LETTERS OF DEATH

REMEMBER NOT TO REMEMBER

Oh, my Star, don’t laugh at me — it doesn’t take an opportunity for me to write to you, because even if my hands refused to act, my feelings would not rest until I poured out these words full of joy and hope onto this paper of yours. This Compassionate One, who agreed to be the wind carrying our greetings — often heavy with sorrow — promised he wouldn’t delay in delivering this letter to you before you and I meet in court.

So I took my pen and paper, forming letters and vowels. Even though you’ve given me hope, my love, I am still afraid of that day in court.

Our love is weightier than the earth itself, but Rwandans say the law is heavier than stones. Yet, though I’m afraid, I trust that things will go well, that the court will release us so we can live together as we promised. I never knew asking you to stretch out your arms so we could hug would make you laugh and giggle. I was so moved to read your words, “Look, I’ve stretched them out, my dear, hug, hug, hug tightly,” and I answered, “Hug, hug, hug, my soul.”

Since we can’t break through the sky for my fingers to touch you, at least let my feelings speak, and let our minds keep these memories and stories we will one day tell our children. I still hold on to the thought that we should have many children, even if I don’t yet know how many. I know you wouldn’t deny me anything you have, which is why I’ve given you everything of mine.

I read that your brother came to visit you — oh, how I missed him! If I had known earlier from your previous letter, I would have sent my greetings with him. But since you spoke with him, it’s as if I also spoke with him. Do you remember how he used to call me your twin? How he helped us meet when your parents refused? In my heart, I still see the image of him on our wedding day, holding your hand and bringing you to me.

Do you know what he whispered to me that day? I’ll tell you now, because you’re the only one I confide in. While love songs meant for us played in the background, your brother, unfazed, leaned close to my ear and said: “Irasubiza, if you hurt my sister, I’ll smash you.” We both looked at each other and smiled. He didn’t say it because he’s cruel, but as a reminder never to hurt you. Yet now, here you are in this prison, and I feel like I failed to protect you — like I broke the promise I made him.

I’ve avoided suspecting anyone or accusing them of placing that body we found at our home. You know we were like people in a dream — even now, I still don’t understand what happened in that moment. Though your brother suspects Irasubiza’s parents, I see no reason they would frame us for such a crime. Let’s join our hearts and wait for the court’s ruling — then we’ll know what to do. My lawyer keeps telling me our case is like a child’s game, that we’ll go home immediately afterward. Let’s hope so.

I hadn’t even realized there were only nine days left until you reminded me — which brought fear, and I feel my eyes starting to dance in my forehead, longing to drink in the beauty of your eyes. I want to count the days until I see you again, until dreams turn into reality.

But you’ve given me a challenge — what job could I possibly choose for you? You’ll see for yourself what makes you happy. And of course, you wouldn’t lack perfumes even if you didn’t know how to play music. Remember, one who learns to whistle a flute without knowing the skill will still struggle.

Oh, before I finish — you know my duty is to make you happy. That house? I won’t go back to it unless you truly want to. The way it drained us for all those years we saved to build it — and we didn’t even live in it for an hour — I hope you lied to me just to give me hope when you said you were fine. If you are sick, please tell me. When Ruzirampuhwe brings you this letter, may he speak with the prison staff so they can care for you. Honestly, I feel you’re unwell, but I still hope you are safe, just as you wrote.

I was also happy to read when you wrote, “God spends the day elsewhere but returns to live in our hearts.” That was beautiful to read. I wish I could keep going, but Ruzirampuhwe’s time limit is up. If possible, write me back before we stand before the judge.

Saying goodbye to you still hurts like before — like when I’d walk you to your home but wasn’t allowed to step inside. Let me not harden my heart — goodbye, my breath, my life. I await your next letter.

From the one you illuminated,

Irasubiza Chance

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THE REPLY LETTER

“My Irasubiza,” — I know you’re listening. The reason I call you is to tell you that today I was overjoyed. I was seized by trembling happiness when I saw Ruzirampuhwe — and instead of seeing the sky, I saw your writings in his hands. The strands of his hair seemed like the thickness of pens. Without delay, he said the words he always says: “I have brought you a message, and you have thirty minutes to read and reply.”

Love of my life, I don’t know why I never get used to your handwriting — it’s always fresh in my eyes. When my gaze falls on the ink from your pen, tears come — not of pain, but of joy. No matter how tired I am, I never stop reading and rereading your letters. Even when I don’t receive a new one, I read the old ones again. Your words have become like a book I never tire of.

Let me reassure you — I am well, truly well, and I love you, as you know. I could never hide that from you, for I know your heart always senses how mine beats. I remember you once told me, if I were ever ill, you’d waste away yourself. So, don’t worry, my Rwandan man — what we have is enough. And about God living in our hearts — honestly, where else would He live if not in the heart of an innocent soul like yours?

Why do you sadden me by writing such words? I swear in the name of love that you will never be a coward in my eyes — nor in my brother’s eyes. You are the hero of the love life I’ve lived. No one on this earth could strip you of that honor. Never let our misfortunes make you forget who you are. If you were a coward, our love could never have endured.

I know these hard times will pass, and I’ll once again rest in the arms of the hero of my life — and that hero is you. So stop ever thinking you’re a coward, or I’ll be hurt. Even if you said such a thing to your pillow, I would somehow know, and it would wound me. Have faith, my love, for it is the food that keeps us alive now. Do you forget you used to tell me: “Hope is the garment we wear — don’t let it get dirty, for it heals the wounds life gives us”? Always remember your own words.

And thank you for not choosing a job for me. There’s no reason to learn one now, for in a few days we’ll be home. My lawyer met yours, and they’ve joined forces — they have evidence to free us. As for that guitar — learn it quickly, because the days left are few. My ears are longing for the way you play. Don’t worry — I’ll never leave your side again, nor tire of hearing you sing and play.

Being in prison has taught me the value of every moment we shared. Once we are free, I’ll never again allow you to spend even half a second away from me. I didn’t know longing could sting like thorns in the heart. I didn’t know I could live being sustained only by the words flowing from your hands.

Forgive my writing mistakes — I’m racing against time. If I’ve left something you asked unanswered, it’s only because my minutes are few. When I’m calm, I return to your letters to savor them again. They make me pity the hearts in love who suffer as we do, and I pray they find messengers like ours who can fly with their words.

Oh, before I forget — as I write this, there are six days left until court. I wanted to ask what I should wear that day — but of course, pink is our color, the color of our celebrations. I remembered that little dress you bought me on my 23rd birthday. If I can’t wear it in court, I’ll wear it in my dreams.

Now I must stop before Ruzirampuhwe leaves. You know how hard goodbyes are for me — like those nights when I couldn’t hear you but would borrow your coat. Did you know I sometimes refused to cover myself, just to cuddle with it instead? That was my secret until now.

I await your letter before the day of the trial. Goodbye, my dear.

From the one who gave you her heart to live in,

Nyenyeri Melannie