said, shaking hands with Ladislas.

That afternoon, late, a truck took us to the Manguza Border Post. It was dark by the time we arrived. As we got nearer, we saw a crowd waiting to cross. They stood in silence near the fence.

The guards told us how to move, silently, along the fence. I helped a woman who had a heavy suitcase, a baby and a toddler. I carried the baby for her.

We had to obediently follow what the guides would tell us. We were soon used to regular instructions: “Sit! Carry on! Hurry up! Slow down!”

Then, quite suddenly, the guards told us to stop. They told us that we had fifteen minutes to dive through the electric wires – they had arranged for it to be switched off at that exact time.

Fifteen minutes for us all to get through that fence – before the power would be switched back on and we would be electrocuted!

***

Tell us what you think: Will Odette and all the guys cross into South African safely?