"By this blood, I swear that I will defend you against the fiercest enemy. You will never go hungry when I still have energy; all that I own will be at your disposal; I am you and you are me!”

Those words were uttered with utmost solemnity by yours truly, the selfsame Ingina, to a newly acquired brother who solemnly pledged the same - talk about baptism of fire!

It was 1960 and we had just settled in Bufumbira, southwestern Uganda, as refugees after the 1959 ‘work’ by Parmehutu in Rwanda.

The ‘work’ meant some Rwandans violently evicting their fellow Rwandans from their homes and their country, and sending them into exile by burning their houses, torturing, maiming or even killing those who tried to put up any resistance.

Luckily, we had many relatives and friends in Uganda and so were found dwellings to settle in, even if we were many families.

From the safety of exile, we watched as the grass-thatched huts were torched and stone houses razed to the ground across in Rwanda and wondered at the perverted thinking of the Permehutu adherents: they could not think of leaving their ramshackle shacks to occupy these better houses, or acquire the property, instead of setting it on fire!

The survivors of the pogroms kept us informed about what was going on inside Rwanda and we slowly begun to understand what the Catholic priests had meant when they changed the prayers.

In fact, after the invading peasants had left after a day’s ‘work’, we could freely go back to our homes and even pick our own crops, then retire back into exile! Only the imported killers and priests were hostile.

Meanwhile, we were getting reports that there was fierce fighting in some areas of Rwanda. It was reported that Parmehutu leaders were using pistols and even big guns to kill those who resisted eviction.

It was at about this time that our late Uncle Muginga, joined us in exile and unfolded the details of what was happening.

He had fought fiercely with one fierce fighter called Seruhungo, who was armed with a pistol while he had bows and arrows.

Uncle Muginga had fought until Seruhungo ran out of bullets and had to resort to loading his pistol with beans, one of which was still lodged in our uncle’s breast!

Still, he assured us, that was not the reason for his eventual flight. He had decided that he was outnumbered and out-armed only when helicopters arrived at the battlefield.

The helicopters, piloted by Belgians, were spitting fire that set everything ablaze. Even then, he had fought on gallantly until the helicopters were flown low and upside down so that their choppers could sever the heads of their adversary.

Considering that he was tall and could not fit in a hole of even the biggest barrowing animal, he had to concede defeat.

"It is not every time that a man falls that he breaks his you-know-what, but a man must know when he is defeated. Our persecutor is strong, and we are going to be away for a long time,” concluded Uncle Muginga.

Convinced that we all had to safeguard our lives and little property where we were, since there was no knowing when we would go back, he advised my father to create extensive kinship in exile.

That is how I found myself back in Rwanda in the house of one Mitwe, the notorious cattle rustler of the region. We had a modest herd of cattle that we had managed to cross with, and the best way to ensure the animals’ safety was to befriend the man.

Mitwe was the king of all cattle thieves and all the other thieves worked for him. He lived in Rwanda but was known in the whole region: Ruhengeri in Rwanda, Bufumbira in Uganda and Bwisha (which includes Jomba and Rutchuru in D.R. Congo).

He was known by everybody but seemed to be above the law. All petty cattle rustlers were under his patronage. It was to the son of this great cattle rustler that my father took me so that I could seal a blood-brotherhood bond, kunywana.

After the appropriate ritualistic recitations by my father and the cattle rustler, a man came with a razorblade and proceeded to make a small cut on my stomach and drew some blood which he gave to the other boy, known as Ntegeye, to lick and swallow.

He did the same to Ntegeye’s stomach and also gave me to lick and swallow the blood on the razorblade, and then the small gathering stood up to clap and cheer. After that we were given straws and drank from the same pot to celebrate the union of two families.

Even today, nothing could be better than blood-kinship as a tool for unity and reconciliation - if it were not for the Aids pandemic.

Contact: ingina2@yahoo.co.uk