Kambibi is the last born of the family. Very calm and beautiful. Growing up, she played with other children in the neighborhood: hide and seek, jump rope, cards, ça y’est (saye), and all the local games for young children of the time.
At a tender age, she asked her mother where her grandparents and her father lived, because she had never seen them and she heard other children talk about theirs. Her mother would dismiss the conversation and talk about other things, thinking that she was too young to grasp the reality, therefore keep her safe. What was the point of bringing back the old dark stories that she fought herself to erase in order to move forward? But the village was so small that she couldn’t contain gossip all around.
Many times, Kambibi’s mother would be harsh on the children and that stirred up Kambibi’s need to know where her father was. She continued to ask for information until her mother gave in and, at the age of 8, she sat down and told her the story,
“When you were only four months old, your father was beaten to death and your grandparents had been burnt in the house during the bloody conflict which marked the so-called Social Revolution in 1959.”
“Why?” Kambibi asked.
Her mother looked her in the eyes like she was contemplating her innocence, then said: “Because of the size of their noses; our ethnicity is the problem of it all. My child, we are Tutsi. I don’t know what offense we have committed to God.”
Looking into her eyes, Kambibi sensed sadness; her mother, who was renowned for being strong, sometimes cold and unbothered. But this time she was shaken, and so many questions were running into Kambibi’s mind. Consequently, she decided to go solely with that information.
That was probably the last time they ever discussed the matter. It was quite enough to explain what she’d been hearing at school, the bullying in class only for certain pupils – her included, and in the neighbourhoods, the hatred, and the difference in people. She couldn’t take it, and eventually ended up dropping out of school.
Kambibi had a simple life. She was this wondrous lady with a magnetic presence, a welcoming person. Nothing seemed to shake her peace of mind. She would wake up early in the morning, prepare a manger for the cows, clean the house, prepare food for the family, take a shower and go to bed.
Her body in harmony, faultless light skin tone, her femininity, of an attraction and provocative, exhibited a devastating enchantment. God, how she dominates with just her presence, she illuminates with her charisma.
Discerning her life, she never valued material things. She loves people and knows how to make them feel loved. She makes everybody feel seen, noticed in her presence; she welcomes people with soothing, like the world is meant to unite people, share love & laughter. Somehow, it helps to lessen the weight of losses and failures.
With her charisma, a number of men desired her; ever since she was a teenager she had been receiving marriage requests. The choice was not easy at all, because of the beautiful words they used to describe her, the promises, the sacrifices in offering favours and services. Every gesture a man can think of, not to mention his brothers’ friends, who would do anything just to get to her. And neither her mother nor her siblings could help her to choose.
There was this quiet and confident man called Mr Musoni. He wasn’t the favorite, but he was consistent and lived in town. He knew how to get to her mind. From time to time, people could tell how violent he was. However, he knew how to acknowledge his fault and humbly apologize, claim that it was all because of love, and remind her about the distance he travelled just to see her, from the capital city to her village. Kambibi married him at 22, with 13 years of age difference.
Did she find what she wanted? What were her expectations, anyway?
The first year of marriage, they welcomed a new-born daughter, the second year the Genocide against the Tutsi began. It was on Thursday when she was planning to celebrate Easter with her family on Sunday. By Tuesday, April 13th 1994, almost all her family members were exterminated. She saw with her naked eyes what she wondered had happened to her father and grandparents. Musoni escorted her to his family for their safety; they walked day and night, sometimes they would meet militias, and Musoni would give them some money to let them go.
One day there was a lot of bombing around Kigali, and they split in confusion. Nobody knew where the other had gone. Kambibi stayed with her daughter behind her back and, luckily, made it to Musoni’s family in South Province. Though the complicity of the situation then took her six weeks there, and two months later, one afternoon, she was sitting on the balcony in front of the house and saw Musoni approaching the compound; she got up in joy for the reunion moment. They went back home.
At the 20th Commemoration of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, Kambibi with her three sisters were reminiscing about the horror and trauma that had befallen them, how their people died, but at the same time, tears rolling reciting memories they shared. You could see the closeness and resemblance in their gestures and facial expressions. Intertwining sorrow and joy of at least staying together in that moment. They exchanged stories of childhood, discarded fantasies and what might have been.
Every now and then, the conversation turns to derailing them back to the old days. How their mother begged murderers to kill her instead of taking away children, but they killed them all anyway. Maliza, one of her sisters, recalled their elder brother’s death on that day,
“This morning I recalled the death of Denis,” she sighed softly, narrating how the brother was spit in the face and struck, the murderers rolling him naked on the ground; remembering every footstep they made like it was happening again, as she promptly had a silent pause.
“I remember him begging for a quick death; ultimately, it didn’t matter what he was begging for, he was at the mercy of heartless tormentors. I remember our mother knelt down beside them, distraught, weeping, calling upon God “Why have you abandoned us Lord?” Maliza proceeded
“His name was Bwanakweli. They made sure he wouldn’t get a simplified death, at least he could get. No, they treated him like trash.” She scoffed and you could hear her voice quivering, but she wanted to let the rage out in front of them, name the killers by all sorts of inhumane names for the despicable acts, as she kept it all day long in her heart. And now she’s safe to express herself freely.
Others lowered their heads glancing on the flow, tears in the eyes but they kept on sharing, and every time there’s a new story they reveal to each other about the past.
Maliza narrated all that while her niece, the daughter of Denis, was sitting around. She was listening, capturing all the information she could get about her dad with full attention and much curiosity, like she was waiting perhaps to hear something new, something she didn’t get the chance to see by herself. Although she knew her father possessed a delightful sense of humour, and was very much known for his wisdom, she still had un-answered questions about his death. That evening, she was seated near her aunt, smiling but longing for additional information, heedful, as if somebody was pouring water on a thirsty desert land. Even if some murderers would accept to describe the way they killed people, it never seemed enough to answer the why, how, when, for how long… questions.
“Yesterday I was watching TV, and there was a story of a lady whom, during the Genocide, was living in Europe and when she came back in 2004, she visited the prison and requested to meet with her mother’s murderer. He came with shame. The lady asked him to show her how he killed her mother. The murderer started recounting the scenario, but the lady insisted on showing him. She was ready to portray her mother.” Uwimana [second sister] shared; they all turned their eyes to her to listen to the story.
“What? Where do people get such strength?” Maliza asked.
“I guess it appeases one’s heart.” Uwimana reacted.
“Did the perpetrator show her how he killed her mother?” Kambibi asked.
“He gave a flinching sideways glance then narrated: ‘We went to her house in the morning, asked her to come outside, I personally instructed her to lie down. She came and did exactly what she was told.’ The lady volunteered. She lied down too.” Uwimana added,
‘I hit her head twice with a machete. Like this’ [the perpetrator demonstrating how he’s done it with fluttering hands on the lady]
‘Then what?’ the lady asked.
‘She died.’ the perpetrator, who offered to testify for reconciliation purposes, added.
“No matter the information you’re given about the death of your loved one, details seem to be lacking, answers not quenching enough. At least that’s what I felt at that moment, because questions remained lingering in my head. And the lady sat with him for a few minutes asking about life in prison. They hugged and she left him with five kilograms of sugar.” Uwimana said.
Kambibi and her sisters continued to share their stories, reciting the memories of friends and previous lovers murdered, the young ladies they once were and the dreams they held. Seeing their faces in those moments, you wouldn’t recognize them, it’s like they have been back in time, their faces have become young, and it makes you miss the old days – the unbroken people they used to be. However much they were hurt, they all agreed that forgiveness is the right choice and a rewarding act. That’s what their mother taught them.
They sang their childhood song, “Let the child live”.
Be careful of that branch, it will burn you,
Be careful of the fire! I’ll douse it
Hmmh, uhhuh
Turn to your left, see the beautiful valley; a land flowing with milk and honey
Turn to your right, everywhere reflects freshness, slow breeze and the warm sun
My child, now that you’ve grown up, I can disclose the secret of a good life: love the people, respect elders and serve your country
You were born to bring joy, not sorrow
Transcend life, prosper
Like a flying bird; reach great horizons!
Long live my Beloved Child…
Shortly after the Genocide – one year and a half, Musoni was incarcerated on charges of enjoyment while others were mourning, grieving and commemorating the horror that befell the entire nation in 1994. Initially, it was called belittling genocide. He wanted to celebrate their new born and had invited people to join the family in jubilation. Their neighbours didn’t take it lightly, so they denounced him.
Musoni was taken away
He was the one providing for the family, whereas Kambibi was a stay-home mum. How was she going to raise 2 kids on her own? Her family is wept away and now her husband is imprisoned on charges related to something that took hers away.
Well, she couldn’t do anything other than wait, wait for uncertainty, due to the high number of suspects, the courts were having a backload, the justice system lacked enough manpower, skilled judges had died, lawyers were few, the procedure was frustrating. It was not going to be possible for everybody to get justice on time (whether you are convicted or on remand) all at once. Musoni denied the charges on grounds that he didn’t have the intention of mocking the victims or belittling the unfortunate event, he was just welcoming his baby boy into the family.
Around the age of 3 and 4, kids started the inquisitive period, which is normal for all kids of that age. Some experts believe most of the information we have as humans is gathered during the inquisitive period, and all humans go through that period of asking never-ending questions, because that’s how we get information. The why and how questions are the most difficult because they are based on the child’s knowledge of what caused certain events to happen. They were asking about their father and maternal grandparents. Was history repeating itself?
Kids saw their cousins living with them, and once in a while, they would see the grandparents from their dad’s side, and they saw their neighbors having a male figure they called “father”. Where was theirs? Having a similar life to her mom’s, Kambibi understood how difficult it was for her mother to tell her about her father and grandparents. Unlike her mother, she set a principle of never hiding anything from her kids. She made an oath to be open to them.
Kambibi told the story and even brought them to the village where she lived with her family. No body, no house, had remained, she could see a tree and remember the road to her home, but the hill was naked.
A tragedy befell the land
“How did you survive?” the kids asked.
“Well, I hid myself, I think I got lucky” she remembered a clairvoyant she met a year before the Genocide, who told her about the atrocity she would endure.
“Why didn’t they hide too?”
After a pause, “They tried their best.” she showed them where their cousins used to live with their parents,
“During the Genocide, I was with your dad’s family, which was safe at that time. They were not the target.”
“You could have brought them with you.”
“Nobody was prepared; we didn’t know to what extent it’d be. If I could, I would have saved them.”
“So dad was among the killers?”
“No. He wasn’t, he did not kill anybody.”
“Then why is he in jail?”
“He’s being accused by some of the survivors for something he’s done that did not please them”
“What did he do?”
“He is still under prosecution, so we shall know everything once it’s done.”
Later on, she showed them three photos she was left with, one her mother carrying her grand-son, second picture of her and her brother, and the last of the whole family gathered at the wedding of her elder sister. They seemed happy; a joyful community sharing local drinks, some people dancing traditional dance in the background, the smiles that take you with their mood,…
Meanwhile, Musoni was advised to plead guilty so that the punishment would be reduced to at least 10 years instead of a life sentence or something similar, which he refused to do. He wasn’t going to accept something he didn’t do, and remained in jail for 12 years. They’d go on Friday to visit him with food and some clothes. They’d often talk about school, and he was also an open person to tell them about life in prison in the few minutes they were allowed to see him.
Though Kambibi wasn’t financially well, her household comprised numerous individuals, some of whom were not her blood relatives, but whom she aided. She kept her candid heart to receive people with warmth, kindness and an ever-helpful nature; she always had something good to say about somebody, you couldn’t tell what she went through, and her face shone bright like a moonbeam.
She did all she could to raise and nurture her children with good manners. Though she couldn’t afford to pay for good schools, she instilled in them love for people, and above of all, the fear of God.
Later on, Musoni was released after being declared innocent. He came back, continued his work as a carpenter and, for the following few years, life was beautiful, until his abuse escalated. He was violent, he could be physical ever since he married Kambibi. But this time, it only got worse, alcoholism kicked in with so much anger about what happened to him. He would beat her until kids called out security and tell him in the face that they wished he stayed in prison.
But as he did before they got married, when he was sober, he’d come back with remorse and treat Kambibi like a queen. The difference was that those moments were becoming fewer and shorter.
When Musoni came back from prison, their home darkened, people weren’t willing to pay them a visit; it wasn’t fun anymore unless he decided so, and the cousins had to leave and start their own life elsewhere.
Kambibi’s sisters would implore her to leave him and she’d say that it was still tolerable. While she remained an open book to her children, they saw her tears falling down and laughing from her belly when she was happy.
Twelve years after the court battles and appeals, and his release, he had a car accident which took his life. During the funeral, a few people from his familyside had a say about his life, the kind of person he was and the legacy he left, plus one friend of his, a woman they used to share a drink, talked about how friendly he was, how nobody ever lacked anything in his presence, especially when you needed a drink. That was it. That was the end of his road. Kambibi was expressing her heartfelt appreciation to the people who came to his burial and if you both have a mutual friend she’d ask where they are, why they didn’t come. She wanted to see people around her.
People kept showing up in the following days and those who knew Kambibi for a longtime noticed the same changes about her as the day Musoni got arrested. She regained weight like a free soul.
A few weeks ago, Kambibi’s daughter got married. It was a very good love ceremony, well organized, people eating and drinking and dancing in all corners. Kambibi was stunning as usual, with her beaming smile and lively soul. People were waving at her, others coming for a hug; and she had something deep to talk or laugh about with each and every one who approached her.
At the end of the ceremony, she sat with her sisters. They were rejoicing about the wedding but somehow they went back to the way of sorrows they’d been through. They took turns narrating their journey, how they’re finally living their dream of having a safe country. A country they call their own. Her two sisters reminded each other about the prayers they had in refugee camps, and how they swore to never hate each other again as one people. The truth is, they didn’t keep the promise. They blame themselves for not honouring the covenant they made with God. They feel like they’ve taken it for granted because some people around the country still wish death for others.
Kambibi praises her mother for being the most resilient woman she’s ever known. However she doesn’t realize how greatly she’s inherited her genes. There won’t be enough words to describe Kambibi’s grace and sublimity.
Her mother would be proud to see how she impartially treats everyone around her, proud that the hatred didn’t reach her soul.
She frequently shares the secret of living a happy life: “Don’t blame yourself; you are always doing the best you can, and so are others.”
