In a 2009 interview titled "Intellectual Hooliganism,” the Congolese poet, philosopher, and theologian Kä Mana denounced with rare vehemence what he saw as the noise of minds that shout without enlightening — intellectuals who wound rather than elevate their nations.
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"The intellectuals of the Congolese cave,” he said, "may cry, bark, and vociferate — nothing will change so long as our leadership remains what it is. Let us first change leadership; everything else will follow.”
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He was referring above all to the ongoing conflict in eastern DR Congo.
At the same time, Kä Mana expressed disappointment with the silence of Rwandan intellectuals. He expected from African thinkers not comfort but courage — the readiness to engage one’s voice in the tumult of history.
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It was within that horizon that he recalled his encounter with Immaculée Ingabire, of blessed memory, during a journey to Rome for a conference on the conflict in eastern DR Congo. "During a stopover in Addis Ababa,” he wrote, "we met a Rwandan woman heading to the same debate in Rome. A quiet, composed figure — a deep and resonant voice, slow diction, a cigarette between her fingers, and great clarity in her analysis of complex problems. Her name: Immaculée Ingabire.”
The conference was turbulent — dominated by anger and accusation. "Diatezwa presented the history of the war in the east,” Kä Mana recalled, "but every sentence was met by shouts of ‘liar,’ ‘traitor,’ ‘corrupt,’ ‘assassin.’ In that uproar, Immaculée Ingabire managed, with difficulty, to speak of the tragedy of women across the Great Lakes region, from the genocide against the Tutsi to the conflicts in eastern Congo.”
The hostility only deepened: "A Congolese group, like a commando on a mission, stormed the stage, throwing insults at the moderator, at Diatezwa, at me, and at the Rwandan woman — calling her a perverse breed, a witch, a diabolical Tutsi. One of my compatriots nearly struck me, her eyes cold and fixed as a serpent’s. The organizers halted the debate. The Italians and Rwandans in the audience looked on, stunned.”
The next day, Kä Mana and Immaculée Ingabire spoke quietly. "What happened yesterday,” she told the Congolese thinker, "reveals the weakness of the Congolese: agitation without purpose. You shout, you fight one another, without knowing why. We, in Rwanda, after the genocide, learned not to shout, not to fight, but to know precisely what we want.”
Kä Mana never forgot their final evening in Rome, during a dinner with a Rwandan couple. "That night,” he wrote, "as we entered our host’s car, I realized that Rwanda’s strength over Congo lay in one thing: the people’s trust in their leaders. That trust is a form of power. In Congo, there is neither trust nor power. I said this to Immaculée as she finished her cigarette. She smiled — a smile as beautiful as Lake Kivu — her eyes shining with the calm strength of her being. ‘You are not far from the truth,’ she said. We all laughed, a laughter full of peace. I shall never forget that evening.”
Encounters remembered
My own encounters with Immaculée Ingabire were not numerous, yet each was profoundly meaningful. Every moment carried weight; every word — spoken in that low, resonant voice — was filled with depth.
When I brought my U.S. students to Rwanda for study-abroad programme on the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi and the country’s reconstruction, she was among the voices I most wished them to meet. She offered testimony that was both intellectual and human — analytical yet deeply compassionate.
A mutual friend, Aloys Mahwa, the Director of the Living Peace Institute, remembers her vividly: "I shared with her intense intellectual moments — participating in conferences, summer programmes, and debates on peace and security in the Great Lakes region. Being with Miki was like being in a classroom where one learns truth, equality, and patriotism all at once. We often discussed Rwanda, Africa, and current events.”
Beyond her intellectual life, Immaculée was a profoundly generous human being. As Mahwa recalls, her kindness shaped not only his professional world but also his family’s daily life:
"We owe much of our family’s harmony to Miki’s constant and benevolent presence. She had a natural generosity and an instinct to give abundantly.”
Immaculée — for yet two eternities and a thousand years
Aloys Mahwa adds, with emotion: "When I think of Miki, I also think of all those who contributed to building Rwanda and who, I hope, now meet again in heaven: Professor Paul Rutayisire, Professor Nkusi, Professor José Kagabo, Madame Aloysia Inyumba, Servilien Manzi Sebasoni (SMS), and many others who taught us patriotism and self-sacrifice.”
This reunion also includes Kä Mana himself, who passed away four years ago. One may say that their encounter did not end in Rome. One can almost hear their conversation continuing somewhere beyond this world — especially since the realities Kä Mana described in 2009 still echo painfully in our region today.
I would borrow Kä Mana’s own words, taken from an exchange he once had with a friend after the eruption of the volcano in Goma, and imagine him now speaking with Immaculée Ingabire:
She: "Are you already dead?”
He: "I am alive, and proud to be so.”
She: "For how long still?”
He: "Two eternities and a thousand years.”
And I see them both laugh — a laughter full of peace, not only of that evening in Rome, but of the Greater Region itself — a laughter for two eternities and a thousand years.
From these fragments — Kä Mana’s testimony, Aloys Mahwa’s memories, and the recollections of friends — emerges the portrait of a rare woman: honest, intelligent, lucid, serene, and generous.
In the noise of conflict, she embodied the dignity of silence; in the confusion of ideas, she restored the precision of thought. Her courage was quiet but unwavering, her intellect sharp yet never cruel.
To remember Immaculée Ingabire is to remember what is best in the human spirit: the ability to listen deeply, to speak with integrity, and to give without counting. Her legacy endures — in the clarity and integrity she brought to words, in the peace she inspired in others, and in the light she left behind in every mind she touched — for yet two eternities and a thousand years.
The writer is the Head of Transdisciplinary Research, Organisation of Southern Cooperation.