The pillar of love

They say a person's life is marked by two great celebrations — the day of their wedding and the day of their death. I believe these days stand out because they bring together people from every corner — even strangers who never knew the person being celebrated. While I’m alive, I have nothing to say about my funeral, but one thing I’ve come to understand is that no one dares speak ill of the dead. I’ve realized that people fear offending the dead more than the living. They fear spirits deeply, yet while people are still alive, tongues speak endless lies in the name of love that “will never fade.” Speaking of love, I’ve discovered another crucial day in a person’s life — the day love fills your heart, and someone comes close to you, gently opens their mouth and says: “I love you.” These words are always spoken softly — I’ve never heard someone shout them in anger or while arguing. When the one you love replies, “I love you too,” that day becomes extraordinary. Something in you changes. Some people even switch religions for love. Others change their behavior, trying to align with what their new love desires. This word — “I love you” — is music to the ears and food for the heart. It starts a new journey in our lives. Often, we believe we are walking the path of truth, guided only by hope. We follow it without knowing exactly what convinced our hearts that this love is real. But when our friends and family ask, “Do you love them?”, we answer without hesitation, “Yes.” The harder question comes next: “Do they love you back?” Before answering, we pause. Our brains rush to remember everything they’ve ever done for us — each action evaluated for its truthfulness. Then, with some reflection, we either confirm it… or deny it. Sometimes I sit alone, lost in thought, wondering what life would look like without love. It’s a question with no clear answer. Yet, something my grandfather once told me comes back: “Love begins life, and love ends life.” Now I understand — he was right. My name is Kalisa wa Ngoga. I am a grandson of the Abega and a nephew of the Abagesera. I’m thirty-nine years old. My parents are still alive, though I no longer feel comfortable looking them in the eye. Though we live in the same world, I feel like a refugee — not because my parents are cruel, no. I was lucky, luckier than most children. My parents gave me more than just life — they gave me the means to live it well. We are four children, all of whom were raised with love and sent to good schools. As the firstborn, I had the privilege of walking in my father’s footsteps. He showed me every corner of the path I could take when life would one day grow difficult. I didn’t disappoint him — I followed his lead. After finishing high school, he brought me into his construction company. It was no secret — he had guided me into engineering so I could eventually take over. My mother was overjoyed and often said, “You’ll be a man like your father.” That sentence still echoes in my heart. Now I whisper in reply, “Forgive me, Mother.” I don’t know if she hears the voice of my heart. My father and I attended countless meetings together. Through him, I met many powerful people. I didn’t stop studying, though. I continued learning so I could lead his company well. I was both a student and a worker — never resting, never playing with my peers. My time was always accounted for. Love, girls — I only heard about such things from my sister Ayinkamiye. She would tell me about boys trying to win her heart, showing me their photos, asking for my opinion. I often replied, “Whoever you choose, I’ll support you.” She’d look at me and ask, “Haven’t you found a girl you like yet?” I’d shake my head, because my thoughts were elsewhere — focused on building the company. Ayinkamiye was persistent. She used to tell me, “A partner balances your life.” I’d sigh and say, “Sometimes they’re the reason your life becomes unbalanced.” She’d smile knowingly and say, “You need a partner, you’re getting older.” I don’t know what she meant by older, but I had just turned twenty-five. I was now skilled in both construction and financial management. My father beamed with pride, often saying to his friends: “My son is stronger than me — I’d trade anything for him.” He loved sharing drinks with friends and exchanging ideas. The day of my university graduation came, and our home prepared for a grand celebration. My parents were proud — their faces glowed with joy. My father’s friends came in large numbers, as did neighbors, because my father valued community. He’d often say, “Friendships are the foundation of life,” and, “Trust breeds wealth.” Those were his words after every meeting we had with our clients. Our home couldn’t even contain the crowd that came to celebrate. Ayinkamiye wasn’t left behind — she invited her friends, and her boyfriend too. They wore matching outfits. I watched them and felt like they were the ones being celebrated. They sat together, surrounded by her giggling girlfriends. After many speeches and cheers, it was my turn to speak. I had many things I could’ve said, but they all came down to one word: Gratitude. I stood before the crowd and said, “I want to thank my family, who stood by me through this long journey. For over twenty years, countless teachers passed before me and filled me with knowledge — I thank them. I thank my friends who made it bearable. I thank my ancestors and Rwanda’s God who protected me. I promise never to disappoint you. I will be a son who brings people together in future celebrations.” The applause was thunderous. Some people started whispering. I didn’t hear what they were saying, but I grew curious. The party carried on. People mingled in little groups, according to their ties. That day, I was welcome in every group — it was my day. I approached my grandmother, who walked with a cane. She hugged me and said, “Do you remember that car you promised me?” I smiled and said, “I haven’t forgotten.” She held my hand and asked, “There’s someone you haven’t introduced us to… where are they?” Before I could respond, she added, “Can’t you see you’re a grown man now?” touching my beard. I knew what she meant. I replied, “Soon you’ll attend that celebration too.” She laughed and said, “Be quick, my days are numbered. Don’t let me go before meeting your wife.” I promised her, joking that maybe if I never married, she’d live longer. We both laughed. Just then, Ayinkamiye called me over to meet her friends. I found five of them — four girls and one boy. I saw nothing wrong with the boy being her boyfriend. She introduced me, and we all shook hands. Then I asked them to introduce themselves too. The boy went first: “My name is Felix.” I looked at him and said, “That’s not a real name.” I told him I disliked colonial names. He laughed and said, “My real name is Murego.” I smiled, “That’s more like it.” The girls introduced themselves one by one — except for the last one. She said, “I don’t speak in public.” I smiled and asked, “If that’s true, why did you listen to others introduce themselves?” Before she could reply, Ayinkamiye interrupted and asked her friends to leave us alone. They left — just the two of us now. It was nighttime. Stars lit the sky. Crickets were chirping. She looked at me and said, “Congratulations.” I replied, “Thank you.” She took a breath and said, “I wanted to buy you a gift, but I couldn’t afford one. I haven’t found a job yet.” I smiled and said, “No worries — I’ll write your name as the gift.” She laughed, “But no one writes someone as a gift!” I told her, “Then give me one yourself.” She paused, touched her wrist, and looked at the bracelets she wore. She said, “Take one.” I gently took her hand, examining them. She smiled faintly. I picked the middle one. She helped me wear it and said, “Now the debt is paid.” We both smiled. I asked, “What’s your name?” She hesitated, then avoided a colonial-sounding name and softly said, “Irere.” I was about to compliment it when she cut in: “Don’t tell me it’s a beautiful name.” Surprised, I asked, “How did you know that’s exactly what I was going to say?” She replied, “That’s what all boys say when they first hear a girl’s name.” I laughed and told her, “That doesn’t make it any less true. You do have a beautiful name.” She smiled. I added, “And your smile… it’s lovely too.” She blushed and closed her mouth. I asked her to excuse me for a moment — I needed to greet some other guests. But as I walked away, I felt like she was walking away with my heart.