Ruhondo, outside Ruhengeri, Rwanda
Irene came to Mutesi’s room the next morning, Monday. There were bloodstains on the bed and she was curled up again in the corner, crying with fear and pain. The woman had brought creams and oils with her and she turned the girl onto her back so she could minister to her.
“The master has gone to Kigali,” she said. “He is only here at weekends, sometimes he doesn’t come for two weeks. I will look after you so you don’t suffer.” She gently applied the cream and massaged the girl’s body with the fragrant oil until Mutesi began to feel a little better. Irene fetched some breakfast and sat at the bedside as she ate it, slowly getting Mutesi to talk about her village, herself and eventually, her family, and what had happened to them. Little by little the girl began to trust her, began to believe that she had a friend in this house.
The woman said she’d worked at the house for seven years and spoke of Jean-Bousquet in reverential tones, telling her, “He is a very important man. A big politician in Rwanda, doing good things for the people. He is head of a radio station. A very well-known man. If you do what he wants you will be safe, but you must not upset him. He can be very cruel if he gets angry. Just do what he wants and I will look after you. After a while you won’t even feel anything at all.”
Jean-Bousquet came back on Friday night and that weekend he came to Mutesi’s room several times, at all hours of the day and night. Irene had shown her how to use a little of the cream to reduce the pain of the visits without arousing his suspicions. He wasn’t cruel or sadistic, speaking kindly to relax her for his own comfort. But she waited for his visits with ever increasing dread. Afterwards, she lay curled up on her bed, shivering with the memories of her mother and sisters being ravished by the Hutu men, wondering whether it would have been better to have died with them rather than to have lived only to be brought to this house and this man.
The following weekend Jean-Bousquet didn’t return from Kigali. Irene now permitted her to walk around the gardens and swim in the pool when he was away. She also met Auguste who was his major domo, valet, butler and bodyguard all rolled into one massive, muscular frame. He was gentle and kind to Mutesi and she would seek him out to talk when Jean-Bousquet was away. There were several other employees working in the house and grounds, but she was too frightened to communicate with them.
The killing in the country came to an end that month, but the girl didn’t know. It was never spoken of by Irene and she was not ready to bring the subject up herself. The Hutu government was removed on July 18th by the Tutsi Rwandan Patriotic Front and a Tutsi regime began under the new President, Pasteur Bizimungu. Paul Kagame, the leader of the RPF, became Vice President; the power behind the throne.
For the next two months, Jean-Bousquet came to the house every other weekend. With Irene’s help Mutesi was able to withstand his frequent visits to her room. By now, he hardly spoke at all, just came in and took her without a word. She sensed he was losing interest in her body and wondered what might happen if he became angry with her. She decided to ask Irene what she had meant by her warning.
“There have been other girls.” Irene was walking in the garden with Mutesi. “After a while, he loses interest and wants to get rid of them. Usually, he gets angry for no reason then hands them over to his Interahamwe comrades.”
“What happens to them?” Mutesi shivered, memories of her family’s ordeal flooding back into her mind.
“I don’t know. They’re taken away and we never see them again. You might be luckier because he has been to the house much less and hasn’t had time to get tired of you.”
By this time Mutesi had lost all interest in her life. She couldn’t decide which fate would be better, to remain in this palace-like prison or be taken away and murdered by Jean-Bousquet’s Interahamwe.
In October, Irene became certain that Mutesi was pregnant. The girl had missed her period in September and then suffered a couple of weeks of morning sickness. Jean-Bousquet was away at the time and when he returned Irene said nothing to him and he didn’t guess the truth. But by November, she knew it couldn’t be hidden any longer. She took Mutesi aside and told her she was to have a baby, but she must not tell Jean-Bousquet. She had grown fond of the young girl and was afraid he would get rid of her like the others.
Mutesi was thrown into total confusion. She had lost both parents and her siblings in the most appalling circumstances and with their deaths, her own desire to live. And now, like a gift from God, she had conceived a baby. That evening, in her dark and lonely little room, she prayed, asking the Lord to help her carry her child safely. Her pregnancy was still too early to show but she held her hands around her stomach, praying that she could bring a new life into the world, to begin her own family to love and cherish. She decided to survive, somehow, whatever it took, for the sake of her unborn baby.
Irene and Auguste tried to devise a plan to help her escape but there was no way of getting her safely away from the house. There were few dwellings in the surrounding countryside and a lone girl in the forest would be vulnerable and easy to spot. And Mutesi had no transport to take her back to her home village. Rukara, in the most eastern part of the country was a hundred kilometres away. She worried over the problem until a few days later it was resolved by outside events.
In mid-November, Jean-Bousquet came back to the house after spending ten days in Kigali. He seemed shaken and panicky when he called Irene and Auguste into his office.
“I have to leave for a while,” he told them. “There’s a few things I need to sort out and I can’t get it done here. I’ll need my bags packed for a few weeks stay abroad. My flight is tomorrow evening. Get everything ready.” He went to his office and didn’t emerge until morning. Auguste came up to help him carry stacks of papers and recording tapes from his files and they burned them in a furnace in the basement. He spent the rest of the day throwing out more papers and making telephone calls. He never visited Mutesi.
“Don’t worry,” he told Irene and Auguste when his car came to take him to the airport. “I’ll be away only a few weeks, so keep everything in good order and I’ll see you soon.” As he was getting into the car, he asked, “Is the girl still here?”
When they both nodded, he just said, “Get rid of her.”
They never saw Jean-Bousquet again.
A month went by and the atmosphere in the house became more relaxed. The two servants had decided to ignore their employer’s orders and wait to see what happened. Mutesi was moved to a room on the ground floor, where she could walk out into the gardens. Irene helped to improve her reading and she assisted in the household duties. She told the girl that the killing was over, but there was still much danger outside. “The Tutsis are settling scores now. It’s not safe for anyone to go out alone, Hutu or not. You’re fine here. We’ll decide what to do when we have news of Jean-Bousquet.”
As she walked in the grounds, Mutesi wondered what would happen to her and her unborn child. She thought of escaping from the property but she knew she wasn’t experienced or clever enough to make it on her own. She had no knowledge of the surrounding area, nor the long journey back to Rukara. But knowing that she was carrying a new life had changed her mind-set completely. Now she was determined to survive at all costs, to keep this baby from harm and bring it into the world, perhaps a world without killing. She followed Irene’s instructions about eating and looking after herself and she waited patiently for something to happen. Her fourteenth birthday came and went without anyone knowing, she didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to herself. Her pregnancy was starting to show, but the two senior servants still insisted she should stay at the house until they were advised of Jean-Bousquet’s return plans. However, they never received any news.
One evening in mid-December, an army jeep came to the house, carrying a Tutsi officer and three soldiers. Mutesi hid down in the basement room with the door locked. Auguste went to meet them at the door.
“We’re here to take possession of this house,”
the officer announced, waving some documents in his face. “The property has been expropriated on the orders of the government. I am Major Obasanjo and I will stay here until the new owner is announced. Show me round the house now.”
Auguste was terrified. He knew that one wrong word would be his death warrant. He bowed low to the soldier. “Welcome Major. You must be tired after your trip. Please come in and we’ll prepare supper for you before looking around the property.”
Irene went down to the basement room where Mutesi was hiding. “You have to leave now, tonight. You’re no longer safe. These Tutsi soldiers are filthy murderers. They slit open the bellies of pregnant women and eat the unborn children. We’ll keep them occupied while you get away. I’ll help you pack a few things and give you some food then you can slip out in the dark. You’re in good health and you can make it to a safe place if you take care.”
Mutesi was shaking with fear. She knew Irene had been indoctrinated into believing the Tutsis were capable of any atrocity, but it seemed to her that everybody in her country had been converted into a murderer, Hutu or Tutsi. Whatever the truth, she and her child were in mortal peril. She nodded her thanks and collected the few belongings she’d been given during her stay.
Just before midnight, the housekeeper took her to the woods at the edge of the property and gave her a bag with food in it. She had also brought a loose smock and a cardigan for her. The smock would help to hide her pregnant state and the cardigan would keep her warm. She helped Mutesi to put them on.
“This is the route to your home,” she said, pointing it out on a small hand drawn map. “You see the main village names on the way? In each village you’ll see signs for the nearby places and you just have to follow the names on the map. If you get lost, wait for a woman to pass and ask the way to the next village, but stay away from the men, any men. If you have to go on the roads, mix in with a group of women and don’t talk about being pregnant. Go along this path until you come to the Kigali Road then follow the directions. Goodbye, Mutesi. God be with you and your child.”
The girl couldn’t speak. She kissed the Hutu woman and walked away. Fourteen years old and four months pregnant, Mutesi walked out into the darkness alone.
NINETEEN
December, 1994
Ruhondo, outside Ruhengeri, Rwanda
Leaving the property, Mutesi followed the path in the dark for a couple of kilometres. The forest was deserted and she encountered no one until she came to the main road, where she stopped in astonishment. The road was overflowing on each side with a massive wave of people trudging slowly up towards her, in the direction of Butaro, away from Kigali. She had never seen so many people in her life, old people, children, cripples, not many men but a lot of women, many with babes in arms. It was a frightening sight. Where are they all going? She asked herself.
It was impossible to walk through them and stay on the tarmac, so she sat at the side of the road, waiting for a gap in the tide of people. A large group of Tutsi women passed near her and she asked one of them what was happening.
“We’re leaving Rwanda,” the woman replied. “Everyone says the killing has stopped, but we don’t believe them. Before, it was the Hutus and now it’s the Tustsis. But you can’t trust anyone any more, they’re killing their own people now. Everyone’s gone mad in this country. We want to get out.”
“We’re heading for Zaïre,” another woman said. “They’re taking in refugees. We’ll be safe there. We just want to get away from the slaughter. Come with us. There’s nothing any more in Rwanda for a young girl like you.”
Mutesi turned away, unsettled by the women’s talk, suddenly undecided in her mind. She sat at the roadside for a while longer, trying to work out what to do. Zaïre, a new life in a new country. Maybe a better place for her and her baby. But a country she didn’t know, people she didn’t know. She thought about it for a long while, but knew she couldn’t face another challenge in her life while pregnant with her child. Rukara was her village, her home, the only place she had ever lived; the only people she had ever known. The only place she had ever felt safe.
She carefully got back to her feet and fought her way slowly through the mass of humanity, down the road towards Kigali.
It took Mutesi twelve days to cover the hundred kilometres to her home village. She walked in the very early morning and late afternoon and evening. It was the dry season and there was no rain, but the sun was still hot during the day and it exhausted her. Following the Ruhengeri - Kigali road south east, near Tumba she branched off and took the road to Mugambazi, about fifty kilometres from Ruhondo and half way to Rukara. With the help of the map and the women she passed on the road she found her way without too much difficulty. The mass of refugees moving towards her forced her to walk parallel with the main roads and she took small trails and paths, always fearful that she’d be seen and apprehended. The atrocities she’d witnessed and the months with Jean-Bousquet had made her frightened and suspicious of everyone, man or woman.
At Mugambazi, she left the road and struck across country to the east, in the direction of Rutare and its hilly, forested slopes. She saw fewer people now, small groups of women and occasionally men. Many of them seemed to be camped out temporarily, as if they didn’t believe the killing was over and were afraid to return to their villages. Her progress was slow and tiring and her pace dropped significantly with each day. She fashioned a crude walking pole from a tree branch to help keep her balance on the untracked terrain. Fearful of falling and injuring herself and the baby she skirted steep climbs and descents as best she could, often having to make a wide circuit to get back to her original line of direction.
Three days later, after struggling through the forest and around the steep and dangerous hillsides Mutesi managed to find the north side of the Muhazi River. Although she had consumed it sparingly, the food and water Irene had provided had almost run out and she foraged for nuts and berries and edible plants that she recognised, like wild cucumbers and yams, putting whatever was left into her bag as a reserve for the next day. She drank river water and found safe hideaways to sleep in at night, out of sight or smell of any wild creatures that might be roaming nearby. The evenings were cool, but the smock and cardigan provided by the housekeeper were sufficient.
She walked alongside the river for two days, becoming more and more tired and less careful, narrowly avoiding injuring herself in the inhospitable terrain. Small groups of people, bedraggled, dirty and listless, passed her from time to time, seeming dazed and walking aimlessly along, sometimes not even speaking a word.
From time to time she would see wild creatures, bands of wild dogs or jackals, and once, she saw a leopard drinking from the river at sunset. But she was able to stay downwind of the animals and was never threatened by any of them. She had little sleep, being disturbed by the many animal noises in the night, lying tired and hungry in whatever sheltered spot she could find.
Ten days after leaving Ruhonda she saw the sheen of Lake Muhazi up ahead, near her home village. The sight energised her and she began to walk faster and with more abandon. Her mind went back to the tranquil life with her family, before the killings. It was a comfortable, safe feeling. Familiar voices, sounds, odours, began to resonate through her. The smell of cooking, the laughter of her sisters and brothers, the sound of her father and mother talking. She was reliving her past life, she was safe at last, safe in the comfort of her family. Mutesi was hallucinating.
As she hurried towards the lake, she stepped down from a rock and the ground gave way beneath her foot. She had stepped into a moss covered ditch. The slope she was on was only a gentle decline, but steep enough to carry her down the hillside. Helplessly she rolled down the shale covered slope, more than ten metres to the bottom. Mutesi lay for a while, breathless and bruised, fearfully holding her hands around her stomach. Then the baby kicked. She breathed again deeply and gave thanks to God.
Painfully she climbed back to her feet. And fell again. Her left ankle was swo
llen badly, it was sprained. She managed to crawl to the riverside and dangled her leg in the cool water until the stinging of the sprain diminished and the swelling dissipated a little. Mutesi remembered the healing plants taught to her by her mother. Looking around she saw a group of pineapple lilies growing nearby. The leaves of the plant had healing qualities for bruising and fractures. She crawled over and collected some of the leaves to wrap around her ankle. Then she placed a thick coating of mud from the river bank over the leaves to form a primitive poultice. A wide strip of cloth torn from her smock served as a bandage and the strap from the bag given to her by Irene fastened around her ankle held it in place.
Mutesi sat back against a tree trunk and rested until the pain in her ankle eased. Exhausted with her efforts she fell asleep for several hours, her body recuperating while she slept. When she awoke it was early evening, the star-filled sky above her like a magic sparkling carpet. A balmy, soft moment in her journey. She ate the last of the food from her bag and drank some water from the river. Her ankle was much improved and she managed to fashion a cushion around the top of the walking pole with the rest of Irene’s bag so she could use it as a crutch. She climbed carefully back to her feet and limped towards the lake. Heading towards Rukara. Heading towards her home.
The last part of her journey, as she skirted Lake Muhazi, was a place of rocky terrain, lazy streams and lakes, surrounded by marshy, treacherous land. She spent many hours retracing her tracks to find a way through the hostile environment. The pain in her ankle was a constant reminder of how close she was to failing in her task but she somehow found the strength to carry on. Now she walked and rested in equal measure, for her own and the baby’s sake. Mutesi had no strength left to wash herself, and she ate whatever plant or flower came to hand, with water from the streams. In a constant daze by now, she would fall into an exhausted sleep then climb back to her feet, again and again, to stagger forward, determined to carry herself and her baby back to their home.
The Rwandan Hostage Page 11
