The Rain in April

Home calling

Chapter 18

Patrick gazed at the sky, it was clear now, unlike when he woke up this morning. He walked through the path that was now becoming clearer.

“So why do you always feel uncomfortable during my sermon,” an old man with grey hair asked, walking behind Patrick. Patrick moved on without answering.

“When do we visit the village?” he finally asked, bending down and examining the ground as if to pick up a trail.

“Nobody is visiting the village; you and your sister are safe here, with me, in the clearings.” The old man answered, his face forming a frown.

“But we are running out of food,” Patrick shot back, his voice rather unappealing. The old man stopped and turned towards Patrick, true to Patrick’s words, they were running out of supplies, but it wasn’t enough reason to head for the village.

“Yes, we are,” he admitted,

“But what other option do we have? Head back to the village where troops of soldiers and militias would be waiting or hunt around for wild fruits and bush meats,” the man said.

Patrick looked disappointed, although he knew the old man wouldn’t comply, he was still not ready to let the matter rest.

“What if there are no soldiers? What if everything was back to the way they were before and we are here wasting away?”

“No,” he said almost immediately,

“Patrick, nothing can ever remain the same. I have come to turn the fathers against the sons and the daughters against their mothers,” he continued.

Patrick muffed out loud before turning away, he was tired of hearing the old priest quote those words as if they were relevant to what was happening presently. Although, he despised the old priest, right from his village when he preached those sermons, he was grateful to him for saving him and his sister that night. He still remembered that night, how scary it was, he thought that would be the end of it, their lives; but he found them. The old Priest was out; securing the perimeter of the clearing they saw him. He wanted to run, thinking he was part of the soldiers but he called out to them, telling them to remain where they were. He was holding a gun, an old hunting gun. The Priest had taken them in and showed them the clearings. He introduced his family to them; an older woman in her late forties whom he introduced as his younger sister. She was tall, dark and had a semi grey hair; she was slim in stature, he called her Jane. The second woman was much younger, probably in her early twenties, she took on all the features of the older woman except, of course, she looked much younger and had dark hair, he introduced her to them as Roselyn. No one needed to ask who the younger one was as she resembled her mother Jane in every respect.

“Who owns this house?” Patrick had asked looking around the house on the clearings.

“This is where my family lives, this is where I was born,” the Priest replied.

Patrick was surprised; he always thought the old priest lived inside the church in the village.

“I was born here before being sent to a missionary school in Butare, I served as a priest in many churches before making my way home to Butamwa,” he explained. Patrick and the Priest had got along since then, although, Patrick still faulted him and termed him a hypocrite.

Patrick walked behind the old Priest now.

“We have never ventured this deep into the forest before,” the Priest said, stopping on his track.

“I think we should go back.”

“Back,” Patrick repeated, amused.

“I am not going back without food today; I have a sister to feed,” his voice was raised.

“And I have a family to care for but that won’t be possible if we get ourselves killed,” the old man replied, taking a few steps toward Patrick, his voice persuasive.

“How can you be sure? You are a Hutu; no harm can come to you,” Patrick said, walking past the man further into the bush. He only took some steps forward when he heard the old man scream. He turned sharply and saw the Priest on the ground with one of his legs stuck inside a pit trap. He rushed over and looked at it. The man’s left leg was caught inside the thorny pit trap and was bleeding.

“Just stay calm, I will pull it out,” Patrick spoke rapidly before pulling the man’s leg. The Priest screamed louder as his leg was still stuck.

“I have to get help,” Patrick said, standing up. The Priest grabbed him immediately by the left hand and looked at him; out of pain, he muttered something to him. Patrick forcefully freed his hand from the man before breaking into a run, he wasn’t sure what the Priest said but he thought he heard him send a note of warning; warning him not to go to the village.

Once Patrick reached the palm plantation, he recognized where he was immediately, he was close to the village and as much as he wanted to see it, had to be careful. Hiding behind a small bush, Patrick tried to get a view of the village but it wasn’t possible so he decided to climb a short tree. At first, Patrick thought the village was empty but when he looked more carefully, he saw people. He almost jumped down from the tree when he noticed something odd about them. Most of them moved around carrying weapons such as machetes. They were not Tutsis but from the way they dressed, they looked like militias. It seemed as if they were waiting, waiting for a hungry Tutsi to jump out of the bush into the village. Patrick sat on the tree for a while and tried to observe what was happening. This was an opportunity he might never have, one he could not afford to miss. This was his village and he knew virtually everywhere. He knew where the food was being stored and was sure whoever the occupants of the village were, they would not have consumed the whole stored food. He was also sure that the maize his father planted outside their house was ripe and would be laying waste in front of the house. He could sneak in, take some food and sneak out the same way he had come. As Patrick was busy wheeling around his thought, he heard a loud noise and screams from the village. He looked up; two men appeared from the corner of a house dragging a boy with them; behind them, many people followed, hauling stones at the boy who was being dragged. They took him to the centre of the village where he was made to kneel. The people, mostly young men, surrounded this boy in a circle, a man walked into the centre of the circle towards the boy. Patrick tried to get a glimpse of the captured boy's face, he couldn’t, but the only thing he could make out from the man was his complexion, dark. The boy was about his age or so. The man who had walked up to the boy held a club, he raised it up immediately and in a rush, brought it down on the boy; there was a loud cheer as this happened, the young boy fell backwards, shaking unconsciously as his blood splashed around the ground. The man laughed and raised his club again, this time he hesitated before striking. Patrick closed his eyes; he could feel the incident occurring over and over again in the darkness of his closed eyes. He climbed down from the tree and started towards the village, taking the bushy path as cover. The occupants were distracted and this was the time to get what he wanted.