“When Hutu Power gets guns, you better have one, too—and know how to use it.”
“Always your serious talk.” Jean Patrick covered his ears. “Let me rest now, eh?” He threw his magazine at Daniel’s head, flipped back over, and closed his eyes.
JEAN PATRICK WAS still asleep when Coach burst in, jingling his keys.
“Ready?” A camera hung from his neck. “We have a long drive.”
Jean Patrick pointed to his gym bag. His Nikes, now more rust than green, peeked from a side pocket.
Daniel grabbed him in a headlock. “Pretend I’m chasing you, and you’ll run fast.”
“What? If you chase me, I can walk.” Jean Patrick followed Coach out the door.
On the walkway, Coach stopped suddenly and pulled Jean Patrick into an empty classroom. “Stand beside the board,” he said. Jean Patrick had a fleeting vision of an execution. Coach aimed the camera at him. Light flashed in his eyes as the shutter clicked.
“Is that for the newspaper?”
Ignoring the question, Coach half jogged to the car. He pointed to something shiny on the seat. “For you.”
It was a tracksuit with GIHUNDWE in large letters on the jacket. Jean Patrick passed his hand over the slithery cloth. He slipped on the jacket, pleased with the crackly sound it made when he moved. He ran the zipper up and down, up and down. “Now I am ready for the Olympics, eh?”
Coach squinted through the windshield. The engine sputtered and then whined into life. “Not yet.”
EVERY POTHOLE SENT shock waves through Jean Patrick’s skull. Without room to stretch his legs, he fidgeted to find a comfortable position. Coach honked at farmers, cars that drove too slowly, trucks he roared past while navigating blind curves. In the valley below, a woman paused to wave. The laundry she spread over the shrubs formed a tapestry like bright flowers. The green dazzle of tea plantations disappeared from the rearview mirror, and the blue haze of Nyungwe Forest rose before them. Out of the forest’s shimmer, the first checkpoint appeared.
A bored-looking officer sauntered to the car. “Indangamuntu,” he said. A crumpled five-hundred-franc note from Mama fluttered to the floor when Jean Patrick took his identity card from his pocket. The officer peered at the picture and then at Jean Patrick. “Step out.” A second soldier opened Jean Patrick’s door and motioned to him. “Open the trunk,” the officer said. While the soldier poked at bags and blankets, the officer studied their papers. “What is your business, Mr. Rutembeza?”
“We’re going to National Track Championships in Kigali,” Coach said. “I’m this boy’s coach. Remember his name, Sergeant. He’s Rwanda’s finest. Our Olympic hopeful.” His smile could have cut through stone.
The officer hooted, showing off several gold-capped teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean Patrick saw the second soldier pocket Mama’s five-hundred-franc note.
“You can go now,” the sergeant said. “Make sure that Inyenzi wins. I’m going to place a bet on him.”
Coach started the car and accelerated slowly. The soldiers’ trailing laughter left a sour taste in Jean Patrick’s mouth.
“Soon Rwanda will win the war,” Coach said, rolling up his window with swift, certain strokes. “And then this nonsense will be over.” He looked intently at Jean Patrick. “Don’t you ever wish for a Hutu card?”
Jean Patrick was sweating in his jacket, but he didn’t want to take it off. He closed his window, then opened it again. What was the proper answer to such a question?
“You’ll get malaria,” Coach said, aiming a toothpick at Jean Patrick.
“How can I?”
“From the wind.” Coach popped the toothpick between his teeth. “Isn’t that what villagers believe?”
“I don’t know.” Jean Patrick left the window down. “That soldier took my money,” he said, focused on the blue-green river of scenery that rushed by. “It was all I had to buy food in Kigali.”
“This would never happen in Butare or Kigali. I’m known there. And never mind about the money; I can feed you.” Coach attacked the horn and sped past an old farmer pushing a cart loaded with sorghum. “Nothing but bumpkins around this place.” He rolled down his window and flung the toothpick in the farmer’s direction. In an instant of revelation, Jean Patrick saw that Coach, too, had been humiliated, and it was because of his shame that he turned on Jean Patrick, the old man, the countryside.
“THERE ARE TWO runners—and only two—I want you to pay attention to tomorrow,” Coach said as they crested the hill. He smiled easily again, as if he had left all his anger on the farmer’s cart. “They’re on the Burundi national team. Stick to them like a tick—if you can.”
Jean Patrick ran his tongue over his chipped tooth. “What about those Kigali boys?”
“They have a new coach to keep them in line.” Coach smirked. “He’s Tutsi.”
Jean Patrick laughed, imagining Crooked Nose and his friends taking orders from a Tutsi. “What about the running part? I haven’t raced against them in a while.”
“You’ve already shattered their times.” Coach grinned. “Tomorrow you’ll be the best eight-hundred-meter runner in Rwanda. Ever.” He was looking at Jean Patrick, taking a corner too fast. Until Jean Patrick shouted, he paid no attention to the branches set across the road to warn of an accident. Bark and leaves flew into the air, scraped against the skidding tires. They barely missed the truck sprawled on its side across the road, wheels still spinning, the wooden sides of the truck bed shattered.
Jean Patrick tried to look away, but he couldn’t. A dark stain spread on the asphalt. Already a crowd had gathered, some gesturing wildly, others collecting pieces of wood and spilled cargo. With a sigh of relief, he saw the barefoot truck driver stagger by the side of the road, arm held close to his body, hand dangling at an odd angle. A stream of curses poured from his mouth.
This is how it must have been with Papa, Jean Patrick thought. Trying to slow his runaway heart, he thought how life was decided by the most inconsequential decisions: a second here to get a drink, a minute there to stop and stretch your legs, and either you arrived at the turn at the same out-of-control moment as the truck, or you saw the branches and came to a stop, the catastrophe already in the past.
THE SUN HAD started its quick descent toward the horizon when they entered the sugarcane fields and marshes along the Nyabarongo River. Jean Patrick closed his window against the fetid, sulfurous air. Birds flitted in the papyrus and umunyeganyege. In the dusky light, the hills ringing Kigali were like flared pleats of a dancer’s skirt.
At the edge of town, Coach stopped at one of the many small kiosks by the roadside and bought two Fantas. The cold and the sweet went straight through Jean Patrick’s chipped tooth and into his eye. Coach chuckled, the tension gone from his face. “You look like you’ve never left your rugo before, staring like that.”
They were in the thick of Kigali traffic. A jumble of sound filled Jean Patrick’s ears: car horns, radios, shouts, and whistles. His nostrils burned with the odors of exhaust, charcoal, the stench of rotting garbage. But beyond the noise and the reek, there was also a sense of excitement that quickened his heart, and he marveled that Daniel had grown up with the pulse of such a place in his veins.
“WE HAVE ARRIVED. École Technique Officielle. Do you want to see the track?” Coach honked, and a rheumy-eyed man opened the gates. He was thin and bent, like an ancient tree whose trunk no longer supported the weight of its branches.
Coach hooked Jean Patrick’s arm and guided him down the walkway. A group of girls coming from a classroom split and walked on either side of them. Jean Patrick called out a greeting, and they turned around and giggled.
The Burundi runners were the only ones on the track. They wore red, green, and white jerseys, Burundi’s colors, and on the back was the Burundi flag. They moved together with long, stretched-out strides, as if they had been fashioned from a single piece of clay and split into two. One was at least as tall as Jean Patrick; the other, shorter, a wi
ry bundle of muscles and bone. They talked as they ran, gesturing and laughing. Jean Patrick visualized running beside them. Comparing his pace to theirs, he didn’t think they would be that hard to beat. The first tease of victory tingled his lips, and he quickened his pace.
“Where are you going?” Coach tightened his grip on Jean Patrick’s arm.
“To greet them.”
“Stay here and watch instead. Keep them guessing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Psychology. To you, they have become human, but to them you are still a mystery. Stay here and watch; learn their pace, their stride. Let them worry about you.”
“But I’ve never raced against them. How do they know about me?”
In the waning light, Coach followed their movements. “News of someone like you travels quickly. Trust me—they know.”
THE FIRST RUNNERS Jean Patrick saw in the morning were the Kigali boys. He sat on the bench to watch them warm up while he put on his shoes. His toes pressed against the tops, and he loosened the laces to make a little more room. Crooked Nose tapped his friend’s shoulder and pointed in Jean Patrick’s direction. Jean Patrick waved, and the boys laughed and turned away.
“Jean Patrick?” The voice behind him made him jump. “It’s nice to finally meet you. We’ve heard a lot of talk.” The Burundi runners held out their hands in greeting. It was the taller boy who spoke. “I’m Gilbert.” Sweat glistened on his nearly bald head.
“And I’m Ndizeye. Come warm up with us.”
Jean Patrick settled into a comfortable jog between them, resisting the urge to test the boys by pushing the pace. They chatted about this and that, and Jean Patrick was surprised to learn how running was encouraged in Burundi—unlike in Rwanda, where you had to fight for every little scrap of recognition. For a moment he imagined leaving his life behind to start fresh in that country. He knew many Tutsi did.
When Jean Patrick returned to the bench, Coach was pacing. “Did you forget what I told you? You just gave away your advantage.” Jean Patrick retied his shoes with singular concentration. “I want you this far from them in the prelims and semis—no more, no less.” Coach held his hands shoulder wide in front of Jean Patrick’s face. “Do you hear?”
“What about the Kigali boys?”
“Can you listen for once? The Kigali boys are not worth worrying about.”
Jean Patrick followed Gilbert and Ndizeye with his eyes. Caught in the sun’s dazzle, they looked like two swimmers gliding in the lake. “What if they’re not near me?”
“Don’t vex. They’ll be there.”
NONE OF THE Kigali boys were in Jean Patrick’s heat for the semi. As the Burundi runners rounded the first turn and came out of their lanes, they closed at his heels; Coach had been right about that. By the back straight, only the three of them remained in the lead pack.
Jean Patrick had been too wound up to eat, and the trip had left his muscles stiff and cramped. In the prelims, he felt unbalanced—feet slapping, timing slightly off—but now that he ran with Gilbert and Ndizeye, his legs cranked like a perfectly turning gear. They passed the start line together and headed for the final lap, Jean Patrick slowly increasing his lead. The Burundi runners melted into a single shadow behind him. His last acceleration went unanswered.
“I can beat those guys,” Jean Patrick said, sitting down on the bench. “Did you see my last kick? I felt great, like I wasn’t even working.” His foot drummed a war beat. “And I ran a personal best by—how much?”
“Half a second.” Coach handed him a bottle of water, his face set in his usual mask. “In the final, I want you behind them. Breathe down their necks. Make them lose stride. Don’t pass before the last two meters. Then turn it loose.” He flashed his smirk-smile. “If you are able.”
“Eh? Coach, I can break them. Let me run free.”
“You’re not understanding me. This time, do as I say.” He rubbed out Jean Patrick’s calf. “There is more at stake here than you can know.” From Coach’s expression, Jean Patrick understood he was not to ask any further questions.
JEAN PATRICK HAD lane five for the final, the Burundi runners on either side. Crooked Nose and one other Kigali boy remained, staggered to the outside. Jean Patrick’s nervous energy boiled over, and he false-started, committing to motion before the sound of the blocks. Crooked Nose jeered. Taking a deep breath, Jean Patrick walked in a circle, shook out his legs, resumed the set position: body cocked, weight balanced. The starter banged the blocks, and he drove off the line. By the time he rose to his full, upright stride, Gilbert and Ndizeye were halfway through the turn. He sprinted furiously to catch them, but his step was too short or too long or too choppy—he couldn’t tell which. He was used to people at his back, not the other way around. His Nikes squeezed his feet until all he felt was the pulse inside his toes.
The pack too far behind to help, Jean Patrick ran alone. He watched for a labored breath, a missed step. The two Burundi flags floated calm and steady, farther away with every footfall. He dug as deep as he could and then deeper. Four hundred meters to go. From somewhere, he found the strength to keep them in sight. Black dots danced in front of his eyes. The ground lurched beneath him. For an instant he thought he would pass out, but hope kept him surging forward. Never before had he experienced so much suffering. But by infinitesimal gains, he began to reel the Burundians back in.
Coming out of the final turn, he could almost touch the flags. Once more, the thought of victory floated into view. Then the Burundi boys kicked, and he had nothing left to answer. Utterly spent, he leaned across the finish line. He barely had the strength to shake Gilbert and Ndizeye’s hands. The crowd roared, but he didn’t pay attention. He only wanted to sit down and take off his Nikes, now soaked with blood, and release his toes from prison.
“SO GILBERT AND Ndizeye are on Burundi’s Olympic team, and until now you don’t tell me?” Jean Patrick stood with Coach at the Karibu Café in front of a buffet of endless choices. For the first time since leaving Cyangugu, Jean Patrick felt hungry. He scooped peas and rice, fried plantains, chicken and goat brochettes, onto his plate.
“Some things are better left to surprise.”
“Those guys were a surprise all right.”
“They’ve been at this game a little longer than you have.” Coach maneuvered to a table by the window and signaled a waiter for drinks. “How is your brother Roger doing? Long time, no news. Does he still play football?”
The unexpected question sent a flutter through Jean Patrick’s heart. He tried to center himself, calm the chatter in his mind, so he wouldn’t give anything away. “He’s in Kenya, working hard. He plays for a club there, but I don’t think he has much free time.”
Coach tore the last piece of goat from his brochette and pointed the skewer at Jean Patrick. Jean Patrick started. “You didn’t hear your time, did you? You ran off to sulk before I could catch you.”
“I don’t need numbers to know how badly I did.” The waiter glided to the table, opened their drinks, and poured. Jean Patrick watched the foam rise to the top of his Coke. His Olympic dream had burst as easily as these bubbles. That much he realized.
Coach took the watch from his pocket and placed it on the table. Jean Patrick peered at it. He picked it up, shook it, put it down again. “It’s broken.”
“What’s wrong? Don’t like what you see?”
“Something happened. It says one forty-five ninety-seven.” Jean Patrick shook the watch again. “I guess my time’s gone. Lucky for me.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. That’s your time—I promise.”
Jean Patrick dropped the watch as if it had shocked him. “Mana yanjye! That’s under the A-standard time, isn’t it? Does that mean what I think it means?” He barely took in breath, the commotion of the restaurant a blur. Slowly the implication sank in.
“Congratulations. Yes—you ran a qualifying time for the Olympics.”
Jean Patrick touched the watch’s face as if it wer
e a talisman. “Still, I let two guys beat me. I came in third.” He sipped his Coke, savoring the cool, bubbly slide down his throat. He felt a buzz, as if he were drinking beer. Next time, he promised himself, he would do whatever it took to come in first.
THE HIGH LASTED all the way out of Kigali. Now past its zenith, the sun turned the Nyabarongo River to slate. Coach braked for a checkpoint and held out his hand for Jean Patrick’s papers. His eyes slid over Jean Patrick’s body. “Relax.” The line of cars slowed to a crawl. Coach drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. A thick and airless heat descended, fueled by the sun’s glare through the windshield. Jean Patrick fanned himself.
At the checkpoint, a family stood nervously beside a cart of produce. The man carried a herder’s staff and wore the traditional felt hat of the Tutsi cowherd. The woman carried a baby at her back, only its small, wooly head visible above the brightly patterned cloth. The smaller children scurried after a bleating kid, and a soldier shouted at them. The children cried.
“Why do they have to treat them like that?”
Coach snapped his head around. Jean Patrick wished he could grab the question back and swallow it. “They could have weapons under their vegetables. They could be Inkotanyi.”
Jean Patrick was surprised to hear Coach use this term of respect. Inkotanyi was how the RPF referred to themselves, Roger had explained, the name given to the mwami’s warriors.
There was an explosion in the distance—truck tire, mortar round, who knew?—and the man started, overturning his wobbly cart. Tomatoes, cabbages, and onions scattered. Jean Patrick felt the cowherd’s shame on his own head. He could have grabbed the soldiers and shaken them. “Coach, I don’t think they can be RPF. The mama has a baby on her back.”
“You don’t understand these things. These Inkotanyi—they’ll strap grenades to a baby.”
Jean Patrick thought of Roger picking up Zachary, holding Baby Pauline to his face and kissing her. Hand grenades on a baby! He didn’t know if he would laugh or cry. The soldiers returned the family’s papers and whisked them through. The farmer bent forward as if to kiss the soldier’s hand.
Running the Rift Page 8
