It’s Friday evening. I have a date with my friend. Also, a former colleague. A pure sweetheart. I planned the date because I miss her. I recently changed jobs and haven’t spent time with her in a while. I hate change, so I need a sense of familiarity. And to be honest, spending time with her is always a treat. I don’t think much about the activity, I just go for the usual. Whenever I want to do something chill — alone or with a friend — I either go to Canal Olympia or attend an artistic event (just any of the numerous intimate events that happen in Kigali almost every day). L’Institut français it is tonight. The conversation this evening is about the story of Nyagakecuru and the impressive work Guillaume Sardin has done on it. We get there a bit late. For some reason, it seems like they waited for us. The second we sit down, the conversation starts. A relaxed, informative round table conversation with Dolph Banza, who talks about drawing inspiration from our culture and keeps coming back to geometry and le savoir-faire of traditional artisans. Assumpta Mugiraneza from Centre Iriba who discusses the place of the plants and the whole environment in that story, the power of a woman in ancient Rwanda, and the diminutive suffixes and prefixes we use in our language that are hard to translate, and so on. Natacha Muziramakenga, who — having grown up in a different culture, with a different language, and having had to learn Kinyarwanda as an adult — explores how language affects art and communication. And Guillaume discusses his background in architecture, how he shifted from architecture to arts, and how the story of Nyagakecuru (a name he has difficulty pronouncing) has marked him. My friend asks the last question. She wants to know the story of Nyagakecuru and why it matters. Assumpta generously takes her through that story. As she narrates it, I realise I had forgotten it. Although up until that point, I could have sworn I knew it. One week prior A calm day at the office. A colleague comes back from the floor above. He comes with snacks — dried fruits from Mozambique. Very addictive. We ask him how he got those unusual snacks. He says he promised something in return to get them. A book with Gatwa le potier’s poem. An office full of Gen Z, no one knows what he is talking about. No one apart from me. I am shocked to discover that I can still recite the poem from the heart because I learned about it in high school. Like Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. We read, reread, broke down each sentence until we naturally memorised the texts. Four weeks later Sunday evening. I am home, I am on Substack (my evening ritual). I am reading Elif Shafak. I am always in awe of her storytelling and how she has this ability to transport me to Istanbul, even though I have never been. I think about how refreshing her storytelling is. Even when she is writing about sad and complex topics — like world injustices — I still find her stories grounding. Because she is telling stories that matter. Stories from another land. A land I have never visited and never particularly paid attention to. Up until I came across her writings. She makes me want to go there, at least once. I put my phone down. Just as I drift off to sleep, I reflect on the myriads of stories that exist in the World. Stories that we have heard a million times until we memorised them. Stories we once knew but have forgotten. Stories that have never been told. African stories that have been claimed and colonised. Or stories that have been twisted by narrators with sinister intentions — made up versions that, after being repeated many times, have been mistaken for facts. Like the story of Congolese Tutsi that Congolese politicians have completely changed. Tshisekedi says, “Banyamulenge are not persecuted in Congo. I, myself, have emphasized the need for unity... Rwanda uses that as a pretext.” At the same time, Banyamulenge have been fleeing that land because they were being persecuted, killed, burned — or worse — eaten, for decades. There is no Western country that doesn’t have Banyamulenge refugees. So, if they are at peace in DR Congo, why and what have they been running away from? Why do all countries in the World know their problem so well that they give them asylum almost automatically? Let’s indulge the idea that the politics suddenly changed (they haven’t) and that Congolese politicians preach unity now (quite the opposite), why haven’t we heard Tshisekedi or any Congolese official talking about repatriation? We have heard a hundred versions of this twisted story. We know they are not accurate. These versions are so mediocre that they can’t even be called fiction. Those who benefit from the instability have crafted a narrative that is very easy to grasp and remember. Man-made stories that keep changing and have many holes in them. It’s shocking to an informed ear. But people from foreign lands believe them. To be fair, those are probably the first stories they have come across about the Banyamulenge. The first stories from Eastern DR Congo. This is why stories matter. Even made up versions. They matter even more when they are from the source. I, for one, love that I have heard and read at least around a hundred stories from Eastern DR Congo in the past few months. Some about the culture, about their land, about growing up in refugee camps in different countries, about dreams of going back home, about leaders who don’t even carry a hundredth of the responsibilities they should the second they hold power. I know there will be more in the coming days, weeks, months, and years. Sadly, those who choose to share their stories become targets on social media, like Joy Rugaruza. But the message still reaches far. We are listening. They are listening. And we will keep listening. Because real stories matter.
