The Rain in April

Dare to dream, dare to run

Chapter 14

The noise from the door woke Father Donald up; he sat up on his mat and scrambled backwards in fear, holding his rosary with his right hand. It was already dark and not even a trace of light could be seen inside the room.

“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…,” he recited the Lord’s Prayer, shaking as he spoke the words out of his mouth.

Immediately, the door opened and someone walked in holding a small lamp, the smell of paraffin filled the whole room.

“We have to leave now,” the woman said, walking up to the priest and raised the lamp to his face.

“Leave and go where?” Father Donald asked, not understanding what was happening. He could not believe that a woman, who had earlier questioned him, was back again asking him to leave with her. It could be a plan for her to kill him.

“You ask lots of questions, Father. Are you leaving or not because I am leaving,” she said, handing over to Father Donald some clothes.

“Put this on, they belonged to my husband, we don’t have much time.”

The village was so dark and quiet when they both stepped out, Father Donald had changed into a pair of black trousers and a white T-shirt. He dropped the idea of the woman killing him when he saw her son waiting outside for them. He looked up at the sky, there was no moon as it had been covered by the clouds.

“This way,” the woman whispered, holding her son and disappearing into a corner.

“Why are you doing this?” Father Donald asked after walking for a little time.

“Doing what?” she asked, not turning to look at him.

“Why did you change your mind? Why did you take me along with you?”

The woman stopped, turned and looked at him, she smiled and from the poor yellow light of the lamp, he could see the curve on her lips. She turned and continued walking, pulling her son along with her.

“Maybe you are right, I have not been able to answer the question you asked me earlier,” she said, bending into a corner and walking slowly. The path had become rocky and it looked as though they were climbing a hill.

“They made me kill him, the only man I loved, how much more my son.” She stopped wiping her face with the back of her hand; tears were rolling down her cheeks again. Father Donald looked at the small boy holding on tightly to his mother, how fast it spread, like a disease or a virus to be precise. He found it difficult to believe the effect the killings had already caused. The killing was only two days old but the pain it inflicted was one that would never go away, injuries that would never heal.

“My people have tried to distance themselves from this crisis, but one thing among so many things they do not know is that some of us are connected to it, one way or the other.”

“No, madam,” Father Donald said, walking up to her.

“Everybody is connected, everybody is affected, I am neither a Hutu nor a Tutsi nor a Twa, yet I have been rendered homeless by this crisis.”

She looked at him and the priest could see how sorry she was.

“Can I be forgiven, Father?” she asked, her eyes were riveted on his.

“Forgiveness is of the Lord, we are all sinners, we have lied and thought of evil continuously in our heart. Our only job is to seek forgiveness,” Father Donald answered.

She nodded and turned away, gently pulling the boy as she went.

“Mukamutara”

“What?” the priest asked, coming closer,

“My name is Mukamutara,” she repeated.

“What about your son?” Father Donald pointed to the little boy she was holding, about ten years of age.

“Habimana”

The three of them continued to walk that night, stopping to rest briefly.

“So where are we going?” Father Donald asked.

“I think this way leads up to the road; hopefully, we will get a transport to Butare,” She answered, walking faster.

“Thank you,” Father Donald said, stopping behind her.

“No, I am the one to thank you,” she said turning to look at him.

“You showed me many things, Father, things I never considered. I didn’t save you; no… you saved me and my son.”

The priest smiled, he had been trying to save himself, trying to bargain his freedom but he never assumed his words would save someone else.

“Come on, we have to reach the road before dawn, we don’t want anybody catching up with us here,” Mukamutara said, urging forward.

It was almost dawn when they got to road. It was as silent as the night was. No car plied the road. Habimana was asleep on his mother’s back.

“How do we get transport now?” Father Donald asked, his voice as low as though he was talking to himself. They didn’t have to wait for long when a big head light flashed their path. A lorry was moving along the road followed by a smaller car. They flagged them down as the lorry and car slowed down; finally it pulled over right in front of them. Father Donald staggered backwards in shock as the occupants of the lorry jumped off the back; they were all armed with weapons ranging from sticks to cutlasses and guns. Under the sea blue color of the sky, Father Donald could see their dressing, red scarf’s tied round their heads and hands. He had seen them before, they were the one who attacked the bus, he turned round sharply towards the bush where they had come, it was too late, they were surrounded. He looked at Mukamutara who was as confused. His hands shook, all these for what, nothing, nothing but death on a highway. The door of the smaller car opened and a man stepped out of it, he had a cigarette plunged in-between his two middle fingers and at the same time, he exhaled thick white smoke from his nostrils. He walked over to Father Donald, smiling.

“Look at who we have here, a white man,” he chuckled and his men laughed.

“Well, we meet again, Father,” the man said, his expression, unchanged.

“War is never a lasting solution for any problem.”

A.P.J ABDUL KALAM.