“Man, it’s me Jose, open,” he said. He recognised his voice after a while and told him that he thought it was his ghost because they knew he had been killed during the Nyabugogo battle. As soon as Rutaremara opened the door he made a loud cry of joy. He thought Gahima had joined his great parents who died thousands of years ago. He stared at him in silence and amazement. He could not believe his eyes. He eventually struggled with his tongue to talk to him. He hugged him several times but all appearing like a midnight dream. “Wh…wha…what… happened to your arm?” Rutaremara asked. “Man! It is a long story but I lost it,” he answered. Indeed, the moment was characterised by joy and sorrow. He served him with goat meat, opium and a glassful of kanyanga (a local gin). “What about the gun?” Rutaremara asked. Gahima narrated the whole story. His host told him they were likely to shake down the entire village that very night to look for him and the gun. Remera-Giporoso was just one kilometre from the military hospital. The village was a famous hideout for all kinds of criminals. It was a home for drug traffickers, robbers, harlots, illegal immigrants, thugs and murderers. Rutaremara had been in the world of crime for more than fifteen years. After studying the situation, he suggested that they set off for Kibuye. Kibuye is the biggest city in western Rwanda. It was three o’clock in the morning. They had to brave the coldness or else they were going to be arrested. “There is ‘mulo’ these days,” he said as he parked the bag. ‘mulo’ was the word they used to mean business. Rutaremara had Frw1m and a camel (motorcycle) in his house. During the day he would pretend to be a commercial motorcyclist. When he carried a passenger with lots of money, he would signal Gahima’s gang and they rob him or her of the money. At three thirty they started out their journey. They agreed that anybody, be it a civilian or ‘hyena’ who dared to stop them would simply be applying for death. Rutaremara had five magazines. Ends
