The Pen Review, Issue 01 - May 2014

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

Issue 01—May 2014

Compelling Writing from Rwanda Issue 01—May 2014

Cover photo: Urumuri Rutazima — Kwibuka Flame of Remembrance.

Original file can be found on the Kwibuka20 Flickr page.

All rights reserved to Kwibuka20.

The flame symbolises remembrance as well as the resilience and courage of Rwandans over the past twenty years. Carried in a simple lamp, it has been used to light other lamps in communities around Rwanda to mark the 20th commemoration of the Genocide against the Tutsi.

For more information, visit www.kwibuka.rw __ Copyright Š 2014, by Youth Literacy Organisation (YouLI).

No part of this material may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without prior permission by YouLI or the authors in writing.

All authors retain the rights to their own and any copying or sharing of their work for financial gain is prohibited.

Views expressed within the content of the Review are not necessarily those of YouLI as a whole or its leadership.

To learn more, visit www.youth-literacy.org

Contents Preface by JEAN-CHRISTOPHE NSANZIMANA Editorial Director and Member of the Board of Directors

ISRAËL BIMPE Fiction—“Dans les Pensées d’un Garçon de Mon Âge Refugié” ERIC NGANGARE Poem—Rwanda Mon Inspi Fiction—The Lost African JEAN-CHRISTOPHE NSANZIMANA Poem— “Ce Père Qui te Manque, Ce Frère Dans Tes Rêves”

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Page 12 Page 14 Page 18

SERGE UWIMANA Non-fiction—YouLI, YouRead, YouWrite

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SHARON AMANDA MUVARA Poem—Rwanda, My Miracle

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TRACY KAMIKAZI Poem—A Story to Tell

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CÉLÈSTE IMPUNDU Poem—Wagiyehe Mana y’i Rwanda?

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RAISSA GIRAMATA Poem—They All Had Something I Did Not

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ROBERT NKERAMUGABA Poem—The Lady Playing Mandolin

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ANGEL UWAMAHORO Poem—Rwanda Today

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LÉON-MICHEL UWIZEYIMANA Poem—Sad Music

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NATASHA DAPHINE MUHOZA, WITH INESS GIRAMATA AND ANGEL UWAMAHORO Poem—A Flame Rekindled

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AURORE KAYIBANDA MUTESI Prose—Ihorere Rwanda

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GILBERT RWABIGWI Non-fiction —The Art of Writing a Book on Genocide at A Young Age: Dieudonné Gakire and His ‘A Dreaming Child’

About the Authors

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Compelling Writing from Rwanda

Preface

I

am honoured to introduce to you the very first issue of The Pen Review. It comes not only with a mission to offer an important platform for young writers, but also to provide an unmatched contribution to the quest for locally -produced materials to read.

Along the road, our team has always sought to understand the different challenges that Rwandans face in addressing the poor reading culture, inadequate writing and communication skills, as well as the very limited book publishing industry.

This first issue of The Pen Review contains compelling writings by young Rwandans in forms of poetry, short fiction stories, creative nonfiction and reviews in English, Kinyarwanda and French. We are very humbled to compile all these wonderful pieces in one place.

We are also thrilled to feature a one-time piece by one of our team members. Israel Bimpe, who has served as a YouLI representative in the southern province of Rwanda, has penned a fictional story that makes readers travel through the thoughts, ambitions and aspirations in a young refugee’s mind.

We have also featured some of the most recent pieces of Eric Ngangare, a well-known multi-talented young poet and spoken word artist. Ngangare’s Rwanda Mon Inspi and Lost African have received numerous recognitions online and we are delighted to reprint the texts in this issue. We know you will enjoy reading his pieces as much as we did.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

Some of the awesome contributors to Telling Our Own Stories: Poems by Rwandan Youth 20 Years After the Genocide have also come back with other compelling pieces.

Writers like Célèste Impundu, Natasha Muhoza, Iness Giramata, famous spoken word artist Angel Uwamahoro, Raissa Giramata, and Robert Nkeramugaba deserve huge respect.

Miss Rwanda 2012, Ms. Aurore Kayibanda Mutesi, has also taken the chance to get pass her strengthening message as Rwanda commemorates the 20th anniversary of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi.

And, besides, we have included The Art of Writing a Book on Genocide at A Young Age, a piece by YouLI's Executive Director, Gilbert Rwabigwi, on Dieudonné Gakire's book.

With this Review, our only hope is that many more aspiring authors; and others who are keen to narrating the story of the country of a thousand hills, are inspired to do more and embrace the opportunities by sharing their stories that forge creativity and imagination.

Jean-Christophe Nsanzimana Editorial Director, Member of YouLI Board of Directors

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Compelling Writing from Rwanda

ISRAËL BIMPE

Dans les pensées d’un garçon de mon âge refugié

C

’EST peu après minuit que je quitte la moto pour faire le reste du trajet à pied. Il y a trop de boues; j’irais surement plus vites à pied. Au fait, je viens de la faculté. J’admire la vue des collines en face et, un peu à gauche, j’aperçois des ampoules alignées. C’est le nouveau camp de réfugiés congolais. Plus tôt dans la journée une colonne des camions de Nations Unies amène plusieurs autres réfugiés et par hasard j’ai croisé les yeux avec ce jeune garçon. Il doit vraiment avoir mon âge. Il a l’air triste et hyper épuisé. Il supporte son menton sur ses doigts entrecroisés; j’imagine tout ce qu’il vient de faire comme trajet à l’arrière d’un camion sur un banc sans même pouvoir se pencher en arrière pour soulager son dos.

Pendant que je descends la pente vers notre maison avec le camp en vue, je me permets de voyager dans les pensées de ce garçon de mon âge.

J’ai peut être toujours rêvé de venir au Rwanda, mais pas à l’arrière d’un camion. Mon rêve était plutôt de venir étudier l’université ici, en médicine ou pharmacie. Je veux pouvoir guérir des corps et des âmes mourant à cause de la guerre, la pauvreté et tout ce qui vient avec; ou bien même être colonel. Je pensais aussi visiter ce pays qui autrefois avait ses frontières jusqu’à mon village, même beaucoup plus loin selon mon grandpère. Mes parents parlent même bien kinyarwanda, moi c’est beaucoup trop mélanger au swahili.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

Je pensais voir Paul Kagame et Louise Mushikiwabo, on parle beaucoup d’eux à la radio. Et puis c’est bizarre quand j’ai vu pour la première fois une photo de Kagame: Il est si mince!

Je le croyais beaucoup plus géant et gros; l’image d’un guerrier, empereur d’un puissant pays d’Afrique central qui, soit disant, fait souffrir le grand Congo. Je prenais pour référence la description de Goliath que le pasteur blanc nous avait donné dans la croisade au marché.

Ce matin, c’est une pluie de bombes et balles qui nous réveille. Avec maman et mes sœurs, nous avons décidé de courir et fouir vers le Rwanda. La route de Goma serait mieux, c’est par là qu’il y a les militaires. Mais maman refuse, il parait qu’ils violent les filles et les gardent comme femmes dans leurs camps et ils prennent aussi tout ce que vous avez comme bien. Et nous qui avons toujours étés pris pour des rwandais, c’est beaucoup plus dangereux vers Goma. Là, alors, on va vers la frontière au Rwanda. C’est dans une brousse mais il n’y a pas de choix, c’est un risque qui vaut la peine.

Arriver au Rwanda, c’était un soulagement après une longue distance de marche sous la pluie, les balles et le soleil. Je voulais surtout que rien n’arrive à maman et à mes sœurs. Là assis dans ce confort du creux de cet arbre, je me suis mis à penser à tonton qui n’a pas voulu laisser ses vaches; à mes cousins, à mes amis et collègues de classe. J’espère bien qu’ils vont tous survivre. Ici on s’occupe bien de nous. Nous avons mangé juste quand on est arrivé. Ils m’ont même donné des vêtements neufs. C’est plus petit pour ma taille, mais il faut faire avec. Ils nous disent alors qu’on ira dans un camp très loin d’ci. Je ne me rappel même pas du nom de l’endroit.

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Compelling Writing from Rwanda

Très tôt le matin je me réveille en premier. Je suis prêt. Je m’assoie au bout du banc, je peux bien voir l’extérieur. C’est de bonnes routes ici sans trous, et ça ne glisse même pas comme la route qui va à Goma.

Ces jeunes rwandais sur la route sont beaux, belles et civilisés. J’ai vu des uns à la plage, c’est la première fois que je vois pour de vrai des gens en maillot de bain. J’avais vu ça dans la vidéo du chanteur américain chez un ami de ma classe. Moi aussi un jour je vais faire ça. J’ai même vu Kigali de loin mais c’est triste qu’on n’ait pas fait un tour! Bon, j’y reviendrais moimême. Ces jeunes qui jouaient au foot me rappellent le match prévu avec le quartier d’en bas que je vais rater. Quand on est passé par l’université, j’ai vus des jeunes qui avait des sacs à dos, d’autre se promènent deux par deux, d’autres rient beaucoup. C’est peut être ici que j’ai toujours voulu étudier. Je m’imagine avec une belle fille comme celle-là et bien chic, comme ce garçon-là (d’abord, que ce qu’il écoute dans ses écouteurs? A cette heure toutes les radios n’ont que des infos et des annonces ennuyant), en parlant bien français et anglais, avec l’élégance d’une étudiant en médicine.

Ah, je croyais que jusqu’où on va les routes sont si bonne.

Là le camion nous secouent trop, je sens une nausée.

Heureusement qu’on s’arrête, sinon un seul mètre de plus et j’allais vomir.

Ici c’est mieux qu’à la maison, y a de l’électricité et même une grande tente avec une télé. Il parait que c’est pour suivre les informations la nuit. Je ne sais pas ce que je vais faire toute la journée de demain ou tous les autres jours. Demain je commence par fabriquer un ballon pour faire des dribles.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

D’ailleurs quand est-ce qu’on va rentrer à la maison ? Est -ce que je vais pouvoir étudier encore ou aller à l’université au Rwanda? Est-ce que je pourrais aussi me baigner comme ceuxlà que j’ai vu à la plage? Ou bien même travailler comme ces blancs qui sont toujours ici? Quand on va rentrer, je vais être Colonel, venir à l’université au Rwanda avec tous mes gardes-du -corps, et aller à la plage beaucoup de fois. Puis je vais être le premier Docteur-Colonel du Congo. Bon, je rêve trop! Mais peut être que mon rêve est valide.

ERIC NGANGARE

Rwanda Mon Inspi

J

E viens des collines formées par la main de Gihanga Des vallées qui respirent en écho le son de l’inanga Je descends d’une lignée légendaire de demi-dieux: Ibimanuka De vaillants guerriers aux danses poétiques: Intore Je suis un brin d’une société tissée dans la dignité: agaciro Formé neuf mois au fond d’une beauté hors norme Célébrée à bras ouverts comme les cornes d’Inyambo Je viens de là où tout était beau Avant l’arrivée de la mère de tous les maux Cette prostituée amère qui a traversé les eaux Pour infecter le pire des virus dans ta peau Et rire de tes maux pendant que tu t’ouvrais les vaisseaux Et qu’à petit feu la mort te rongeait les os Rwanda wararize amahanga agutera umugongo Urihoza, urihagurutsa wihanagura urwondo Uratsidangira, uriyubaka uba icyitegererezo Ntwari idashyikirwa komeza urugendo Page 12

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

Avant l’infection du virus “Divisons Pour Mieux Régner” Avant que les uns traitent les autres pire que des araignées Avant que dans les champs de nos cœurs la mauvaise graine soit plantée Avant que de nos bouches les chants de haine soient chantés Avant qu’on ait perdu foi en notre humanité Avant qu’on ait mis une croix sur Ryangombe Nous étions tout simplement rwandais Une nation, une culture, une langue, un peuple presque parfait Puis soudain sans référence à nos traditions orales Le colon a écrit sa propre version de notre histoire Dans sa promesse au pouvoir Il a fait la plupart d’entre nous croire être ce que nous n’étions pas Résultat: En 1994 le pays du lait, du miel et du vin de banane Est devenu un infâme abattoir Où d’innombrables semblables et moi Avons perdu les sanctuaires de nos âmes Rwanda wararize amahanga agutera umugongo Urihoza, urihagurutsa wihanagura urwondo Uratsidangira, uriyubaka uba icyitegererezo Ntwari idashyikirwa komeza urugendo

Mon corps a tenu 99 jours dans le noir Nourrit par la lumière de l’espoir Elle semblait s’éloigner de plus en plus chaque soir Au crépuscule du 100eme, elle n’y était pas A la place de la flamme Une lame envoyait mon âme vers l’au-delà Et de là je t’ai regardé Te battre pour te relever Page 13

The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

Marcher et même que je t’ai vu rêver Te réconcilier avec ton passé Le graver dans ta mémoire pour ne jamais m’oublier Tu m’a plus que vengé Tu m’as donné la paix En trouvant la tienne Rwanda, T’es la plus forte de toutes les mère T’as tout survécu terre-mère Le feu, la machette, la gâchette, les rivières, la terre, l’enfer T’as dû te refaire de grains de poussière Pour être debout aujourd’hui dure comme fer Rwanda, beauté, t’es une inspiration dont je suis fier Rwanda wararize amahanga agutera umugongo Urihoza, urihagurutsa wihanagura urwondo Uratsidangira, uriyubaka uba icyitegererezo Ntwari idashyikirwa komeza urugendo

The Lost African

I

’M black and I’m proud I’m black and I’m proud I’m black and I’m proud I’m black and I’m proud I’m black and I’m proud But repeating the same line five times Sounds like I’m trying to convince my mind About my blackness as if off it, I would be mindless Just the same way people who repeat themselves Offer a little insight and waste a lot of time Page 14

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

So tell me, am I as black as “black” is defined?

“The absence or complete absorption of light” “The total opposite of white” Does my skin have the same color as the lines That the ink of my pen bleeds on these sites?

Am I color-blind or am I blinded by own sight?

Coz if I’m black then I naturally have a black eye Black is evil, God is light and his son is white And I’m supposed to be proud of that? Yeah right!

Can’t believe these definitions got me to question my own complexion So today I looked in the mirror with all my attention And I realized I was brown, just like honey, at least my reflexion So every now and then I find myself lost in outro-spection With lots of speculations in the middle of the confusion I begin to wonder “Should I see a dermatologist or an optician?”

Coz it’s either my iris or my skin that got a problem with pigmentation Or both. Anyways, color-blind or just blind, I remain African So I’ll say it loud I’m African and I’m proud I’m African and I’m proud I’m African and I’m proud I’m African and I’m proud I’m African and I’m proud But repeating the same line five times Sounds like I’m trying to convince my mind About my Africanness as if off it, I would be mindless Page 15

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Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t even know what “Africa” means Do I need books or the Internet to know who I am, really?

I didn’t know it was Latin before I browsed search engines I felt so ashamed to know the etymology of my origins But why should I trust the ink of the man who stole my history To sell it back to me at an expensive cost in an education package, Confusing my mind with lots of civilization stories I don’t need So I won’t ask questions such as why was my kind held in cages?

Today they throw cool iPhone cases at me so I get my eyes off the Ota Benga case: A pygmy held in a New York zoo among apes to satisfy their Darwinism I am outraged not just by the degree of this ignorance exhibitionism But by my own African kings who gave away their own people as bonus In exchange for mirrors, salt, guns and everything else bogus Now tell me why should I be proud of being African?

Because I got rhythm in my genes? What about South Americans?

Maybe I should be proud coz the first human was found on my continent.

It was woman, right? And her name was Lucy HA-HA! And she had no man I guess that’s why they say Africa is still a virgin but we call it Mama land?

You’re a part of me so I can only be proud of you beautiful green land Page 16

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

Mama Africa, I’m proud of you Mama Africa, I’m proud of you Mama Africa, I’m proud of you Mama Africa, I’m proud of you Mama Africa, I’m proud of you But repeating the same line five times Sounds like I’m trying to convince my mind About my roots as if off them I wouldn’t be alive I don’t half a clue about half of them but I’ve survived Mama, no disrespect but this is not a life Your wells are running low, times are dry You’re lucky you’re still breathing but you’re in denial You can’t win this fight no matter how many times You convince yourself of the same lie You’re not even standing on own your feet Those are smart prosthetics, say “hello technology” They got you, you can’t flee, you can’t be free Sorry mama, I’m not insensitive but I’ve become immune I respect you for your natural instinct of motherhood For the fresh food, the fruits and care, I’ll say thank you But don’t expect anything else from me coz I got nothing Not even nothing to lose so I’ll lose myself an odd journey Towards a jungle that is made of concrete And where the paper made from your trees is the new green See my brothers got greedy, chopped our family tree Sold the pieces overseas so I sold my soul to the American dream Coz I’m tired of having nightmares with my eyes open wide everyday I can’t stay, my dreams are to get away, far away from your face No no no mama, don’t get the wrong idea, I don’t hate you Page 17

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I just hate to stand by and watch your sons rape you Sorry I don’t have the power to save you I won’t stick around and watch you die coz if you do, I’ll die too So instead of dying together, maybe one of us should live to tell the story Fuck their colors, names, definitions and racist theories I just wanna disappear but before I get lost, mama, teach me Teach me how to love so I can teach tomorrow a better way to live.

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE NSANZIMANA

Ce Père Qui Te Manque, Ce Frère Dans Tes Rêves [En ce jour de mon anniversaire, je dédie ce poème à tous (tes) ces jeunes qui ont été privés de leur avenir… Qu’ils reposent en paix.] mon pays, mon trésor Ce matin je me lève Et comme un oiseau je chante, Je chante pas parce que je me sens heureux, Je chante pas parce que je veux m’amuser, Je chante pas parce que j’ai la belle des voix, Je chante parce que c’est pénible de te voir souffrir, Parce que c’est plus que dommage ce que t’as vécu

Ô

Et bien très chère patrie, je vais devenir ce père qui te manque, ce frère dans tes rêves pour m’assurer que: PLUS JAMAIS ÇA Ce jour-là quand tu les perdis, Tu étais toujours jeune A 32 ans “d’indépendance” Page 18

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

Tu méritais mieux que du sang Peut-être un gâteau comme un enfant gâté Mais ces malfaiteurs possédés Avec cette haine gigantesque Contre leurs compatriotes Ont fait affaire aux machettes Et t’ont offert Une jeunesse regrettable Aux effets lamentables Cher trésor je me demande: 1959 n’était vraiment pas suffisant??

Lorsque une partie de tes enfants envoyait leurs beaux-pères et belles-mères à l’étranger Les maisons brulées, les vaches massacrées, Un peuple divisé fut ton ‘cadeau d’enfance’ Ô chère patrie, je vais devenir ce père qui te manque, ce frère dans tes rêves pour m’assurer que PLUS JAMAIS ÇA Alors que tu croyais les tiens de retour, Les possédés préparaient le pire, Et à ton jeune âge, Tu n’avais droit à aucun ange Tu aspirait profiter de ta jeunesse Et épouser une déesse Pour accomplir des promesses Mais le pire surgit de la brousse Car au lieu de te pousser des bassesses Voilà qu’une peine magnanime te traverse Quand une épée tranchante te transgresse Les machettes et les houes qui devraient te transformer en une Page 19

The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

immense économie T ‘ont réduit en cendres…

Je vois seulement du sang qui coule, Des corps qui croulent, Des enfants qui pleurent, Et des jeunes qui ont perdu le sens du Bien…

Mais qu’est ce qui t’as pris Mon trésor?

C’est toi là où c’est un cauchemar?

Je ne veux pas le croire mais c’est vrai…

Oh Non c’est horrible!!

Comment a tu osé?

Pourquoi as-tu changé?

Qu’est-ce qui t’est arrivé?

Je maudis ces Cent jours, qui ont couté la vie à un million des pères, mères et enfants Même pour ces bébés aux cœurs d’anges Les barbares n’ont pas eu pitié Très chère patrie Je vais devenir ce père qui te manque, ce frère dans tes rêves pour m’assurer que PLUS JAMAIS ÇA Tu conduisais comme un troupeau ton peuple, Mais ces jours-là il y’avait plus de troupeau Ces bébés sans parents, Ces corps sans âmes, Ces femmes sans enfants, Ces vielles sans aide C’est ça que tu appelles troupeau toi?

Je ne te crois pas…

Je vois un peuple sans espoir, Page 20

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

Une génération sans futur…

Mais …… Soudain, Mon cœur exulte car je te vois sauvé, Mon front s’ est relevé grâce à ton retour de l’enfer Face à tes ennemis-qui te croyaient fini-s’ouvre ta bouche Et Moi je me réjouis de ton retour victorieux Vers un futur mystérieux

Très chère patrie Je vais devenir ce père qui te manque, ce frère dans tes rêves pour m’assurer que PLUS JAMAIS ÇA Aujourd’hui chère patrie Même si une armée était déployée devant nous, Nos cœurs sont sans crainte, Que la bataille s’ engage contre toi, tes ennemis succombent Car le peuple qui était déchue Est de retour sur le champ de bataille Sans oublier ce passe troublant Qui lui a privé tout bonheur Et moi qui était Bébé quand tu succomba, J’ai grandi en un jeune-adulte Qui veut garder le culte Réduisant ceux qui te voulaient en cendres En perdants qui vont descendre Vers une cave qui s’effondre Chère patrie tu le sais, je veux devenir ce père qui te manque, ce frère dans tes rêves Pour m’assurer que PLUS JAMAIS ÇA

Comme tu m’avais offerte des cadeaux avant la tragédie, Page 21

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Aujourd’hui je t’offre un à toi aussi Une jeunesse qui te veut du bien Une génération qui te fais du lien Un futur qui semble au mien Car ceux qui te dérange ne sont que rien J’étends mes bras pour t’embrasser Car je veux te débarrasser De cette peine qui te tracasse Je ne veux pas que tes ennemis jacassent En te voyant péril dans la masse J’apporte ma main pour essuyer tes larmes Mes épaules pour tes pleurs Et je peux sourire parce que tu as Survécu La pire des tragédies que t’as vécue

Chère patrie on est là pour toi Sûr qu’on est sur la bonne voie Même si ça dérange des fois Des souvenirs de ton passé Mais pour s’assurer que tu dépasses Une misère si intense Je veux devenir CE PERE QUI TE MANQUE, CE FRERE DANS TES RÊVES Pour que toujours je dis: PLUS JAMAIS ÇA Humura Rwanda!

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Compelling Writing from Rwanda

SERGE UWIMANA

YouLI, YouRead, YouWrite

I

T was raining, heavily, just like it does most nights during that month. You sat on the bed which was lodged in one corner, and your feet were on the carpeted floor. You roamed your Facebook newsfeed and read the jokes which get old very quickly. Then you stared at the wall, pulling the few strands of hair that were growing on your chin. You had been suspended from your school for being cool. You thought that sneaking out with friends and attending a party with kiloliters of gin was cool. It happened on a Friday. You can’t remember the date, but you are sure it wasn’t the 13th. Your mother wept soundlessly after hearing that news, and in the voice of someone battling a cold, she said that all that was happening because you no longer prayed before going to bed. The first week of your two months suspension was characterized by suicidal thoughts, depression, and it brought problems to your social life.

You spent the whole day in bed so that you couldn’t get sleep at night. You started to write at night so as to keep you ahead. You fumbled with the prose, you didn’t know how to build a storyline, and as a result the dustbin was always filled with pamphlets of your mere nonsense. You showed nobody that literature because you thought it wasn’t worth it, but you kept writing because it had become a part of your life. At times you wanted to just stop, but you couldn’t since you felt miserable because you weren’t doing what you love; to write. You now spoke a language that most people didn’t understand; the language of art.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

When you went back to school, the principal, who was a priest, made you to seat with the annoying poor guy. His shoes were worn out, they needed to be replaced, and in the afternoon they smelled like a rubbish dump in a food market. His front teeth were stained yellow. He spoke English with a thick accent and he always asked questions during lessons. You didn’t like him. He asked you questions full of ignorance, and your answers were always full of arrogance. You hated him. Until he came to you smiling, with the wallet you had just lost. You checked, the two banknotes featuring gorillas lied in, untouched, something most of your friends wouldn’t do, a thing someone who knew that you hated him couldn’t do. You were happy. You wanted to hug him but you remembered that you had reserved hugs for the opposite sex. You stared at him and said ‘thank you’, and you shook hands for the first time. His palms were hard and dry, just like a reptile’s body. You had a conversation like new friends and he told you that you can write. You listened for sarcasm in his tone, but there was none. The voice was steady, a poor guy simply telling what he thought. He had read one of the papers that you folded into your wallet after writing, perhaps you did that to make your wallet look bigger; you wanted to look rich?

His words stayed with you for a very long time. The power of the words from the poor guy got into your head and they never left. You wrote as much as you can. You started showing some of your friends your writings and that made you strive to write better, because they expected you to do so. Writing became everything to you; your future, your life, everything. You were ready to write out your fingers until they bleed.

For a long time now you have been acting like it is okay.

You have grown as a writer and a person, but you know that Page 24

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

writing well is only 50% of the battle; the other 50% is getting someone to give you a chance. And in most cases nobody gives a damn about you and your literature. You feel like you are on your own. It is cold out there and you need a jacket, but you are still walking in the cold because you believe that passion opens doors. You are right because doors are now open and opportunities are about to arise. There are people who want to throw you a bottle of cold water out there in the desert heat.

Let me break this down to you very fast.

You are not alone, YouLI is looking for you; a passionate writer. You who want to stabilize your creative bike. You who want to expand your audience. You who want to tell your stories and change the world. A door is open to you. All it takes is to send in your work. Send poetry, short fiction and short reviews.

Talent without skills dies, practice. Participate in this collective triumph by sending your words. Let’s go.

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SHARON AMANDA MUVARA

Rwanda, My Miracle

I

heard them say that God does miracles, Hear me well I’ve witnessed one.

That nothing is impossible as long one breathes, That shattered dreams can sprout again… Trust me I understand now.

I once heard that life does change, wounds do heal, and dreams really do come true…

Now, I can testify it.

I am talking about Rwanda; Rwanda, my miracle.

A day just like any other, a child held a mother for the last time, Waited for the father that never came back, Watched their dreams melting slow by slow…

A day like any other, a man lost his pride, A woman her decency, parents lost their children, And Rwanda, my miracle, lost its light.

But, a time like no other, a child became a man The lost was found, tears dried up… A time like no other, She learned to smile again; dreams were renewed, And lives were made whole again…

Now who wouldn’t feel proud of Rwanda; Rwanda, my miracle?

Nerds cannot understand it; the world cannot believe it, Scientists cannot dig in to it… nobody!

No mind, can comprehend how in a short while The broken was healed, the hopeless found hope again.

Did you hear that? That is Rwanda; Rwanda, my miracle.

So why? Why do you think I brag, brag about my country?

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Compelling Writing from Rwanda

The land where I come from, the place where my heart is!

That one‌ I call home. Why do you think I raise my flag always?

Why do you think I am still here talking about Rwanda?

No, no, I am not crazy; I am here as a living miracle I am here to prove that we can still stand That our dreams are bigger now, and that we got no limit.

I am here as a definition of hope, resilience, and renewal.

I am here, simply, to light your candle I am proud‌ to tell you about Rwanda; Rwanda, my miracle.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

TRACY KAMIKAZI

A Story to Tell

T

HE land of a thousand hills, The home of beauty, A story to tell indeed.

I will tell of your story, I will wipe away your tears You will cry no more, You will lose no more your own people.

You were once painted red, Screams never heard, Tears never wiped, The children you bore and never got a chance to nurse Them or even see them grow.

The old destroying their own blood, The mothers hurtles towards their own children, The fathers leading their own families to destruction, The nights of fear, sorrow, pain is all you have in memory The land filled with blood, Cries of the unborn were the joy of the enemy.

Gathering pieces of your own children, Your struggle to accomplish, Telling of your story is what makes you a hero Am proud of.

Independence and your strong heart to rebuild Your beautiful personality is your vision, Unity of your children is all you dream of.

As ahead of your family that was once divided, You stand firm and give encouragements to Your children, Page 28

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

Tear drops!!! When you say together we stand, Divided we fall.

I have grown to love you dear parent, And you have taught me to live with A choice made.

All I can say is “ihorere mama” for you understand Your language more, Your tears will be wiped, You will not lose the ones you loved anymore.

But for whom you are, You will live to see your dream come true.

CÉLÈSTE IMPUNDU

Wagiyehe Mana y’i Rwanda

M

ON Rwanda, je te pleure chaque année, chaque 7 Avril ..... Et maintenant pour la 20ième fois.

Gihugu cyanje , gihugu nkunda gihugu nzitangira .... IHORERE .

Tous ses cris, ses larmes, le son du fusil, quand ces belles montagnes devint des mares de sang, quand nos larmes remplie les lacs qui était jadis, ubwiza bw'urwa Gihanga .

Inzoga zababyeyi, inanga zaba kuze , inkono za mama wacu, mabigibigi nabaturanyi, Amashyo ashagaye Intamiti .... wagiyeheee Mana y'u Rwanda !

Kabayiza, le bonheur d'un heureux père étais reflété dans son visage jusqu'au jour La mort à mis abord l'espoir qui lui faisait rêvé sans tort.

Bwiza bwa mama, wishwe akimenya kugenda koko Mana warurihe!!

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

Gihoza cya Data, wowe wategerejwe igihe kirekire, iyo basi ngira n'amahirwe yo kukubona...

Mana warurihe, Mana warurihe?

En tête à tête avec les souvenirs, la pensée de ne jamais vous revoir, biragoye !

Every morning I try to imagine what would second all the marvelous plans you had.... pour au moins continuer dans ce sens, Je sais j'ai était toucher mais pas Abîmée ....

Je préfère penser que le plus j’en parlerais, Le plus je cracherais ce venin qui me ronge sans cesse et que je puisse enfin faire place pour le pardon.

Nukubyakira, as we remember, tukiyunga as we unite, hanyuma Rwanda tukakubakira hamwe as we renew .

Twari tukibakunze, n’ubu turacyababaye, twicaye ubu twizeye kuzababona undi munsi, Rurema yadukundiye.

Malgré notre solitude, on ne vous aura pas déçu.... l'unité et l'amour que vous nous avez enseigné seront notre emblême à jamais. IHORERE.

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RAISSA GIRAMATA

They All Had Something I Did Not

T

HEY all had something I did not, my friends One more person in their families, one more shoulder they could cry on, one more heart loving them, one more support for them...

I could see the joy they had in their eyes talking about them, theirs dads and wondered where is mine?

Pff I didn't really care that time On my fifteenth birthday mummy gave me a picture there was a little girl on it sitting with a man, handsome he was...with a beautiful smile, he looked so loving, I felt like I've known him all my life though the first time I saw him Ow and the little girl, she was happy yeah happy and loved on my surprise that was me!!!

It have been all about her dad, their dads this time it was MY DAD...I was out of words was I happy, was I sad? I didn't really know For me he was a total stranger that I loved so dearly, He was the man I wanted most on my side but couldn't have He was the man I was pissed at for his absence but yet I could die just for a hug from him...this was really confusing I craved knowing him more, but every time I asked mum she would tell me to go study or go to bed Why? I wondered.

But I had grammy; she had no secret!

"So yari itwari,yatabaraga ahatewe. “So yari umugabo yaharaniye ibyiza gusa. “So yari intwari, yaritanze ngo tubeho," she said.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

I was proud but hurt...

I promised myself to take care of what he left me with my precious mam I promised myself I would grow up and guide my siblings I promised myself I would be in charge All I hope for is may I do it as he would have....

ROBERT NKERAMUGABA

The Lady Playing Mandolin

S

HOOT for the stars Collect the remain blasts Toss them in the air levitating Eyes knocking visual light mesmerizing Hypnotizing her strings touch sonic sounding Lady playing mandolin, it got my eyes resonating In a G major or C sharp jamming and boxing Tuning Asus4, E major adding humming Step strumming her mandolin, making motions for kizomba While I was doing percussions on conga listening to Bonga In a metronome moment we were vibrating to the same tempo Octaves higher than a break sounding sono Equalizing at the same flavors, lady You're playing with a maestro touch, freely Delivering partitions symphonic progression Feeling like a revisited Tracy Chapman wit emotions I want to be your Eric Clapton let me tune in Let the musicals in your fretting hand get the feeling Mandolin lady with a magical strum pattern Instrument-at list u make me speaking in horns Got my trumpet voice we going make a rise curtain Dual operation you vibe to harmonica Like a middle name you are finding the scale's filler Like The Roots said" You're my Queen Amina" Page 32

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Feeling I am filled playing everywhere I be your all time band Let’s chill and put aside mandolin and banjo Steps slow, head and tail high, soothing this dance tango I look backside for moonlight Feeling its shadow back holding me tight Where would my life lighter' s bite at?

If you weren't here to tune the heat into a B Flat Mandolin lady, bless you chordly.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

ANGEL UWAMAHORO

Rwanda Today

T

WENTY years have passed…

And yes, we can still see the scars, but they have been sealed with promising skin.

Skin that promises NEVER to return were we have

been.

Today we stand tall As we keep you in our memoryAs your spirits guide us To be a nation that is exemplary Today we have hopeToday we can copeToday we are resilient Today we are brilliant Today we are the light, and the promise …

The promise of a future that is bright.

Rwanda today, is the heart beating life of AfricaThe world’s example and definition of hope, resilience and ambition If you haven't yet heard listen, Grab a pen and learnRwanda is a lesson.

Rwanda is where the great Kivu lake Rests inWhere the birds of the Nyungwe forest Nest in and the foreign investors fly all the way to Invest in What's happening right now in Rwanda Is interestin’ And its amazin’ Page 34

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

To be a part of and watch...

Watch...

Rwanda Rwanda today is Tens of growing cities Hundreds of opportunities The land of a thousand hillsThe faces of a million smilesAnd just one peopleWe are united back homeWhere I come from...

In Rwanda there is freedom Where we live in peace And live as we please Yemwe simvuga amahanga Ndavuga iwacu murwanda Ahari kubera ibitangazaRwanda Is birds and lakes Lights and city streets, Volcanoes and silver backs, Restaurants, Cinemas and coffee beans, teas, industries, electricity and honey bees...

I come from the earth's last piece of paradise A big hearted land Where my people Chose forgiveness over the atrocities they witnessed A land Where we are not afraid to speak the truth Page 35

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A land Where there is room for the youth A land Where a doomed generation is now The driving force behind the nation A land Where one people work hard hand in hand To demand, Justice and dignityWe come from a land Where will forever carry The memory of our fallen stars in 94 A land Where the only fight we fight Is the fight for unity A land where we chose to renew or ways For a better and brighter days We come from a landThat has risen from the ashes of sorrow To the rose blossom of tomorrow A land of agaciroWe come from that land

Rwanda today is the land of prideThe home to dreamers, believers and achievers, Learners and teachers Humans and creatures the heart beating life of AfricaThe worlds example and definition of hope, reliance and ambition If you haven't yet heard Page 36

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

I hope you listened because Rwanda is a lesson.

Yes, 20 years have passed‌ And yes, we can still see the scars, but they have been sealed with promising skin.

Skin that promises NEVER to return were we have been.

Today we stand tall As we keep you in our memoryAs your spirits guide us To be a nation that is exemplary Today we have hopeToday we can copeToday we are resilient Today we are brilliant Today we are the promise, and the light.

Rwanda Today IS the promise of a future that is bright.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

LÉON-MICHEL UWIZEYIMANA

Sad Music

A

voice rises higher to reach hearts Eyes close the artist chants the pain Images from the world of passersby Hostages of heartless lights and nights A sudden silence swallows murmurs In to outside spheres of thoughts Long poignant song shines The unpainted plaints of men and me Ironically, I dance along the rhythm I am not a cynic, comprehend me The once aloof sparking gaze this way You see the crowd applauding the tune But I hear them praising my enduring soul The people contemplate the nice performer I know they are grasping the grief in the poetry Fans approach to hug the singer I see their wishes to touch the face of my life Then my swings honor the sadness we share May those be strong reasons that I impregnate myself with sad music Think of any hint of happiness Only sorrows lowered to repose The song leaves much to guess Feelings and dreams away of scrutiny On and again flows the voice Trumpets accompany time Hope holds back the ends.

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NATASHA DAPHINE MUHOZA WITH INESS GIRAMATA AND ANGEL UWAMAHORO

A Flame Rekindled

A

S I walk on the green hills, Sleep between deep valleys, And, stand – majestically on the strong mountains, We, are constantly reminded…

As I look to the skies Fish in the lakes Maneuver through the rivers And travel the forests, We, are constantly reminded…

As I wake up every morning Go to class, and strive to pass We, are constantly reminded Of our past Of where we came from, (Rwanda) The land in which we were born (Rwanda) and the unfortunate storm, (‘94) that left us torn (‘94) and now every April 7th We mourn…

We, are constantly reminded…

There– is NOT a day that we CAN let ourselves forget **the innocent lives lost our fallen stars our fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers family and friends..

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We, are constantly reminded…

Of the dangers of division, Importance of unison Respect for creation We cannot let ourselves forget Lest we go back to where hatred, confusion and anger met We cannot let ourselves forget We, are constantly reminded…

Rwanda rwacu, Reka dukomeze turabur’amaboko!

Reka umucyo w’ukwizera uturange Urukundo, ubumwe n’ubwiyunge Bitubere amahoro n’imbaraga Inkonvu zacu zihinduts’ububuhamya!

Twibuke duhanga amaso kurumuri Urumuri rutazima kubw’uRwanda rwacu dukunda Yego, duhora twibuka We, are constantly reminded…

But as we stand here today, we do so making different memories, making different histories ones that will teach and talk of unity ones that will empower our future sons, to strive for peace, and destroy machetes and guns.

We, are constantly reminded…

No we cannot erase or forget the past but we can make one that our sons and daughters can be proud ofone that comes like peace of the dove one of love Page 40

Compelling Writing from Rwanda

And though, we are constantly reminded…

Let our shouts of courage resound around the world let our song of renewal, inspire dance around world step by step Let our new song of flame rekindled play night and day.

As we. are constantly reminded…

Rwanda rwanjye Rwanda rugari, Kwifurije kuzahora uri, Igihugu cy’amata n’ubuki, kuri twe abana wabyaye.

Tuzagutaka, Tukuririmbe, Kugeza amahanga akumenye. kuva ku matongo yagutwikire, kugeza ku cyizere duhetse uyu munsi.

Today, as we stand here, We, are constantly reminded… of your memory As we make positive headlines daily, As we increase our ability to forgive, Share a vision, Build a future, That seemed impossible to have, And a foolish dream, But we, are constantly reminded…

As we stand as poles and proof of what hope can bring, now we sing…

As your memory and legacy guide us to a brighter future

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

We, are constantly reminded of you….

Hora Rwanda, kandi uhoreho!

Ukomeze ube igisubizo—kubibazo umutekano n’amahoro—ku kavuyo n’urukundo—ku rwango ukomeze ube urugero kuri bose—kw’isi hose

AURORE KAYIBANDA MUTESI

Ihorere Rwanda

T

URIBUKA kuko aricyo cyatumye dusigare kugirango duhamirize amahanga n'isi yose ko amahano yabaye mugihugu cyacu atari ibihuha.

Nti twibuka ngo dutere imbabazi ahubwo turasubiza icyubahiro abacyambuwe bazira uko bavutse.

Turibuka kuko abagiye bazize akarengane k’uko bavutse kandi ntaruhare babigizemo.

Turibuka twigira k'umateka yaranze igihugu cyacu ngo handi hato bitazongera bikatwambura abo dukunda ntampamvu.

Ayo mateka ntituyibuka ngo aturememo urwango, ahubwo turayibuka ngo atubere isomo—bitume twibaza satani wateye bene kanyarwanda bari basenye k'umugozi umwe bagacibwamo ibice.

Twaributse, turibuka, tuzahora twibuka.

Ndatera ngiranti, “Hora Rwanda warakubititse, warababaye, wambuwe ubwiza, uburanga n'umurava byari bigutatse ushirwa mwicuraburindi, umwijima uragutaha, imibirogo n'imivu y'amaraso biragutemba.

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Ariko Rwanda ndakwizeza ko burya atari ubu; humura ntibizongera ukundi.

Ubu uratemba amata n'ubuki kandi bizahora bityo. Igihe watabazaga uti, “Mana y'i Rwanda ko wirirwa imahanga ugataha i Rwanda, urihe?�

Burya kuba atarumvise imirindi y'uhoraho si uko atari yatashye cyangwa Atakumvise, ahubwo Uhoraho Gitare cy'Amahanga yemeye ko urira burya ngo uyu munsi wa none ubera icyitegerezo amahanga kandi uhabwe umunezero w'iteka.

Rwanda, uri muto mubihugu bigize isi ariko uyu munsi uri mugari kandi urindashyikirwa mukwiyubaka; ubuhanga n'ubushobozi ufite ubu, kurusha ibindi bihugu bigari kw'isi, byabaye kubera impamvu.

Rwanda, humura abana bawe turacyahari. Tuzagutetesha tugutoneshe, tuguheshe ishema urabagirane, amahanga atangare bitume akwigiraho.

Ihorere Rwanda turunamira ababyeyi, inshuti, basaza na bashiki bacu, ariko ntitwubamye, turabazirikana kandi twabahaye ibyicaro mu mitima yacu.

Kuri bo: Aho muri, i Jabiro kwa Jambo, mudusabire igihe nikigera tuzongere tubonane.

Ihorere Rwanda, Uwiteka yarakwibutse.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

GILBERT RWABIGWI

The Art of Writing a Book on Genocide at a Young Age Dieudonné Gakire and His ‘A Dreaming Child’

I

N the end you start wondering if people ever get to rest in this town anymore. On a Tuesday night, people in Remera still seem busy. The wind was blowing from the west with quite a few traffic on the road. It’s a Citron — that Fanta — that doesn’t really taste differently on my tongue. He prefers a Fiesta; a bit too sugary and sweetened — perfect for kids. Same as Orange. But that doesn't necessarily mean that all those who drink it are as narrow minded as a primary school kid.

There are untold stories and, as much as we have the responsibility to examine our legacies, we find ourselves in the obligation of tracking down every stories that reflect our past and share it with the world. However good or bad.

Perhaps no one will ever describe the horror of the genocide perpetrated against the Tutsi in 1994 better than those whose who were directly affected — the survivors. Or, maybe, there is still little written on the history of the holocaust and its aftermath.

At 22, Dieudonné Gakire has authored a book that remarkably documents consequences of the genocide on an agegroup that is, today, playing a vital role in rebuilding a nation; Rwanda’s children 20 years ago and a bit later. His book, A Dreaming Child, was officially launched at a ceremony on Sunday, 16 February 2014.

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I met Gakire for the first time sometime in the last 4 months of 2012. One of my friends introduced him as a passionate young writer, who was writing a book on genocide. Myself having particular interest for the topic, I was eager to meet with him and learn about his work. He had completed his manuscript and was working to get it translated, in English, then French.

His work was nothing but admirable and convincing. And he really wanted the book project to happen.

A year and few months later, we arranged to meet again and discuss progress, his book and the way forward, but for me to also have a deep understanding of his work and what motivated him to write on such a topic.

It was a quiet evening and yet Gakire looked exhausted. I had joked, just as we met, that I was feeling tired, after a long day of work. But I could see that he hadn't slept for months.

Writing a book on such a sensitive topic in this country is hard work. Perhaps harder than writing about a topic you’re not familiar with. And for a young man, with limited resources, who has knocked at over 60 doors of big offices — with little feedback — it must have been tiresome.

He preferred to meet at night; I didn’t mind.

At the age of 16, Gakire was student at the SOS Technical high school. He was head of “family” group of members of the students’ association of survivors of the genocide (commonly known by its French acronym, AERG), when he had a thought of organizing his team to write down their testimonies.

“We knew each other very well. I had listened to their stories over and over again. And I wanted to encourage them to write the stories,” he told me. “But it couldn't happen. No one wrote a single line,” he added, with a shameful face as we sat Page 45

The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

down at a restaurant in Remera.

After failing, so many times, to get his comrades to write their stories, he decided to collect them, one by one, in a notebook. With courage and determination, Gakire wrote down the 12 stories, including his. They included testimonies of survivors who are part of his AERG “family” and the hardships they went through after the genocide; but also how they made it to become successful students. When he finished, everyone in the association wanted to read from the notebook. And now, he says, there are plenty more stories that are added each year — as new members come in.

The feedback that Gakire got from the collection of stories and how compelling they were made him want to write more and more about the genocide. “If a roughly written collection of testimonials can make people want to read and understand what we went through, why not do more?” I read through his carefully crafted words.

It is his experience with the genocide, at a young age, and the unwritten stories of his peers, to which he has listened several times, that inspired him to write his book. But it’s not just that.

The previous year, in 2008, he had visited — for the first time — the Kigali Genocide Memorial that is located in Gisozi sector. Even back then, not everyone, including genocide survivors, felt comfortable with visiting such sites. I asked him why he had to wait for 4 (long) years (the memorial opened in 2004) and he told me, “I felt too much fear for any places that reflected death and genocide. I wasn't feeling ready to face the horrible memories.” Gakire visited the memorial with his school mates.

It was compulsory, he told me. There was no way to escape.

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He finally made it and toured the entire site and was moved by the children’s room, to which he comments, “Whoever that doesn't feel touched by the experience from that room has no heart!”

It is also the profound memories he has kept from his experience, in the children’s room at the memorial, that made him want to write a book on how the genocide affected lives of children in Rwanda.

When we met, my first question to him was, “What special contribution does your book bring to the literature on the 1994 genocide?” He explained with confidence: “I feel like people have taken for granted the experiences of children during the genocide and after. Whenever I told people that I wanted to write about the genocide, they asked me what I really knew — skeptical of what a then-aged three-year-old would have to say.

My book contains details on the life of children before 1994, what happened to them during the genocide and their experiences in its aftermath.”

Self-published, Gakire’s book bears new lines into the literature on the genocide against the Tutsi through the eye of a child.

In the book’s foreword, signed Senator Jean-Damascene Bizimana, you will find an explanation on how Gakire’s book portrays “the savageness that characterized the Genocide, the many difficulties that children who survived the Genocide have encountered, and their courage to fight for life.”

Courageous enough, Gakire has sat down with genocide perpetrators from the central prison in Kigali and elsewhere, one of the former hate-radio (RTLM) journalists, and former local leaders who played key roles in spreading the genocide idePage 47

The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

ology. He has interviewed so many survivors that he cannot help not sharing their stories. But when I asked about him, he seemed a bit uncomfortable — maybe that feeling that your story doesn't matter in so many challenging testimonies. Yet, in a chapter entitled ‘Poem of Life,’ he details the life of his family and how he survived the killing spree: Sometimes I could not be identified as Tutsi as I was very dark-skinned while other members of my family have a lighter brown skin color. I wore a dress in order to look like a girl as they thought girls would not be killed like boys. In addition, whoever saw me was told that I was their grandchild who had come to visit them, so it was easy not to be identified.

As a child, Gakire went through various traumatic moments. As his family escaped from Ruhango to Kabgayi — where thousands of innocent people had headed to seek refuge — he, like many children in 1994, saw dead bodies and the coward of his family members at its highest degree. Claudette Kayitesi, his sister, who was only 10 years old, carried him on her back for most part of the journey.

Kabgayi was centre to a very important catholic Parish. It is where they met a priest whose name was Joseph Ndagijimana. Gakire told me that he has never been able to forget the words Ndagijimana said when they asked for help: “The God of the Tutsi is no longer on your side—you have to die.”

For a child, these kinds of sentences are unforgettable.

Because they also bear so much to feel than just hear. And yes, indeed, the God of the Tutsi watched a million of innocent people being killed to the machete. Even from His own church.

In his 244-page book, Gakire goes on to write a letter to Page 48

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children victims of the 1994 genocide and another one to those who survived. They are both contained in a chapter entitled ‘Letters’, certainly the part of the book to which he vastly devoted his heart. He told me that it’s his heart-felt chapter from the book; that tears happen to roll down his face when he re-reads some of its portions.

Besides, the author has also chased some of the darkest testimonies from ’94. In a chapter entitled ‘My Resurrection,’ he recounts the story of genocide survivor Claudine Uwamwezi, who was only 13 years old. Gakire told me that Uwamwezi’s testimony contains the most thrilling story he’s ever heard. And, indeed, it is. She saw her baby sister trying to feed herself from her mum’s breast, as the latter laid down — in a pool of blood, without life. In her testimony, she recalls terrible moments.

In fact, when [the militia] clubbed mom over her head she did not die immediately; they rather had to come back and finish her off later, but they did not do anything to the baby she was carrying on her back. There was another woman, next of kin to my mother, who got her breast chopped off before she finally got killed in agony. On our way fleeing that macabre place, we came across that old man’s daughter’s body, of which all the members had been horribly chopped off. The cadaver had visibly started to decay.

Gakire has dug into the heart and mind of the killer, the survivor, and he — like so many others — live to honour the innocent people, including children, that were butchered 20 years ago. He is now worth listening to.

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The Pen Review | Issue 01—May 2014

About the Authors ISRAËL BIMPE — Managing Editor of The Pen Review, long serving YouLI representative in the southern province of Rwanda and a Pharmacy geek. His blog is israb12.wordpress.com.

ERIC NGANGARE — Kigali-based copy writer and a passionate blogger, Eric is a well-known spoken word artist. The two pieces published in this issue were previously posted on his blog at www.eric1key.wordpress.com.

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE NSANZIMANA — Member of YouLI Board of Directors and passionate communicator, Jean-Christophe is a keen blogger and social media enthusiast. He is now serving the Editorial Director for The Pen Review.

SERGE UWIMANA — Having emerged as a prominent young Rwandan blogger, Serge has attracted many readers with his weekly stories mostly related to lifestyles in Kigali. You can visit his blog at www.sirgserge.wordpress.com.

SHARON AMANDA MUVARA — Keen writer and young activist, Sharon is pursuing her college education in the United States.

TRACY KAMIKAZI — A passionate since her young age, Tracy is a law student at the University of Rwanda.

CÉLÈSTE IMPUNDU — Interested in arts and writing, Célèste is a fan of legend Bob Marley. She is also passionate about photography, nature and beauty.

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RAISSA GIRAMATA — A college student, Raissa has written poetry since the age of 14. Throughout her writing, she focuses on encouraging and strengthening broken hearts.

ROBERT NKERAMUGABA — Interested in poetry, painting and blogging, Robert is a computer engineer working with the Rwanda Development Board.

ANGEL UWAMAHORO — Reknown spoken word artist, Angel is pursuing her studies in the United States. She has performed at such events as the 50th anniversary of the African Union in Addis Abbeba and the Kwibuka20 event at the UN. LÉON-MICHEL UWIZEYIMANA — Working for a local bank, Léon-Michel is an avid reader who is passionate about writing.

NATASHA DAPHINE MUHOZA — Currently pursuing a bachelor of arts in Economic Development in the United States, she is an avid writer currently involved in projects to encourage reading in Rwanda.

INESS GIRAMATA — Avid reader and spoken word artist, Iness writes to broaden her voice and inspire the peers to make a difference.

AURORE KAYIBANDA MUTESI — Miss Rwanda 2012 is currently working to enhance her writing skills, and is hoping to publish a novel in the future.

GILBERT RWABIGWI — Executive Director of YouLI, Gilbert is a passionate writer, social media consultant and a strong literacy advocate. You can find more of his writing at www.youthliteracy.org/rwabigwi.

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The Pen Review is a bi-monthly literary journal, by Youth Literacy Organisation (YouLI), publishing short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction and short reviews.