It seemed impossible that life could change so quickly. Since that day the previous year when the priest had come running into the classroom to announce that rebel soldiers had attacked Rwanda, his papa’s dreams of unity had vanished as rapidly as mist in morning sun. The rebels, mostly Tutsi refugees who had fled to Uganda, called themselves the RPF, Rwandan Patriotic Front. Uncle said this was just the excuse the government had been looking for to stir up anti-Tutsi venom, and despite what his father had taught him, Jean Patrick had to agree.
Overnight, all Tutsi became ibyitso—accomplices. President Habyarimana declared war and announced reprisals. Accusations on Radio Rwanda blared from every shop and cabaret. Two of Auntie’s cousins were arrested, and one day, policemen came to Uncle’s house and accused him of helping the RPF. They searched in every corner, left clothes and cooking utensils and torn-open sacks from the larder strewn about the floor.
At Gihundwe, students who yesterday had been their friends looked at Jean Patrick and the other Tutsi as if they had suddenly transformed into devils. Word of Tutsi massacres filtered down through radio trottoir, sidewalk radio, the news that traveled on the streets.
“What did I tell you?” Daniel had said. “My papa knows what he’s talking about.” With every letter, Daniel had some dire warning to pass along to Jean Patrick.
Jean Patrick sucked his teeth in disgust. “Sidewalk gossip can’t be trusted.” But since that time, he had kept his eyes on the gangs of ragged boys who roamed the marketplace in town.
Jean Patrick picked up his pace. Dead sprint to the banana grove, slow to the cassava field. After the third interval, he unzipped his jacket. After the fourth, he turned back to run the course in reverse, his jacket fastened about his waist. First light turned the sky lavender. The exhilaration of speed, of plucking the taut string of his capability, coursed through his body. He caught Daniel on the last hard effort. “You are supposed to be running, not walking so,” he said.
“I am running. It just seems like walking to you.”
They would have to push to make it back in time. It was a little game they played, courting the risk of discovery. Jean Patrick gave Daniel a playful spank. “Put in some effort, OK?”
The gate was in sight. Jean Patrick’s pulse drummed in his ears. He stretched out his legs as they slowed to an easy jog. The campus remained quiet, nestled in the wing of sleep.
IF IT WEREN’T for the cold, Jean Patrick would have been dozing by second period. By third period, the chill was no longer enough. The motion of his chin hitting his chest startled him awake. He shook his head and took off the outer of his two sweaters. If he wanted to keep his scholarship, he needed to pay attention. In two hours’ time, he needed to win a race.
The last thing he remembered was answering Father Paul’s question about the classification system for tilapia. He had mixed up the genus and the species. Every day, Jean Patrick recited his lessons while he ran around the track. At night, he studied until he couldn’t focus, and then he fell into a sleep that felt like drowning. Coach had been right; it would be better to play football like Roger. A football player had a chance to succeed in Rwanda.
With Roger, Uncle’s political seeds had taken root. He was at university now, in Ruhengeri, and he hoped to be a journalist. In his spare time, he wrote for a student opposition newspaper. When he came home to visit, he always brought a copy of Kanguka for Uncle to read. Emmanuel read the newspaper cover to cover. “I like the name of this paper—Wake Up,” he said. “That’s what you need to do, Jean Patrick. Open your eyes. See what’s going on.” But when Emmanuel mentioned politics, all Jean Patrick wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep.
His father had always said that Hutu and Tutsi were one people living together in one country. After Jean Patrick first uttered the words I am Tutsi, Papa had asked, “What does that mean? Can you tell me how we are different?”
Jean Patrick could not. Some Hutu had coffee-and-cream complexions, long, delicate fingers, and sculpted features, and some Tutsi were short and round-faced, with black-coffee skin. If he just saw Roger on the street, with his broad, muscular body and shorter stature, could he say? They had been mixed up together for so many years; two of Papa’s sisters had married Hutu men. Did their husbands love them less because of the ethnie written on their indangamuntu?
It was not until rocks shattered his windows, the word Tutsi crashing through the glass, that the two were torn apart in Jean Patrick’s mind. Since the start of the war, ethnicity grew around him like an extra layer of skin. No matter how he tried, he could not shed it.
“Be proud,” Uncle said. “Your heritage is the heritage of the mwamis, the Tutsi kings. If it weren’t for the Belgians and their meddling, we might still be ruled by the mwami today.” But pride didn’t protect Jean Patrick from glares in the dining hall, on the paths, in class. When he had been home the month before for Christmas, he had overheard Zachary asking Imana why he hadn’t been born Hutu.
Jean Patrick shifted his weight on the hard bench and tried to focus on the diagram Father Paul had drawn on the board. Somehow the class had left the animal kingdom behind and entered the world of plant taxonomy. Glancing at his watch, Jean Patrick traveled forward in his mind to his race. He felt the fire in his lungs, saw the finish line approaching, the burgomaster standing to cheer him. A chill that came partly from fear, partly from excitement, made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He was still caught in the moment when a barrage of fists pounding on the classroom door jerked his attention back to the present. The door flew open, and a group of boys swarmed in.
“Mana yanjye!” Daniel whispered, pulling on Jean Patrick’s sleeve. “It’s starting.”
“What craziness are you talking now?”
“Are you blind? They’re coming to kill Tutsi.” Daniel squeezed Jean Patrick’s arm so tightly he nearly cried out.
There were five of them. They walked down the rows shouting and kicking the benches. Fumes of banana beer rippled in their wake.
“Sit down, Father,” one of them said. “We’re taking over the lesson.”
Father Paul sat and opened his book.
Three of the boys wore the red, yellow, and green pajamas of a new group called Hutu Power. Jean Patrick had seen them hanging around the cabarets, walking through town with machetes and clubs. The one who spoke wore a boubou of the same colors over his pants. The shirt, flowing almost to his knees, looked sewn from a Rwandan flag and fitted him so loosely he swam inside it. A hat with a button bearing Habyarimana’s picture sat crookedly on his head. When the light caught his face, Jean Patrick saw the zigzag scar that slashed his cheek, and he remembered his name: Albert. Mama once bought a charcoal iron from him at the market where he sold used appliances with his father. Uncle almost made her take it back because he didn’t trust him.
Albert sat on the edge of the priest’s desk and clapped his hands above his head. “Inyenzi, stand up!” No one moved. “What? No Tutsi cockroaches in this class?”
The air sagged with the weight of the question. Be proud, Uncle Emmanuel whispered in Jean Patrick’s ear. Roger’s fingers pressed at his back. He stood.
“Are you stupid?” Daniel hissed. “Sit down.”
Jean Patrick stepped clear of the bench in case he had to run or fight. “Yego. I’m Tutsi.”
“We’re Tutsi, too,” Noel and Isaka said. They stood and held their joined hands high.
Jean Marie hunched in his seat. He leaned over his notebook and pretended to write until the pencil fell from his fingers. The thugs circled the rows of desks, two of them stopping in front of Noel and Isaka. A third yanked a tall, skinny boy from his chair. “Hey, Inyenzi—stand up! What are you afraid of?”
“Leave that guy alone—he’s Hutu,” a classmate said.
“Sorry, man.” The Hutu Power boy laughed wildly, showing rotten gray nubs for teeth. He let his captive go and walked drunkenly over to Noel and Isaka. “So you’re proud cockroaches?” He twisted Noel’s arm behind his
back and shoved him facedown onto the desk. Jean Patrick heard a crack. Noel struggled to raise his head. Blood dripped from his nose.
“He’s Tutsi, too,” a student in the front row said, pointing at Jean Marie.
Rotten Tooth pulled Jean Marie to his feet. “Did you eat your tongue?” He shook Jean Marie until he cried.
Father Paul turned the page of his book and adjusted his glasses on his nose.
Albert jumped from his perch and confronted Jean Patrick. The reek of his breath made Jean Patrick recoil. “You’re that runner guy.” He jabbed his thumb into Jean Patrick’s chest.
Jean Patrick smiled. “That’s me.”
His heart thudded against his ribs, and blood surged into his legs as if he were at the start line, waiting for the bang of the blocks. Albert slapped him and then brought a boot down on his foot. The pain, immediate and sharp, brought flashes of light to Jean Patrick’s eyes. His knee buckled, and he collapsed against the bench.
Daniel put his arm around Jean Patrick. “He’s crazy from lack of sleep, this one. Everyone knows he’s Hutu. His father was préfet des maîtres here, and he helps the whole class with homework. Eh? Am I right?” No one contradicted his word.
Albert seized Daniel by the shoulders. “Are you icyitso?” He sucked his teeth. “Stupid boy, don’t you know the Ten Commandments?”
Jean Patrick held his breath. Since December, when the Hutu Ten Commandments were first published in Kangura, the new Hutu newspaper, they had been broadcast on the radio, quoted in the streets, tacked up on walls. Any Hutu man who acquires a Tutsi wife, a Tutsi secretary, a Tutsi business partner, is icyitso—a traitor. All Tutsi are inferior and must be kept out of schools and important positions. The Hutu male should be united in solidarity against his common enemy, the Tutsi. All Hutu must spread this doctrine wherever they go. Any Hutu who persecutes his brother for spreading and teaching this ideology shall be deemed icyitso.
“You should know your enemies,” Albert said. He pushed Daniel hard against Jean Patrick, jumped onto the desk, and walked from one end to the other, listing precariously. In front of each of the five students sharing the desk, he stopped and stared. Jean Patrick gave him a mental push so he would lose his balance and fall, crack his head on the floor.
“Let me tell you the news from Radio Rwanda,” Albert shouted. “The RPF have attacked Ruhengeri and slaughtered hundreds of innocent Hutu. Now Hutu Power wants vengeance.”
He jumped down and waved his arms toward his friends, who then dragged the Tutsi and Daniel into the aisle. Some Hutu students sprang up, ready for action, railing against all Tutsi. Frantically, Jean Patrick looked around for someone to come to their side, but no one did. Father Paul remained seated at his desk, calmly reading.
Bodies pressed in. A book thumped against Jean Patrick’s back, hard enough to knock the wind from him. Fists hit his head, but his attention was on protecting his legs and feet. The pain in his foot made even standing difficult, and shifting his weight brought a rush of dizziness. Albert grabbed him by the sweater and twisted until the collar squeezed his throat and he struggled to breathe. From the corner of his eye, he saw Daniel lifted like a sack of sorghum.
At that moment, Uwimana burst into the room, two policemen behind him. Suddenly, Jean Patrick was back at his old house on a December afternoon, hearing these same two policemen tell him that his papa had died.
“Let those boys go!” Uwimana shouted.
The stranglehold eased, but Albert still held on. His lips brushed Jean Patrick’s ear, and Jean Patrick smelled the rank, hot breath, sharp with urwagwa. “Don’t forget me, because I’m going to kill you,” Albert whispered. “That’s a promise.”
“This is still my school,” Uwimana said. “Your justice isn’t welcome while I’m in charge. All of you, get out.”
The boys circled Uwimana. The policemen moved toward them, hands on their sticks.
“Beware, icyitso,” Albert said, pointing at Uwimana. “Hutu Power memories are long.” They backed out the door, and the policemen followed. On the way out, one of the policemen nodded to Jean Patrick and gave him a hidden thumbs-up.
Father Paul cleared his throat and peered out from behind his book as Uwimana approached his desk. Uwimana removed his glasses, cleaned them, and put them back on, speaking to Father Paul in a voice too low for Jean Patrick to hear.
“What could I do?” Father Paul said loudly. “They were so many. And drunk. I could smell urwagwa from here.”
“Class is canceled,” Uwimana said. “All Tutsi and anyone else who is hurt, stay behind.”
Jean Patrick pressed against Daniel. “Help me walk. I have to fix my foot so I can run.” While Uwimana tended to Noel’s bloody nose, Jean Patrick leaned on Daniel and limped out.
“They could have really hurt you for defending me,” Jean Patrick said. He pulled off his shoe, and the wave of pain made him sweat. “Daniel, check my foot, eh? I’m afraid to look.”
“Aye! So swollen!” Daniel said.
“Let’s get some tape. I have to race.”
Daniel clucked his tongue. “Hutu Power tries to kill you, and all you think about is running.”
“Hutu Power.” Jean Patrick spit into the grass. “They’re just troublemakers. I don’t want to think about them anymore.”
“If you want to survive, you better think about them. Let’s find Coach.” Daniel stood and offered Jean Patrick a hand.
Thick gray-black clouds descended over the forest, blocking the sun. Jean Patrick inhaled an oily smell. He sniffed again, and the stench hit him: not clouds but smoke darkened the sky. Houses were burning in the hills. Columns of smoke rose in all directions. Students and staff came running from the buildings.
“What’s happening?” someone asked.
“They’re smoking out Inyenzi one by one,” another student replied, laughing.
Jean Patrick lunged at the student and swung wildly. A blast from a horn froze him.
“Get in,” Uwimana shouted. The truck’s smashed headlight glared like a punched eye. Noel sat beside him, head tilted back, a bloody cloth held to his nose. Somber-faced Tutsi students squeezed together in the bed of the truck. “Isaka says you’re hurt.”
Jean Patrick shook his head, but Daniel spoke up. “Yes, Headmaster, he is.”
“Sit inside, then. Angelique will see to you. All Tutsi are coming to my house for the night. I’m not taking any chances.”
“Headmaster, I need to get home right away.” Jean Patrick gestured toward the hills. Panic gripped his chest. “Can you ask the burgomaster to come another day?”
“Ah, Jean Patrick. Don’t worry about the burgomaster now. Track is canceled. Everything’s canceled. Cyangugu has gone mad.”
IN THE MORNING, Uwimana drove Jean Patrick to Gashirabwoba. With his long legs, it was impossible to get comfortable on the seat. “No need for X-ray; they’re both broken,” Angelique had said when she splinted his toes. “Probably a bone or two in the foot as well, but I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do but bandage it and give you crutches.”
The smoke of burning houses was gone, replaced by the haze of cook fires. Roads and hillsides bustled with morning traffic. At a small spring in the rocks, children filled jerricans with water. A young boy walked down the road balancing two filled cans nearly as big as he was. Jean Patrick almost wondered if yesterday had been a bad dream.
The truck backfired and strained on the hill. Jean Patrick searched the landscape. Beyond the welcome sign for Gashirabwoba, he saw the first charred ruin. In the valley below, in the eucalyptus grove where meetings were held, he counted a second, a third. His heart contracted. As the truck lumbered forward, his eyes did not leave the spot where Uncle’s compound should soon have come into view.
His attention was so singularly focused that he didn’t see Uncle and Mathilde until Uwimana slowed and called out. Although he was relieved to see them, he knew something was not right. Uncle was dressed for town, with his jacket and wide-brimmed hat,
when he should long since have left to tend his fishing lines. Mathilde should have been in school.
Mathilde was already talking loudly as she hopped into the truck. “Jean Patrick! You’re safe! Ko Mana—we were so worried.” She flung her arms around his neck.
“Me, too. I hardly slept all night, worrying. Is everyone OK at home?”
“Thanks to God,” Uncle said.
“And the house?”
“Untouched. But what about you? We heard there was trouble at Gihundwe. We were on our way to check.”
Mathilde squealed and touched Jean Patrick’s bandaged foot.
“Tsst! What happened? They beat you?”
“It’s not bad,” Jean Patrick said, shifting his weight. The movement made him wince.
Uncle whistled. “Who did this?”
“Just some boys from town. I’m all right.”
Mathilde pointed to a dark purple bruise on her arm. “Me, too. Some girls in my class said it was my fault the rebels attacked. They called me Inyenzi. I don’t care; it didn’t hurt too much.” She touched her lips to Jean Patrick’s ear. “I pushed them down when Madame wasn’t watching.”
“Good girl,” Jean Patrick whispered back. He plucked a piece of grass from her hair. “What’s this?”
“We’re all dirty from sleeping in the forest,” Mathilde said. She rubbed her scalp, and flecks of leaves and grass fell onto her blouse.
“We saw the smoke,” Emmanuel said, “and I sent everyone into the bush. Then I sat all night in the chair with my machete. I wasn’t going to leave our safety up to chance.”
At the bottom of the trail, Uwimana got the crutches from the bed of the truck. They were heavy wooden things with thickly padded armrests and handles, a few sizes too small. Jean Patrick limped stubbornly up the slope before Uncle had a chance to help him. Aunt Esther, Clemence, and Jacqueline ran to embrace him. Zachary and the twins came out behind them. Clémentine still had dirt on her face; Clarisse had one flip-flop on and one in her hand. The familiar chatter of family hummed around Jean Patrick. He couldn’t remember another time when he had been so glad to hear it. He kept expecting his mother to come and greet him, but when he reached the house and looked inside, he still had not seen her.
Running the Rift Page 5
