Читать книгу From Red Earth - Denise Uwimana - Страница 13

5

Charles

PENDING MY HOPED-FOR JOB with Cimerwa, I stayed in Bugarama, in Alphonse and Priscilla’s house. One evening some of their friends dropped in, so I prepared a meal of ugari with fish sauce. After dinner, over milky tea, everyone relaxed and talked.

One of the guests told me that twelve years previously, he had been studying toward the priesthood at Nyundo Catholic Seminary, near Gisenyi on Lake Kivu’s northern shore. But when fellow Tutsi students were murdered in the 1973 wave of Hutu violence, he fled to the Congo and pursued a geology degree there instead. After graduating, he had returned to Rwanda and found a job with Cimerwa. He was in his thirties. His name was Charles.

I had no special interest in this young man, but he kept turning up at Priscilla’s. One day he offered to show me where Cimerwa quarried travertine, a form of limestone, and I accepted his invitation.

It was obvious that Charles enjoyed walking; he also enjoyed explaining everything we passed. Pointing out a spring beside the path, he had me put my hands in its pool. To my surprise, the water was hot.

We became better acquainted as we walked. Charles said he came third in a family of eleven children. Actually there had been twelve, but one died in infancy. In 1959, his family had fled their home village of Mukoma – on a peninsula near the southern end of Lake Kivu – by boat to Idjwi Island. Refugee life had been harsh, so his childhood memories of the following months were unhappy ones. When the family returned to Rwanda, he and his siblings were slapped and punched by Hutu classmates in Mukoma’s school.

Nyundo Catholic Seminary was one of the few places of higher education to accept Tutsi in Rwanda, so losing that opportunity, at age twenty, had been bitter for Charles. Even now, he told me, his presence at Cimerwa irked certain Hutu employees, who envied his university degree and his position in the company.

Charles said that all the discrimination and disappointment had made him disillusioned with religion; he was still Catholic, but only on paper. In contrast, my faith meant everything to me. I told him about my parents and family, my childhood, baptism, boarding school years – everything that had shaped my views. Although he could not comprehend my childlike faith, he said he respected it.

The more I saw Charles, the more I liked him. A peace-loving thinker, he was something of an introvert. He told me Cimerwa had shelves of science books, and he had read them all, because there was always more to learn. His direct manner, upright walk, and straightforward speech led me to trust him. He was strong and intelligent, of medium build, and sported a mustache. He was also constantly on guard, aware of the animosity of some of his colleagues.

Charles and I continued going for walks. One day, after watching the men and machines at work, he asked me into his office, in a building at the quarry site. Here he told me what was on his mind.

Charles said he enjoyed spending time with me, and he hoped we could be friends. In fact, he said, he hoped we might marry someday.

That was going too far for me. I was only twenty and had come to Bugarama in search of work. “What would my mother and father say,” I asked, “if I turned up with a husband instead of a job?”

I became more reserved after this conversation. Love comes slowly. Rwanda was unfamiliar territory, and I felt far from home. I had always envisioned a marriage like my parents’, so I was troubled that Charles lacked a sure belief. On the other hand, I hoped I might help restore him to faith … So I prayed, and I watched my admirer from a distance. Much later, Charles told me that he never gave up; he had believed I would someday say yes.

My first attempt to get work at Cimerwa failed, because an influential Hutu official – who resented Charles and knew of our friendship – forced me to leave Rwanda. As I crossed back into the Congo, he shook his fist. Several others joined him as he shouted insults behind me.

“You, Tutsi,” he yelled, “you will never, never, never find work in Rwanda!”

I spent the next bleak months with an aunt in Burundi. Frustration over my failure to get my dream job – and over my humiliating ejection from Bugarama – smoldered into anger. Deciding I hated the place and all the interfering Hutu there, I refused to even listen to Rwandan news anymore. I found employment as an elementary school teacher and tried to start building a future in Burundi. But life seemed empty, and I cried a lot.

In December 1986, I decided to visit my family in the Congo. I was homesick; my birthday was approaching, and so was Christmas.

When I arrived in Bwegera, my parents had astonishing news: Charles had looked them up. They had liked him. My heart leapt. If Charles had made that effort to meet my father and mother, he was obviously still thinking seriously about me. Also, he had told them that the Hutu official who expelled me from Rwanda had moved away.

Gathering my courage, I returned to Bugarama in the first weeks of 1987. Priscilla and Alphonse welcomed me back into their home. Charles welcomed me, too. When Cimerwa’s Chinese engineers threw a party, he brought me along, introducing me to everyone as his special friend.

Since I was eleven years younger than Charles, I felt shy around his fellow workers, who teased him about how young and beautiful I was. But when he and I were alone, I felt as comfortable as I did with my own brothers. Our friendship was spontaneous and natural, and we laughed a lot.

We resumed our walks, never forgetting to dip our hands into the hot spring. Once or twice a week, Charles took me out for grilled squash or banana. Sundays we often went for a drive in a Cimerwa car, occasionally making the ninety-minute trip to his childhood home. Here Charles introduced me to his parents, brothers, and sisters. Their compound was the largest in their village.

I loved Mukoma immediately and didn’t mind its unpaved roads or its lack of electricity and running water. Children’s voices, mingled with the lowing of cattle, made a fitting soundtrack for the pastoral scene of thatched huts scattered over grassy slopes, with Lake Kivu a shimmering backdrop.

If possible, it was even more beautiful at night. After the sun set over Congo’s distant mountains, a chorus of frogs and insects tuned their evening concert, fireflies flickered across the hillsides, and the sky filled with stars. The first evening, I noticed twinkling lights filling the valley as well.

“Charles!” I exclaimed. “Is there a town down there?”

“No, Denise,” he laughed. “You’ve forgotten Lake Kivu! That’s the fishing fleet. Every boat has its lamp, to attract the fish.”

As in my mother’s home area, further north along Kivu’s coast, most of Mukoma’s population was Tutsi. The few Hutu families here were entwined with Tutsi through marriage. The prejudice Charles had experienced in elementary school seemed to have evaporated. Neighbors supported each other, and everyone made their living from agriculture, with fishing on the side. Children helped adults in the fields. Mukoma’s red soil was fertile, yielding corn, sorghum, millet, beans, peanuts, onions, celery, and eggplant. Most families had sheep and goats as well as cows. Though not prosperous, theirs was a comfortable, harmonious existence.

As Charles and I walked or drove together, we discussed our hopes, dreams, strengths, and weaknesses. We became convinced that we were meant for each other, and we promised to stick together through good days and bad. After some months, he drove me to Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, to get the working visa I needed in order to stay and work in Rwanda.

We set our wedding date for December 26, 1987.

Charles had planned for us to be married in the Catholic Church, in keeping with his background. But as soon as he appeared at my parents’ home on Christmas Day, I knew something was wrong.

My levelheaded fiancé looked distraught. When I hurried to meet him, he said that the Hutu priest of Shangi Parish, to which Mukoma belonged, was refusing to marry us. The priest said it was because Charles was marrying a Protestant, yet he had known our intention for months and could have raised his objections before the last day.

“I bet it’s because we’re Tutsi,” Charles said. We never learned the priest’s reason, but he later went to prison for his part in the genocide against our people.

When Charles told my parents our predicament, they went straight to their own pastor. He assured us that everything would work out. After spending some hours talking with Charles, he baptized him. And the next day he married us.

Tateh Damaris, Tateh Ephraim, and many other relatives and friends from Rwanda and Burundi came to the Congo to attend our wedding. After the ceremony at my parents’ church, we all drove to Rwanda to celebrate at my in-laws’ compound in Mukoma. We had invited many more acquaintances to meet us there.

Frequently, Tutsi entering Rwanda from the Congo or Burundi would be refused entry; so I was apprehensive as our cortege approached the crossing into Rwanda – especially as some of our guests had no travel documents. Amazingly, none of us was detained. No one was even asked to display ID.

This was the same border at which I had been thrown out of Rwanda the previous year, so I felt like a queen when guards flung the barriers wide for my wedding party. This welcome seemed a Christmas wedding miracle, along with the sun that shone so brightly in usually wet December.

Mukoma villagers built a wedding canopy overlooking Lake Kivu, and my sisters-in-law cooked huge pots of rice over outdoor fires and prepared the traditional mixed grill of beef, lamb, and goat served with vegetables and onions. This was no small task. Since Charles and I both came from large families and had numerous friends, over four hundred wedding guests were pulling into Mukoma.

My bridegroom’s coworkers arrived, including the Chinese engineers he knew so well. Even Cimerwa’s three directors, who later became deadly enemies, joined our festivities that day. Everyone took part in the singing, and our guests drank as much banana beer and Fanta as they wished.

Blooming acacia and lemon trees and plantations of banana, avocado, coffee, and eucalyptus flowed down to the shore. There could be no lovelier setting for our wedding celebration, I was certain. The blue water sparkled below us, backed by Congo’s green mountains fading into misty distance. Charles and I were perfectly happy.

Fortunately we had no inkling that our marriage would last only seven years – or that we would live together for less than three.

IN BUGARAMA, we were assigned a quality brick house in the row reserved for company management. Each spacious residence on our street was surrounded by tall cypress saplings and a high chain-link fence covered with rush matting for privacy.

Settling in and decorating our home was a pleasure for us both – especially for me. I felt like a bird adding the final feathers to its nest.

With free medical service on site, plus a nursery school financed by the business, almost everything we might need was at hand. Nyakabuye, the market town where we bought fresh vegetables and fruit on Saturdays, was a mile and a half from Bugarama’s factory and housing complex. The company kept the road in excellent condition.

High-ranking staff, including my husband, used Cimerwa cars for trips; a white bus – nicknamed “Apartheid” by those who were not allowed to use it – took wives of executive employees to Muganza every Friday for shopping. I was one of these privileged few. When common workers needed to travel, they had to catch a ride on the Daihatsu Transporter that carried both goods and passengers.

Walking was still our favorite way to relax. Evenings after work, we often hiked out to our vegetable plot, where we planted some basic crops. We were entitled to this allotment, near the quarry where Charles had first proposed to me, because of his company status.

Or we strolled around the factory grounds. We would visit the night crew, and Charles had them show me their work. Most impressive was the kiln where a mixture of red clay, quartz, travertine, and slurry was heated to 2,700 degrees Fahrenheit – approximately the temperature of molten lava. We had to wear special glasses to look into this furnace, even though we kept a safe distance from the heat.

A week into married life, I started working for Cimerwa, in administration. I purchased supplies, maintained office equipment, and was responsible for tickets to the workers’ canteen. I liked my supervisor, a Chinese lady called Li.

Another young employee, Annemarie, came by each day for the meal tickets. She took time to help me build my Kinyarwanda vocabulary and improve my pronunciation, and we became friends. We soon found we had much in common. Like me, Annemarie sought God’s guidance in every aspect of life, and we shared our hope that our husbands would someday do the same.

Before entering marriage, I had pictured it as heaven on earth. Now I realized that not every problem disappears at your wedding. In fact, new ones emerge.

Beginning and ending each day with prayer had always been essential for me. After Charles and I were married, I expected my husband to lead ours, as my father had always done for my family.

Looking blank, he said, “I have no idea how to pray.”

Startled, I reminded him that he had been baptized before our wedding.

“My last prayer was at seminary, when the Hutu were trying to kill us,” he admitted.

“Just offer a word of thanks, from your heart,” I said. As Charles did, I mentally added, “Help me win him for you.”

Church had also been central in my life, so I was distressed that Charles spent Sundays on other activities. I joined his jaunts to visit friends, playing the loyal wife, but I missed spiritual fellowship.

One day I opened the door in answer to a knock and was surprised to see five people outside. I recognized them as Cimerwa colleagues, and they now introduced themselves as a prayer group. I invited them in.

The leader’s name was Oscar. He said his wife, Consolée, had heard that a young believer had moved in, and they wanted to get acquainted. I told them my situation, and we were soon reading the Bible and singing together. Oscar and Consolée soon became some of my closest friends, and through them I got to know more Christians in the area.

CHARLES AND I were both thrilled, a year into our marriage, to realize I was pregnant. Coming from big families, we both wanted the same.

Secretly hoping our first child would be a boy and our second a girl, as in my own family, I dreamed of raising sons and daughters in the fear of God. My husband’s dream was not identical to mine, yet he, too, meant to do his utmost for our child. He was keen to provide a good education and to raise a well-behaved family. Respectful children give their parents a good reputation in our culture.

As the weeks and months inched toward my due date, I seesawed between expectation and anxiety. I missed my mother. “Lord, I don’t know how to raise a child,” I prayed. “You will have to show me how. And please, protect our little one.” I was determined to make our home a warm, nurturing place where our baby should lack nothing. Meanwhile, I kept regular appointments with my doctor, exercised, and read books for expectant mothers.

Charles and I took a day off work to go shopping in Bukavu. Our spree was well worth the twenty-five-mile drive and the border crossing into the Congo. Exploring the modern stores, comparing prices, and finally making our choices thrilled me with anticipation. We could barely fit our purchases into the Cimerwa car. Our bassinet and blankets were the best available, and I sorted the baby clothes several times during our return drive, trying to decide which were cutest. Even their smell excited me.

I went into labor on the first of August. Charles called Oscar and Consolée, and the four of us drove to Mibilizi Hospital together, in a Cimerwa car. Early the next morning, August 2, 1989, our baby arrived.

My husband took our firstborn son into his arms. “You did it!” he said, looking from me to the baby, and back again. “You wonderful woman!” He kissed us both.

I was deeply content. Our child was safely here. We were a complete family.

Charles gave me igikoma cy’umubyeyi. Every new Rwandan mother enjoys this healthy drink, made from milk and sorghum, that betokens future wellbeing. Friends, relatives, and colleagues came to congratulate us and admire the baby. Charles and I named him Rukundo Charles-Vital. Rukundo means love, and Vital was the name of my husband’s best friend.

NINE MONTHS LATER, in May 1990, my husband traveled to Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, on Cimerwa’s behalf. Since my brother Phocas lived there, Charles decided to drop in on him. And since it happened to be Sunday, Charles waited outside the church. There, from the doorway, he listened to the sermon.

As usual, I watched for my husband’s return. He would always park the car at Cimerwa and walk the short distance to our home. This time, I noticed a spring in his step and a sparkle in his eyes. “Denise, I’m a born-again Christian!” he called as he approached.

When he had heard the preacher’s words, “The blood of Jesus has power to wash the dirt from our lives,” Charles told me, all his past sins had appeared before him. Admitting he had been baptized before our wedding primarily for my sake, he now sincerely dedicated his life to Christ. “Denise, I will pray with you from now on,” he said. “Jesus says he gives living water. With you, I will keep going to him for that water, so I’m not pulled back into my old ways.”

A week after his trip, as Charles and I walked hand in hand to the service in Mashesha, I overheard a neighbor say, “What? Educated people believe in Jesus?” I didn’t care what the neighbors thought. I had received my heart’s desire, and I sensed that our family now had a firm foundation.

Formerly, Charles had disparaged Hutu behind their backs at every opportunity. I never heard such talk from him again. Instead, I heard a lot more laughter – until they took him away.