I hope you enjoyed your Christmas, without overindulging in pleasure-sampling pursuits. What I know is that, here in Rwanda, the culture of celebrating Christmas is only today catching on.
I hope you enjoyed your Christmas, without overindulging in pleasure-sampling pursuits. What I know is that, here in Rwanda, the culture of celebrating Christmas is only today catching on.
I remember vividly when it did not go beyond celebrating mass for the Christians, and nothing at all for other denominations.
I’ve had many an ugly Christmas time, but probably my worst to-date was in 1964. We’d just been evicted from our "nyakatsi” (grass-thatched house) in Bambo, near Masisi in D.R. Congo, and herded into a "concentration hall”.
"Concentration hall” because we were packed body-to-body like sardines in a tin.
That, if you remember, followed the Mulele attack against the Mobutu government. Government reprisals targeted us as refugees because it was alleged that Rwandans in the then Congo-Kinshasa were caught fighting alongside Mulele insurgents.
When the incensed Congolese peasants, who’d been fired up by local administration agents, who in turn were relaying it from above, came for us at our house, we’d got wind of the impending attack and gone into hiding.
Annoyed that they found us gone, the Congolese threw a lit matchstick onto the thatch grass and the house was reduced to ashes.
Meanwhile, where we were holed up in the bush, we realised the futility of hiding; it could not be a lasting solution to our plight.
From there, therefore, we delivered ourselves to the shopping centre and were led into a packed classroom. It’s from there that we were herded daylong to the concentration hall that I referred to.
From November, we languished in that hall till the end of December when we were released and allowed to trek back to our houseless parcels of land.
Had our house not been grass-thatched, it’d have been intact because the Congolese had never intended to destroy it. The mud walls of the house cannot withstand the elements, either, and had also crumbled.
When our leadership discourages grass-thatches, it finds total sympathy within my heart.
The next pain that grass-thatch visited on us was not on Christmas day, but it was equally vicious as I’ve recounted in these lines before. My place on the children’s "bed” was on the side.
"Bed” because, in the strictest sense of the word, we did not sleep on beds.
We as children only put our "mattress” on the floor.
"Mattresses” were not mattresses, either, because we actually slept on dry grass. But our "mattresses” of the time were no less comfortable than your modern-day kind of mattress.
The problem was only that they did not at all like the littlest whiff of fire.
For instance, there was this time I was in deep slumber and then felt a needle-prick.
I sat right up and slapped the pricked part only to realise the offender was a red ant. A red ant meant only one thing, and I listened for it: yes, my foreboding was confirmed.
I heard the army of ants in the whole house.
I rushed to the backhouse kitchen and picked a torch and rushed back to look around and wake up everybody.
But, like our bed or mattress, my torch was not your usual kind of torch. It was a log of wood that was a burning ember on one end.
And, as burning embers are wont to, my log of wood with a burning ember let off sparks, one of which fell on our "mattress”.
The rest was history.
History not only to our house but to all the camps of one side of Nshungerezi valley, southern Uganda.
Uti how? You see, refugee camps were arranged in a gorge; a deep and long valley found at the feet of two long hills.
A cluster of thatched houses formed one camp. For example, Kibingu 1 consisted of twenty houses. Two metres from Kibungo 1, Kibungo 2 also consisted of 20 houses and so on.
Imagine more than 40 camps on the side of one hill and an equal number on the side of the other hill. That is how one side of Nshungerezi valley was razed to the ground by the spark from my burning ember.
That one spark was not only responsible for the total destruction of one side of Nshungerezi valley but also many injuries and even some deaths.
My apologies, however, because my account is not meant to dampen your celebratory mood. On the contrary, it aims at giving you morale and encouraging you to join our less privileged compatriots who may still be unable to rid themselves of "nyakatsi”.
It should also put some sense in the minds of those who view negatively Government’s policy of doing away with "nyakatsi”.
As the Diaspora has pledged, in the voice of one of their members, let’s come to the rescue of those who may still be unable to find alternative accommodation.
Every year that comes should re-invigorate you and re-ignite your generosity spark. That way, you will be a renewed person with every year that passes.
To one and all, happy festive season! And Happy New Year!
Without forgetting, too, Happy New You!