The Genocide commemoration period ended just a few days ago, but not too late for the mention of this illustrious son of Rwanda who gave his life in order to save the life of his friend and his family’s.

Cyatarugamba cya Rugina was one of the notables of Kabere, a small village in the then Ruhengeri prefecture, now in the Northern Province.

He was renown in the region and beyond, not so much for his owning so many sheep and goats as for a man who had married 12 wives.

His 12 wives’ traditional cone-roofed huts were built within a huge circular compound surrounded by a fence made of bamboo, interspaced by a number of huge ficus trees (Imivumu).

The wives took turns in hosting him for a night or two, or sometimes three, depending on his disposition and mood of the moment. Karuhije was wife number one, and was therefore the most favoured. But even she, other than her own, she at times did not know in which of the 11 other huts her husband spent a particular night.

By his wives, Cyatarugamba was father to several children. Sons and daughters, even if some of them had since departed this world. Others had gone to neighbouring Uganda to seek greener pastures, but they always came back home once in a while, maybe after a year or sometimes two, bringing him money, in-laws and grandchildren.

And because of all this, he was a very prosperous and influential man in the community, and he commanded respect in all Kabere and the surrounding villages.

This rather detailed description and background of this man is deliberate, because he was wonderful. I say was, because he is now long dead. But, had it not been for him, my parents stood no slightest chance of ever escaping death and torture at the hands of the marauding killers and arsonists at that time.

As this story goes on, you’ll understand why and then maybe you will empathise with him.

In 1959, there were rampant misunderstandings between Rwanda’s two main ethnic groups. At one given unfortunate moment in time, there happened to develop a drunken brawl among the people who had had a glass too many, and one of the Bahutu prominent leaders was so badly beaten up in the process, and he was left for dead.

Rumours of his death set off such violence that killed hundreds of Batutsi all over the country in retaliation, while many other thousands had to flee the country, for dear life.

It was a whole scale butchery and arson which left no area of the country untouched. This is how the whole saga of the 1959 Rwandan refugee episode all started, with some people ending up in Uganda, others fleeing to Congo and Burundi, or crossing into those countries whose borders were nearest.

The escape (As narrated to me by my brother)

"How did we escape? I shall tell you. You remember Cyatarugamba cya Rugina? The father of ‘munywanyi wawe’(sworn brother). Well, we owe him our lives.”

"He is now dead, may God rest his soul! He died just a day after we crossed the border into Uganda. When at last the killing spree that visited the entire country reached our area, Cyatarugamba, his sons and grand-sons did their best in attempting to dissuade the killers, even by force of arms, but they were overwhelmed by sheer majority. He could not save Munyawera and his family, he could not save Gasamunyiga and his family, nor could he save the families of Gakuba and Ruyenzi.

"This is what happened. Cyatarugamba and his army of descendants came to our compound and stood their ground in our defence. Cyatarugamba faced the killers and declared, and mark my words: ‘Abarigusenya inzu ya Rukubanyiduru agabo baje kugasukaho amazi mbanica Rugina na Bakundinkwano’. (By the name of Rugina [his father] and Bakundinkwano [his mother] those who dare destroy Rukubanyinduru’s [my father’s motto) house should go and pour water on their own houses). The threat inferred that he would go and burn down their houses in retaliation.

"On that very evening,” my brother went on, "Cyatarugamba had commandeered Serugendo and his old Ford pickup, and with but a few of our absolutely necessary belongings, our family and I were driven under the cover of the night, to the border of Uganda at Cyanika about 20km away. The rest of the journey to Uganda we made on foot, walking during the day and sleeping at night, except for a few kilometers during which we were given a lift by a UNHCR truck to a Red Cross refugee centre.

"The end of Cyatarugamba, as was later told by one of his surviving sons, came when the killers returned the following day of our escape, shortly before noon. Their intention had been to find and exterminate us. Only they couldn’t find us. And so in their anger and frustration, they turned their rage on Cyatarugamba’s household and wanted to destroy his compound by setting it on fire. A ferocious battle ensured between Cyatarugamba sons and the killers, during which he was slain, struck in the chest with a spear blade by the irate mob.”

And that is how the life of a kind and courageous man ended, who had stood by his friend in trouble, for which he paid with his life.

The writer is a veteran journalist based in Kigali.