I have almost no photographs, no relics or mementos, no trail of objects to commemorate the gruesomeness and beauty of the days, months, and years my sister Claire and I spent trying to survive. We left Rwanda when I was six and she was fifteen. First my parents sent us from our home in Kigali, the capital city of Rwanda, to our grandmother’s house in the country. Then one day, at my grandmother’s farm, there was a knock on the door. The world had become unhinged and murderous. She told us to run. I did not even understand what death was.
I carried a blanket, which turned out to be a towel. That was it. To compensate now, to remember who I am, I almost always travel with my
katundu, my stuff...