Mu Rugo Wanjye [My Home]

They say you can’t go home again. Barabesha [they lie].

Life has become quite busy over the past few weeks. Projects at my site have begun picking up, including writing a grant to get much needed books in the school library, working on a lesson plan manual for English Club, and nurturing the self-confidence of my girl’s club.

I also finally arranged Kinyarwanda lessons with a teacher at my school and am gathering the necessary tools to start my own herb and vegetable garden.

Outside of site, I was elected as my cohort’s representative to the Program Advisory Committee, a group of PCVs who meet regularly with our Director of Programming and Training to plan curriculum in line with our country’s project framework, program objectives, and training competencies…that’s a lot of fancy words for the kind of work that makes me giddy.

I have also joined nine other volunteers to plan a girls ICT camp [Information Communication Technology]. In addition to acting as the liaison for the schools who will send girls to the camp, I am also helping to plan and write the weeklong schedule of lesson plans aimed at developing girls’ technology competency and the pursuit of careers in ICT.

Needless to say, I’m busy.

However, I’ve been trying to go “home” again for more than a month and been thwarted by a string of minor, though pesky, illnesses. So when I realized I would have to head into Kigali for the weekend, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and finally return to the place where my journey started here in Rwanda: the village of Karama in Kamonyi District.

Umuryango wanjye murwanda. My Rwandan family.

I called Mama Thursday afternoon and confirmed she would be home the next day, telling her I was coming to visit. She was ecstatic.

I began my travels on Friday with an eagerness I don’t often feel when leaving my home in Murunda. When my Express Bus finally came near the main road turn off, I felt proud to call “Ndasigara” [I’m getting off here] and exiting the bus amidst the confused stares of the remaining Rwandan passengers all on their way to the big city.

I flagged down a moto and was soon on my way down familiar roads I had once called home.

I asked my driver to stop in Gachurabagenge so I could make a few small purchases. Chapati for Big Sister and amadazi for little Muneza. In true Rwandan fashion, I wrapped my purchases in my scarf and continued down the road my friends and I had walked countless times with crowds of children traipsing behind us in song.

Coming around the final curve near my home, I immediately noticed a few changes. Where there was once a big lump of dirt, there was now a cement road divider and the shop being built next door was nearly complete. A few girls stood on the road and I realized after a few moments that one was Little Sister, She’d grown a bit in 5 months and wore the light blue uniform of the local secondary school, having finally begun her first year out of primary.

I smiled big and went to give her a hug. She was on her way back to school after lunch and I turned from her toward my house, seeing Papa standing on the porch, a grin on his face as he waved. I was home.

After hugs and greetings, Papa ushered me inside and called for Big Sister. I immediately saw that she was tired or unwell and she explained she had been diagnosed with Malaria the day before. I gave her the chapati and it seemed to perk her up quite a bit. Then I proceeded to discuss the fact that she fails to use her mosquito net every night. Ni bibi cyane [very naughty].

We sat on thin cushions and Papa explained that Mama was not home after all. The car she had been taking back from Kigali with friends had broken down. She was still in the city. I was sad but it still felt good to be home.

Papa soon told me we would eat and guided me to the same chair I had sat in morning, noon, and night for three months; taking the role of host as he passed me a plate and uncovered the dishes of rice and beans. We bowed our heads as he prayed and then dug in.

I turned to Big Sister, who once made me watch her cook night after night, never letting me do more than peel potatoes, and told her that now I cook every day. She laughed and asked if I made guacamole – the only dish I made on my own during training. I gave her a list of all I cook and she was thoroughly impressed.

Possibly seeking a weakness, she asked if I mop every day. Most days, I explained. “Laundry?” she asked. Yes, every week. “On your own?” I laughed, “Yes, I wash my own clothes and I also do the dishes. I do not have a domestic.” Big Sister and Papa were shocked. Sister even took my hands, looking for calluses from all that hard labor.

It seems I’ve grown up a bit in establishing my own home!

After eating, the three of us sat and talked. I explained life in Murunda and what I teach. Middle and Little Brother came in from school and there were big hugs all around. Finally Little Muneza woke from his nap and when he wondered in, groggy eyed, he wasn’t as little as I remembered. He was shy but when I asked “Amakuru?” He gave me a little grin and responded, “Ni mez.” He speaks!

For two hours, I visited. Though I coaxed some English out of Big Sister who always insisted she couldn’t speak it, most of our conversation was definitely in Kinyarwanda. And it actually worked! Here I had thought my language skills had been waning at site since the teachers and students primarily speak to me in English, but I certainly never could have had a 2-hour conversation in Kinyarwanda before. And Papa was not slowing it down at all. I felt quite accomplished.

As it became time to go, Papa went out to arrange my transportation. I may clean my own house, but he was still taking care of me when given the chance. When he returned, he was on the phone with Mama and proceeded to tell me that I would meet her in Kigali to greet her.

I repeated his words a few times to make sure I understood because meeting someone in Kigali seemed not an easy task. Papa was insistent. Call her when you arrive, he explained. Okay, Papa.

And so, I headed out after a few greetings to neighbors and hugs all around.

The rest of my trip was relatively uneventful. My moto ran out of fuel three times. The solution to this problem involves the moto being tilted sideways a few times, presumably so the last remaining fumes can be discovered in the tank. Don’t ask me, but it works.

I arrived in Nyabugogo Bus Park in Kigali, disembarking from my Twege and suddenly realizing just how impossible it was going to be to find my host Mama in the chaos that is the main transportation hub in all of Rwanda.

I was quickly accosted by bus drivers trying to help the presumably lost white woman find her way into a bus going just about anywhere. I used my new kinyarwanda confidence to explain I was not, in fact, in need of a bus but was waiting for my Mama. This garnered more than a few confused expressions.

I called Mama. She answered and asked where I was. Nyabugogo I explained. Before I could ask her the same, she hung up. Rwandan’s have interesting phone etiquette. In addition to lacking any sort of volume control, they never say goodbye and have a habit of preserving airtime by making phone calls as brief as possible.

I moved as much out of the way of the press of buses as I could and tried to decide what to do now. Shortly, my phone vibrated and Mama was on the other end. She asked where I was again and I tried this time to be more specific by saying I was in the front of Nyabugogo. She told me she was at “igara” then hung up again.

I turned to a persistent bus driver who had used some English with me and asked what igara meant. Bus park, he said. Well, great. That’s helpful. He asked what I needed and I explained I was meeting my Mama and all I knew was that she was here. He asked if she was inside or outside the bus park. I hadn’t a clue.

I called Mama again. Where are you? I asked. Igara, Mama responded before hanging up again.

Hmph.

Helpful Bus Driver said, tell her you are by the Kimirisanga buses!

I decided to do a text message instead: Ndi hafi ibisi Kimirisanga.

Helpful Bus Driver had accumulated friends and I was explaining everything over again when I heard, “Elisabete!!!!”

I turned and there was Mama, practically running toward me, arms outstretched, a huge grin across her face, and two friends trailing behind. She reached me, threw her arms around me and promptly broke into tears.

Helpful Bus Driver and his curious friends clapped and cheered. I had found my Mama and she was Rwandan. They ate it up.

The bus park bustled around us as Mama and I greeted, laughed, and cried. Helpful Bus Driver leaned in and told Mama she had “umwana mwiza” [a good child]. Mama beamed.

We walked and talked, hand in hand. I met her friends and told her about my life. She told me they’ll be getting a new Peace Corps Volunteer in less than a month and I have to come back to meet them. I broke the news that the Volunteer who lived with them before me had returned to America due to illness. Mama asked about my family and I said my mother hopes to come visit. Mama said the same as Papa – when my American mother comes, I must bring her to Karama to meet them. All of my family in one place.

Mama was shocked I was traveling alone and called me her intelligent child. Then she again copied Papa by taking me in hand and deciding she must make sure I found the correct bus to get to my next destination. I explained I knew my way but she’s a Mama through and through and wouldn’t send me off on my own.

Right up until my bus drove away, tears were in her smiling eyes and the whole bus loved when she put her head in the door and said, “Byeeee Elisabete! Ndagukunda!”

They say home is where your heart is. I’m fortunate to have a heart that stretches to many places and people. Family isn’t defined by blood, but love – and I have so many people to love and be loved by in return. It is nice to go home again.