I wrote the below vignette in 2007 upon the return of my first trip to Kigali.
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I look down at my red-dirt crusted feet to avoid the trash scattered across the busy market path. I breathe in: rancid rotting food, then the smell of small fish. These nutrient packed minnow-like, silvery creatures have sustained me the past few weeks. Their cold eyes stare at me now, as I see colors and patterns, some whizzing by and others lingering, staring. The familiar yet undetectable sounds of Kinyarwanda hit my ears. An occasional “muzungu” (white person) jumps out of the hum of the market, and I smile slightly. In this market, there is life. Women carry atrocious pounds of fruit on their sturdy heads. Children lean against stick poles, looking innocently up into my eyes as I pass. The children I hold in my hands keep up pace well, sometimes skipping a bit to stay along my stride. Dirt cakes everything, including the fruit and vegetables spread across blankets on the ground. The mangoes and pineapples are the best I’ve tasted. Bananas are something different altogether, but much better than the pumped up, perfectly yellow version in the states. Through the humdrum of the market, I feel a beat in my chest. The moment I’ve anticipated is here.
The strong, steady beat of a drum crescendos with each step. I can feel the pulse, the energy. As we near uriziga, the church, which sits just on the edge of the market, I hear voices: loud, clear, and unashamed. They are piercing through all of the market sounds. Rhythmic, and steady, the music is loud now. As we step into the cement slab building with open-air windows, my cheekbones are suddenly wet.
The beat that is now so strong and pervasive moves my feet without my head telling them to do so. I am caught up in the spirit of these people, this music. Now, a children’s choir is singing, so loudly I don’t hear my own thoughts. I don’t mind, because really, what else is there to think about? There is a pulse here, not one seen on some computer screen, but something driving the very essence of life. The deep beat is a constant reminder of something greater that is weaving people together to bring hope.
Warm hands envelop mine as I meet almost every parishioner. Their white teeth sparkle against the most beautiful chocolate complexion, and I smile as language barriers make conversation awkward. In most interactions, however, laughter usually trumps the cumbersome attempt at communicating verbally. In this moment I meet William, a welcoming man with hugs and smiles to give. He sits us down with his family, insisting on translating the sermon for us. Wholeness, unity, and hope are the words coming through. The message here is clear: much has happened to the Rwandese, but now, there is solidarity. This wholeness and unity brings hope. The weaver stitching these people together is greater than all of us, and he is present here. I can feel it in the deepest part of me. I see it in the eyes of the children peering up at me as I nod at the sermon. I hear it in the deep beat of the drums that recess us out of the sanctuary. Hope is here.
