In The Loving Memory of, "Cecilia Elefontuyi."
Wit’out clothes, in nudity, in this room, I lay to writ’
lo, I’m about to carve
a tale of my continent, in tears.
A half brother of me, perhaps a quarter cast
the story of us both it is.
Our father, a Hutu
mine mother too, a Hutu is
while the mother of Him, a Tutsi
when simply ‘Rwandans’ we should, in gladness, be hailed.
Like the beginning of the world in Genesis
inscribed in the manuscript of reality—–the Holy Bible
it all begun, the story of us.
Hutu and Tutsi, both of we, for centuries
the same culture, language, and religion
we both shared
and like princes and kings, we men liv’d
while like princesses and queens, our women reigned.
In love and harmony, together, closer than oneness
both of us reside,
but when Belgium in 1916 grasped the control of our nation from Germany,
a rigid colonial system of racial and exploitation,
these Europeans gladly install’d
and their elevation of my quarter brother’s mama’s tribe——
o’er that of mine
deep resentment amongst my tribe majority, they built.
In 1959 when,
The Belgians, to the Hutu majority, the control of our nation
was after a defeat handed
alas! The song of independence brought——-
years of institutionalized anti-Tutsi segregation and massacre,
and hundreds of thousands of Tutsis
alongside moderate fellows in my tribe were shoved into exile.
What a lovin’ way to treat a people wit’ whom one had——–
spent decades as neighbours wit’?
I thought as much.
Some of these exiled refugees in 1988 formed,
a rebel movement they names
‘Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF)’ wit’ Uganda as their base
in a quest to reclaim their homeland from where
——they had been driven.
A man’s home remains the vine of his pride,
the wild, a beast’s court of fantasies,
for forever is a man incomplete when trapped in a foreign land
and even though joy in the Diaspora tarries,
our home wil’ forever bear memories nowhere else bore,
the memory of our homes remain in us eternally———
an eternal song.
Behold, in 1990, the RPF launched an offensive attack——–
Against the Hutu regime
which wit’ the help of them,
French and Belgian military, was barred.
But still, a deadly parade of war and massacre continues until 1993.
The United Nations negotiation of——–
a power-sharing agreement between the two sides
which I guess my people called, ‘the Arusha Agreement.’
but greed, pride and arrogance made,
the extremists amongst the tribe of me
resist the implementation of the agreement
and to protect their power in self-centredness,
one of the most terrifyin’ genocides in history became their plan.
The tribe of my quarter brother’s mama back then
‘cockroaches’ were named.
When she, Prudence Bushnell came into our nation
to bring him, President Habyarimana to implement the agreement,
not long afterwards,
BOOM! Out of the air,
our president’s airplane was shot
and from Kigali, our passionate capital state that night, terror serene.
They roam on our nation’s streets, red heart’d,
fury in their evil enthused ey’z
as they leave our streets paint’d in blood——–
their hands carefully bore Kalashnikovs, Israel Uzis,
aye! they as well bore,
M16 rifles, machetes, Czech grenades and more my head no longer recalls.
In the daylight, we got too frightened to see
and even at nights, in the dark, we stil’ tremble to toddle
unlike an enthusiastic saddle
saddened like a maiden stripped naked amongst the market place.
Into our homes, uninvited, they invaded
and many from their lov’d ones were separat’d———
I hope wit’ full attention, thy mind is here
for in cold blood, intentional shots were fired
wit’ grosses of humans murdered.
A memory that tarries in many amongst us all
this is a tale, that left many women today as widows,
many men, widowers
and children, orphans.
About these days of pains,
we decline sheddin’ tears, for we shed blood;
we deny being beaten, for we were crush’d;
many of our ladies didn’t accept being disrespect’d, for they were raped;
many of our aspirin’ footballers object being cheat’d, for they were crippled;
the dreams of many amongst us wasted before their eyes.
So many of our talents in cold blood were murdered, in our nation——–
wit’ our authors, books yet to be written were murdered;
wit’ our poets, poems yet to be inscribed were buried;
wit’ our judges yet to be call’d to bar, justice was silenced;
wit’ doctors, stethoscopes and drugs yet to be awarded were laid interred;
as well as many talents, we in arrogance lost.
The wind of the west blew the people of Kibuye
to us in the east,
for my roots illuminated here in Kibungo
and in thousands, they sought refuge in our churches,
right in our hospitals,
as well as our hotels
and places I’m unaware of
walkin’ like derailed trains from their once neighbours, friends and families.
Murdered were women, children, wives and men
whose identification cards announced as Tutsis.
Hundreds of thousands of Hutus as well, were kil’ed
for the sin of protectin’ Tutsis
a sin of sincere declination in the agreement on the murderin’
many a people, whom for centuries had been their neighbours.
Many were forced to death,
just because a Hutu or a couple of Hutus
thinks they look like Tutsis.
Wit’ machettes, three Hutus fled after my quarter brother
for even those who have a Tutsi parent,
Like an athlete competing for a trophy,
and even for minutes I thought he’s an actor
in an Olympic tournament
until I realize he was being chased by death,
terror lingers in his eyez,
PLEASE! PLEASE!! PLEASE!!!
My once brave quarter brother fears to die
and now as I carve this poem, I feel I had wronged him,
for I was unable to help him.
In a little time, he was outran
The first man thrust his machette
and to his back, it clung.
he halt’d to hold his back in pain,
but wit’out mercy
another thrust, from another Hutu dived into his chest
and the compound of my father wore the colour of blood,
“is the phrase of me, absurd?”
My father in pain watch’d as he sat dyin’
for he had been shot tryin’ to prevent the killin’ of my step mother——–
whose corpse sat on the floor watching her only son,
Yves Andre bleed painfully from machetes bruises.
My stepmother lay lifeless in the world beyond
while her only child, my quarter brother is still being treated wit’
the genocide hospitality.
Here, I lay wit’ tears staining my heart and soul
these are words I can for now carve about my nation, RWANDA
about the days,
the pride of us all mourned.
Causes Oromidayo Farore Supports
1. Human Trafficking
2. People Living With Aids