Poor me, I went to church last Sunday and tried to enter and sit and attend mass like the good old altar-boy that I was in 1959 but, for the umpteenth time, I got nightmares, like I have done countless times after 1959.

When I arrived outside that warm Sunday morning, the air at the Saint Michel Cathedral was breezy as usual, a cheery crowd cosily chatted away before the nine o’clock English mass.

Without my usual trading of the handshake with the inevitable reprimanding remark of "Eh! You managed to forego your sleep?” from an Amb. Zeph here and an Uncle Ben there, I went straight to the holy-water pot by the entrance door.

After dipping in my forefinger and dabbing it on my forehead, I said a silent prayer and then proceeded to a pew. Once at the pew, I raised my eyes in pious solemnity to look at Jesus on the cross on the wall behind the altar, but could not believe my eyes.

There, I beheld Jesus’ eyes, on the crucifix, dripping with bloody tears and his heart visibly and noisily pumping in anguish!

As the deafeningly pumping din mounted, I looked around, wide-eyed, to check if everybody could see what I was witnessing, but they were all in different stages of silent, calm prayer.

Apparently, no one else was seeing what I was seeing, and the pounding noise was in my head alone! I looked back at the crucifix only to find that the heart had burst open and the blood, mixed with the bloody tears, was falling in one big drop down onto a picture below.

Those familiar with the inside of the St. Michel church know that picture: it shows a winged young angel with a sword poised, with the angel ready to drive it into a prostrating naked man in flames, who is under the angel’s foot. In his right hand, the angel is clutching scales, like those that signify justice.

On top of the picture are written the Latin words "UT UNUM SIT” ("That they may be one”), and below it the Kinyarwanda words "Kandi uduhakirwe” ("And intervene on our behalf”).

If you still remember your scriptures, you know that the angel in the picture is the Saint Michael Archangel who, as the eldest angel, is given captaincy over all other angels. He is the one who protects us from wrongdoers and all evil.

The pounding noise in my head was reaching unbearable proportions, but somehow that picture seemed to bewitch me so much that I could not tear my eyes away. Who was the prostrating man?

Straining my eyes, I seemed to see a kind of writing that looked like a biography, under the picture of the man.
He was a Munyarwanda who was born in 1942. He was robed when he was ordained as a priest in 1971 and named a bishop in 1981.

As a Catholic, then a priest and then a bishop, the biography continued, he watched indifferently from 1959 as his compatriots were persecuted for being born as fellow Banyarwanda.

To myself, I noted that being only 17 years old, the prostrating man was probably too young to intervene, but the writings in the biography on the wall of the church seemed to grow even bolder.

They were highlighting the years of the pogroms in Rwanda: 1963, 1966, 1972, 1990 and the year of the genocide of the Batutsi, 1994.

Whoever it was, in 1972 and after, he was already a priest and, indeed, at least had a voice and could have protested.

In 1990, he was a bishop and had more reason to see it as his moral obligation to fight against the evil that was being perpetrated by the political establishment of the time in Rwanda.

In 1994, he was bishop of Cyangugu and a very influential leader of the area. And as a leader, hardly any decision could be taken without his blessing.

That is why the Interahamwe militia always incorporated his presence in their meetings, called to decide on their next course of action. We all know the purpose of those meetings, read the biography, to wipe out the Batutsi.

The parish of Nyamasheke, which was under his ‘holy’ guidance, killed an astounding 40,000  Batutsi during the genocide, hardly any survivored.

In fact, two priests, out of a number of priests and brothers in his custody for protection, were ‘snatched’ from him and summarily slaughtered before his eyes, at a roadblock. No prizes for guessing their ‘ethnicity’.

And yet, on 21st July 2005, the man convinced the gacaca court of Nyamasheke Murenge that those meetings were called to discuss peace, even if all of them ‘turned around’ and went to kill. He was found innocent and was acquitted.
The pounding in my head was practically reaching its crescendo, and I wanted to burst out of the church and run. And yet, how I wanted to see the name of that man! I strained my eyes even further and could make out indistinct letters at the top of the biography, on the wall.

Unfortunately, Father Dominique had started mass and I could not get nearer the wall. Then I saw the letters flashing, and everything fell in place: "Repent! Deus semper justus est!” No wonder the man can dare pour scorn on the Rwandan judicial system, as you may have heard on the BBC Kinyarwanda programme. The Latin part means "God is always right”, which could as well be interpreted as ‘God cannot be challenged’, (or ‘Imana ntihinyurwa’, in Kinyarwanda!).

Yes, for going free when he knows he is as guilty as Lucifer, even if it is in the name of fostering reconciliation, Archbishop Thadée Ntihinyurwa can sh*t the Rwandan justice system.

Luckily, we have Archangel Michael, the armed and battle-ready defender of justice, to guide us in defending our honour!

Contact: ingina2@yahoo.co.uk