Let’s talk about them, these blood-spiller hounds unworthy of being called sons/daughters of this land. All are petty but some have been blown so large they thought they were big fish. But big or small, they are slowly but surely discovering the truth that they are all tiny sardines to soon be packed in the same can (detention or jail), those not in already. The lucky ones make it here; they are back on the soil they thought, deep down in their hearts, they’d never set their eyes on again. Knowing which, they had made all efforts to soak it in blood (“liberate it”, they said) for those on it to suffer for making it richly habitable. Their cohorts have had no such luck; they are in a dilemma. Is it going to be a temperate-land or tropical-land can for them? Temperate or tropical, however, even if they are not going to enjoy the luxuries that grace the Rwandan cans, they are not going to have the worst of it. There are unfortunate others whose proverbial 40 days of a butcher-thief have expired and are routinely finding themselves six feet under, below the jungle forests of the D.R. Congo. But then again, those “six feet under” may be a pipe dream, for who will have the guts to stick it out and dig, under the hail of bullets from their hosts? Now fed up for being harassed and even massacred by these ingrates, they are leaving them at the mercy of hogs and hyenas. All in all, then, it looks like hell uncensored loosed upon all genocide fugitives and their disciples bent on visiting violence on Rwanda. Those still at large are in wet pants, unsure of when their turn is coming. The world is becoming too small for them. For that turn will come, sure as sunrise tomorrow, when they get to “ring a wrong number”! The latest to “ring a wrong number”, ‘Rusesa-whatever-he-sesas’, – which he did as another was biting the dust in the D.R. Congo – must be wishing he’d never left his cooking comfort that long ago, in the kitchen surrounded by his pet tools of trade; cooking pans and ladles. For leaving, the wrongs that he liberally gave himself of are returning full circle to hound him. Riding on the back of the Genocide against the Tutsi to lie his way into Hollywood, there to be mal-manufactured into a hero, knowing the crimes he committed against those innocents in l’Hôtel des Mille Collines is bad enough. Lucky for the fake hero, Rwanda, having bent over backwards for even worse, has left those wrongdoings out of his charge sheet. If at all he has a heart, it should be gored by that alone: the wrongs wrought on innocent souls. The innocents he turned away for inability to pay and swell his pockets, only to be hacked to death by the bloodthirsty interahamwe at the gates. Those he shut off to the food stores, for having exhausted their funds. They resorted to drinking swimming pool stale-chlorine water, and poor souls, how many survived? The ex-FAR and arch-génocidaires he held court with every evening in the hotel, who mapped out all those for eventual execution, if the resident peacekeepers were to leave the hotel. The international telephone line he cut, well knowing it was the only lifeline for his hapless hostages to the outside world for any possible intervention. Even if, lest we forget, this world was not lacking in knowledge of the situation, if it’d had the will. And so he cooked his way into American hearts after his thieving self and hangers-on had been put to flight by the RPF and resumed his attained robbing trade. Naïve Americans cooed over this mal-manufactured “humanitarian hero” and emptied their unlucky pockets to this fraud. ‘Rusesa-whatever’ was so big that he thought he was larger than life; much larger than Rwanda. Now he had the US dollar bags to throw around and finance killer terrorists to bring death to bear on Rwandans, like sundry other terrorists had tried before them. But wreck property; burn an item; spill little blood of a Rwandan today and the line is drawn. If you make it back across the border, you can be sure there’ll be no place for you to hide in this whole wide world. Terrorists and genocide glorifiers all, if you are not lucky enough to dial the “wrong number” and enjoy the can here, you’ll be falling like dominoes, in whatever nook you’ll be hiding. One Ndereyehe may be out of the temperate can today but, bet on it, he ain’t breathing easy. The ailing ex-RTLM co-doyen in another boiling can knows best how it’s the end of the tether. That’s to mention but two out of others in Africa, Europe and the Americas. “It’s only a matter of time,” the voice and face of Rwandan sobriety has said. The bottom line is, that time has come. Death-mongering Rwandans, it’s time to pay up. The ides of the season are here.