God is a string bean of a man

It wobbled its way forward as I clung to the rubbery unsteadiness of its traitorous handlebars; the seat was too high, my feet dangled on each side, I was hunched over like the spirit of a broken tree with my eyes locked on the ground. I felt like a tower of blocks about to be pushed over.

 I knew If I dare move forward I would tumble, fall, summersault, flip flop, stumble, plummet, plunge face first in to the floor beneath me. My teeth would shatter, my skin would rip, my blood would pour and I would have no one and nothing to blame but my assuming arrogance.

And then he appeared. 

He was slight and fast and moved like a lizard with a speed and a grace that was almost like a dance. “Wait…” he yelled. He instructed me to step down as he adjusted the seat. Finally I could lift my head up to the sky.

“Now, get on, we will go…”

I’m confused. “We?” I reply.

“Yes, yes, On! Get on! We go”.

 I had no choice in the matter. WE were going to ride.

With my heart beating fast, prepared for the worst, I climbed on and with a push…we were off!

Behind me a man, no bigger than a teenage boy, no fatter than a broomstick or a slender green string bean, ran. And held me.

“Look far! Look at the mountains, look for the distance” he yelled.

I did as I was told and looked beyond.  I looked to the mountains, to the hills. I saw the forests of Rwanda spread out in front of me as I sped along the bike path almost ready to take off. I clung to the antlers of this flying contraption. I was zig zaging and wobbling, shaking, trembling, shuddering…flying, soaring, rising! Suddenly I began to steady myself and courage took hold. I began to peddle as fast as I could and my muscles suddenly evoked the memory of my very first bike ride when I was a little girl. And then he let go…and I was a bird!

It felt like when I was 10 years old and I had just pulled off my very first cartwheel. Like when I tasted my first bit of ice cream and vowed never to eat anything else ever again in my whole life, like when my mother said to me ‘One day, you’ll be an artist’, and I believed her and I did it! It felt like my sister was just born, like the first sip of coffee in the morning, like seeing the sunset from my home in Jerusalem. It felt THAT good.

I suddenly understood why they say that God sleeps in Rwanda. I got to see her that day; she was a thin string bean of a man who pushed me until I could do it on my own.

Patience

Ihangahne means patience

To pause

Until

It will stop

Break

That she will

Remain sick

In her liver, kidney, heart

Eyes, mouth, throat

Until.

That you may

Be alone

Here

In the dark for a while

Wait.

Until you are

Old

Until your skin is crumpled and used

Yellow, black, brown

Spotted

To decide

That you can scream

About what you’ve seen

That your broken legs

 Can carry you as far as you can see

Please wait in silence

Or if you must speak

Have it be a whisper

People like us

We do not rage

We do not craze

We are patient.

Until

An opportunity

Will

Come and

Wrench

 you

Away

Delay,

postpone,

 Stay?

Jackie Chan

      NIYOTWAGIRA Jacqueline

The Illuminati

The other day these cutie pies told me that Jay-Z, Riannah, Chris Brown, Beyoncé, Justin Timberlake, Millie Cyrus and many other talented and dazzling performers of our generation are part of a secret society that sold their souls (or the soul of someone they love) to the devil in order to obtain glory, fame and wealth. The above gestures (that my girls so graciously volunteered to demonstrate for me) are the special, secret signs and signals that are made by the members of this elite underground association. This is how they manipulate the media and communicate with each other through newspapers, magazines and TV. 

They say that this top-secret group is named The Illuminati. 

Lady Gaga is their leader. 

Naturally. 

I do not speak Kinyarwanda

I do not to speak Kinyarwanda. 

I have, however, perfected not only in comprehension but pronunciation the following words: moon (Ukewezi) sun (Izubo) rain (Invura), stars (Yinyenri), beans (Ibishimbo) water (Amazi) and ‘come here’ (Guino Hano). I have mastered the ability to act surprised or angry with my girls using only one syllable and sound “Eeh…” I can tell when they are sad because when that happens they don’t speak at all. Their eyes follow the ground until their way is perfectly memorized through the green and the red landscape of Ahagozo-Shalom. I do my best to roll my tongue at the precise moment or press it reluctantly against the top of my mouth. I send short bursts of air through my teeth and try to have my lips burst with the precision of a native East African mama.

I do my best to listen. 

I listen to how they speak their language through their bodies. I watch how they celebrate when they dance and am filled with piercing envy when I realize that my backside will never move to the beat the way their's does at the "boom" every Friday night. 

I watch how they raise their forks to their mouths, how they hold each other’s hands like they’ve known each other for decades and how they believe in Jesus with no question or doubt and wonder how I don’t and what will happen to me.

 I notice how they listen to each other’s words and how so much can be said through those slender strips of hair above their bright eyes. I notice how they take care of each other and how so graciously they take care of me. They pile my plate high with rice every afternoon, they demand to carrying my heavy laptop from dining hall to home and if I didn’t insist on doing it myself they would happily wash my all my clothes probably for the rest of my life.

But still, I do not speak Kinyarwanda.

A week ago, at 5am I went to wake up my girls. Together we glided through the cool morning air with the burning sun coming up in the east. For a while we sat and waited for the whole of the village to be together as people slowly trickled in through the front doors of the dining hall. “Ayel, you look sad, why are you sad?”

I do not speak Kinyarwanda.

When JC, Agahozo-Shalom’s village director, informed the kids that Anne died, I listened. I listened to the popping P’s, the rolling R’s, the sharp Ch and the cutting K’s. In those 30 seconds Kinyarwanda was the most terrifying language that I did not understand.

When the sharp scream of our kids erupted in the enormity of the dining hall I realized that I did not need to understand Kinyarwanda to comprehend the terror of loosing what these children just lost.

That day was a terrible day but a remarkable one as well. I was fortunate to witness these kids carry each other. Some went from family home to family home and gave speeches about how we must stay strong; they painted pictures, they wrote poems, they danced, they prayed. Anne said once that no person acts alone and that it takes a community to raise a child. That day these kids began to raise themselves 

I do not understand why Anne died. I do not understand Kinyarwanda.

But I have come to truly understand the power of Agahozo Shalom.

I am not worried.

Anne did a very good job. 

Meet my girls...

Aline has these black pleather pants she wears almost everyday. 

She looks like an east African cat women.

“Cousin, this is a gift for you” and hands me a beaded ring for my pinky.

Dyna is a tiny bird.

 She giggles when I squeeze her and she is very spicy and sweet.

“Cousin, I love you sooooo much.”

 Providence is a free style rapper and a skilled dancehaller.  

She promises to teach me her moves.

Agnes speaks with her eyebrows. 

Merci has headaches. 

They come in the night. 

They make her seem even smaller than she actually is.  

Benita is a silent screamer. 

To me, Imacullee, is beautiful.
But I suppose they all are in their very own way.

When I told Grace that some people use condoms in America she said,

 “ America has bad bad culture”.

Rose has decided to teach me traditional Rwandese dance. 

Slowly, I’m getting better.

Denyse seems always surprised.

Jacqueline is a special one, with a warm dark face. 

She is a mama even at the age of 16. 

When Sylvie arrived here she never smiled. 

Now she grins at me with no words and we run towards the sun together every Saturday. 

Ernestine understands everything that I say,

even though sometimes she likes to pretend that she doesn’t.

Marceline doesn’t like to look at me.

When I speak to her she looks like she’s drowning.

Josian doesn’t know her birthday. 

No one has been around for her to figure it out. Together we came up with Jan. 10^th. 

Now she is the oldest in our family.

Chanceline is a giant.

 She always makes sure I get extra beans.

“Ayel, you promise to take me with you to America?”