The Rain in April

Mirrors and Reflections

Chapter 13

DAY 2

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Father Donald answered, sitting on a sack.

“They are on their way here, those men who attacked your bus.” The woman saw fear growing in Father Donald,

“The chiefs have decided to hand you over to them; I bet they would be happy to see you.”

Father Donald stood up almost immediately, he knew what awaited him if he was caught the second time. He had found himself entangled in the crisis and his status as a priest could do nothing or little about it.

“But I am not a Tutsi.” He protested, but he immediately realized that he had sinned, not against God per say, but against what he believed, he had sounded like a hypocrite taking side, as a priest, he wasn’t supposed to take sides; rather should act as a mediator.

“But you were helping them get out,” the woman responded after a brief pause. Father Donald sat on the sack again, his head buried in his palm, he had been implicated, this wasn’t about what he believed anymore, this was about saving himself from a shameful death. He regretted ever getting involved in the first place.

You didn’t get yourself involved, it got you involved. His inner self told him. It was true, he had to save them, he couldn’t watch them die inside the church, if only he had started the bus, if only his hands didn’t shake, they would have been in Butare by now.

“I couldn’t help it, they were rushing into my church and I had to protect them,” he finally confessed, raising his head up.

“You led them to their death,” the woman said.

“But it’s not my fault,” Father Donald said, trying to convince himself.

“Why are you here asking me all these questions? It’s not like you just realized the truth now,” Father Donald asked, looking straight at the woman.

“I had a husband, a Tutsi.” The woman raised her head, looking out, through the door that was opened half way.

“I loved him with all of my heart, we had a son together.”

“The boy I saw earlier?” Father Donald asked, still failing to understand what the woman was driving at. She nodded and looked at him for a second. Father Donald could swear that he saw tears gathered around her eyes. There was a brief pause and in the middle of it, the priest could hear gentle sobs.

“Where is he?” Father Donald finally asked. As if she had been waiting for him to ask that question, she turned her back on him,

“He is dead, I killed him.”

Father Donald nearly fell off the sack as he scrambled backwards; she killed her husband, what then was stopping her from killing him. Besides, she barely knew him and he had been discovered to have helped some Tutsis. He looked at her and her reaction, she didn’t do it on purpose, he could tell, her sobs were getting louder.

“Why?” the word rushed out of Father Donald’s mouth.

“I had no option, these are my people and for me and my son to avoid being implicated, I had to do it.”

“But your son is a Tutsi, his father is a Tutsi, so is your son.”

“No, he is not,” she said, almost in a whisper. Father Donald stared at her for a moment; he knew why she had come and why she had said all the things she said. She needed someone to talk to.

“You loved your husband,” Father Donald said calmly. She shook her head as she sat on the floor close to the door.

“Yes you do, but, we need to ask ourselves how far this love can hold us; for better or worse?” Father Donald asked, leaning forward towards the woman. He as a priest had come across cases like this, during confessions at the church; he had seen what people were capable of doing, the length people would go to hide and protect a secret. This case wasn’t different from them yet, it was different. She didn’t come to him for confession, but for her to talk to someone, and if he was to get out of here alive, his only chance for survival was to talk himself out, to bargain his life with her by making her see things the way things really were.

“You know nothing of my family,” the woman said.

“True, I don’t even know your name, but your case is no different from other families I have come across.” He stood up and walked over to the mat where he had earlier laid.

“We have to be united to fight against one enemy, disunity. It doesn’t matter what we have done in the past.” She looked at him and nodded, she made to stand up when the priest asked,

“If you are a Hutu, there is no need to be scared of the militia, aren’t the Tutsis the one they are after?” She laughed as she stood up and something in Father Donald told him he shouldn’t have asked that question.

“If we were Hutu, then, you would have been dead by now.”

“Then who are you people?” He asked, alarmed.

“We are the Twas, we don’t want any trouble with the Hutus.”

She walked towards the door and Father Donald knew he had not convinced her, he just said what any Tutsi would have said to escape death, he had to try again, he knew if she walked out of the door, he would not be alive by tomorrow’s evening.

“Do you trust them? Your people, do you trust them with your son?” she didn’t turn back to look at him and Father Donald knew definitely she was considering what he just said.

“These people are desperate; they can sell you out not minding what happens to you. You are just one person and they are hundreds,” Father Donald said in a low tone. He had always known the Twa tribe to be the smallest and that could be the reason for their refusal to be active personnel in this crisis, instead, they chose to attach themselves with anyone that seemed to dominate or have the upper hand. He sat still on the mat and watched as the woman leave, locking the door behind her.

THE IMAGE ON OUR MIRRORS ARE REFLECTIONS OF WHO WE ARE. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE IS THAT OUR REFLECTIONS DON'T CONTROL THEIR FATE.