Si njyenyine (Not me alone)

Sometimes, reality smacks you in the face. Sometimes, you realize that you aren’t the strong, independent, confident foreigner living in a village in Rwanda that you had thought you were. Sometimes, you realize a small child has been carrying you the whole time.

I called Ani over and told her to get her jug, Ngiye kuvoma, turajyana? I’m going to get water, we are going together? She came running back a few minutes later, jug in one hand and an igitenge cloth wrapped around her neck, to use on our way back as a cushion for the heavy jug on her head. We set out, down the dirt road, onto the path, past the fields. Down that steep rocky hill where small children often slip or fall under the weight of the water, staggering back up with cuts on their hands or faces. Down down down.

At the well we waited our turn to fill our jugs with the fresh, clean groundwater flowing out of the broken pipeline. The pipeline that used to run into a huge storage tank, and was then pumped back up the hill to surrounding villages. The pipeline and pump system that has been sitting useless, growing old, for years, no one really remembers how many now, because the motor broke and no one came to fix it.

After we fitted the openings in our jugs with plaintains to keep the water from spilling out, made our ingato from our igitenge and swung our jugs up onto our heads, we set off. Up up up, carefully placing our feet on and between the rocks, slowly rising. I met some of my S2 girls along the way, carrying far more water than I could ever dream to do. We started chatting, and Ani fell behind with the smaller children. Up up up. Off the rocks and onto the red dirt path. Ani fell further behind, still with the other children. I paused at the place where the red dirt suddenly gives way to brown, and where the hill decreases its angle, becoming more of a slope. She was far below me now. I decided to continue on with my students. Off the path and onto the road. With all the curves and bushes in the way, she is nowhere to be seen. Home is so close, just up that last hill and slight curve in the road. I can see it now, past the idle cement well, the well where we would go to fetch water if the motor down the hill worked…

She finally arrives home about twenty minutes later. I call to her, and I know she hears me, but she doesn’t look or respond. Her older sister comes by and I tell her Ani is upset, arababara, she feels pain, because I left her behind on the hill. Mimi reassures me that its fine, and tells Ani to come over. Ngiye kugura imineke, urashaka kujyana? I’m going to buy bananas, do you want to go together? No response, no eye contact, but when I start walking away from the house, she follows. We proceed down the street, Ani always a few steps behind. I buy bananas, not a word. We turn back towards my house, not a word. Niba urababara, ntukeneye kujyananjye. If you are upset, you don’t have to go with me. She turns and walks away. I know I’ve made a mistake, but she’ll bounce back I think, she’s just a kid.

Twenty minutes later she’s at my door, and I think all is well. But no, she’s just asking if I want milk from their cow tonight. She turns to go, hesitates, starts to walk away. Ani ngwino, mbabarira. Ani come here, I’m sorry. Like coaxing a kid to take their medicine. Come here, I’m sorry. Don’t go. She finally submits, and we go into the house.

We sit silently for minutes and minutes. Ani stares straight ahead, lips tight, eyes vacant. I apologize, nothing. I ask what else is wrong, nothing. I give her a banana, nothing. Then suddenly a waterfall of quiet, rushed, mumbled Kinyarwanda. Small tears in her eyes, but she’s tough, she won’t let them grow and fall. She spends the next eternity telling me how I lied, I said we were going together, and then I went ahead. How sometimes I tell her she needs to go home. How sometimes, when other muzungus come to visit me, we don’t play with her enough. How we cook American food and don’t share it with her. I’m trying to keep up, trying to follow all that she’s saying, trying to defend myself because I do give her food, every single day, and because we did play with her and the other children when my friends came, and because I always share my American food with her. But I’m beat. She’s exaggerating yes, but she’s also only 6 years old, and there’s some truth to what she says. We could have played with her more, we could have given her more food. I could have waited for her on the hill.

Then, stone faced, she says she will never fetch water with me again. Sinzagenda kuvoma nawe. Sinzatembera nawe. Sinzasura abantu nawe. Sinzagaruka hano. I will not walk with you. I will not visit people with you. I will not return here.

I try to convince myself that she’s just upset, she’s just a kid, and tomorrow all this will be behind us. I know it will. But then I think, what if she’s not lying? What if she really never comes again? What if she hadn’t been here all along? And I have to walk away, hide in my dark room, because this little child’s words have made me cry. Because I suddenly envision the previous 8 months without my constant companion, friend, teacher, helper. I imagine going out every time, to visit people or to buy something or to get water, alone. No Ani holding my hand, teaching me the right words to say, correcting my hilarious Kinyarwanda, making me laugh, making me less nervous to go do new things, because I have my trusty little friend right by my side. She’s with me when the crazy old drunks try to capture me, she’s with me when I just want to listen to American music and do silly dances in the house without a dozen children grabbing my arms and hair. She was with me all during Genocide Memorial Week, so strong, keeping me going. She’s with me every day, we do everything together. When I go out without her, everyone aks, Anita ari hehe? Where is Anita?

I cry and I reflect and I realize that this amazing little girl has not only been holding my hand this whole time, she has been carrying me.

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We continued discussing, ate dinner, and she finally fell asleep on my bed as I made my lesson plans for the next day. The next morning, there she was outside the door, Julie bite?! Julie what’s up? She’s not leaving me behind, and I will do my best not to leave her behind again, either.

There is so so so much more I want to say, but I’m already late to a celebration. In short, things are quickly becoming busy here-- the water situation is my main concern, and I’m in the midst of trying to work out solutions, talking to villagers, the school, the health center, the higher ups, and an NGO in Kigali. More on that to come. School started up again, so I’m busy with teaching and making lessons. And of course visiting people, playing with the kids, seeing other volunteers…That’s all I’ve got for now, sorry for the lack of messages, and the abrupt end to this one!

Love to you all