My friend Uwase had been out of town for three months. Every time we spoke, she said the same thing: “We are in a very remote village, and honestly, I’m not sure when I’ll be back in Kigali.” So on Sunday, November 30, two friends and I decided to check on her. We took an almost three-hour drive from Kigali to Nyanza, expecting nothing more than a simple visit to a friend serving her country in a rural area. We didn’t bring bread or smoothies, the kind she enjoys in the city. What we didn’t know was that this trip would turn us into some of the first Kigali residents to register for Rwanda’s long-awaited digital ID, thanks to our friend, who also happened to be an Approving Officer in the rollout. ALSO READ: Rwanda launches digital ID registration I have a background in Software Engineering which makes me naturally curious about emerging technologies, research trends, and where the world is headed. When Rwanda announced the digital ID pilot, I was intrigued but also skeptical. Internet speculation almost got the better of me. You’ve heard the theories: 666, the end of the world, humanity slipping into a dangerous digital age. I thought about all of it. But I’m practical by nature, and in the end, curiosity won. We arrived in Nyanza around 1:30 p.m. and hopped on a motor-cycle for a 15-minute ride to Groupe Scolaire Agati in Muyira Sector, where Uwase was stationed. What greeted us there was unexpected. ALSO READ: Digital ID: Nearly 1.5m enrolled, registration reaches Kigali The compound was packed—elderly men and women, young adults, babies strapped to their mothers’ backs, children running around. At the center of it all was a tireless team of digital ID registration officers, moving steadily through the crowd. As a journalist, my instinct kicked in immediately. I took pictures. We barely had time to greet our friend. There were too many people to serve, and a national technology to roll out. My friends and I decided to sit back, observe and eventually join the queue ourselves. The setup was spread across several classrooms. On the right, pre-enrollment officers received applicants and entered their details into the system. On the left were two photography stations, each equipped with a ring light, a mounted camera, a white backdrop, and devices that looked like virtual reality goggles. In the middle sat the group lead—our friend approving applications and directing people to the next stage. Then it was my turn I had forgotten my physical ID, but a scanned copy on my phone saved me. That was the first thing they asked for, along with my parents’ names. “You really look like your father,” one of the Pre-enrollment officers joked as he pulled up my details. He asked for my place of residence—sector, district, cell, village. I answered without thinking twice. My father always insisted we know this information; it’s practically in my bloodstream. Moments later, I received a message confirming that my pre-enrollment had been submitted successfully, complete with a request number. After approval, I was sent to the photography queue. Centering my head for the camera turned out to be harder than I expected. It kept tilting left and right. Eventually, we got it right. What stood out was that the photographer showed me the photo and asked if I was satisfied or wanted a retake. That small gesture mattered. During my physical ID registration years ago, you never saw your photo until the card arrived—sometimes to your shock. That alone explains why I’ve always wanted to change the picture on my physical ID, a frustration many people share. After the photo, I was handed what looked like VR goggles. My friend later explained that the device was AI-powered. I was instructed to wear it, position my face, and stare straight ahead until a red light appeared. For a brief moment, it felt like I was giving my face away. But I understood what was happening. The system was scanning my iris, facial structure, and biometric identity, ensuring no one could ever impersonate me. Technology, at its best. Next came fingerprint scanning—four fingers on each hand, then both thumbs. Finally, I was asked to sign. That moment stayed with me. When I registered for my physical ID, I was 16. I don’t remember signing anything. My ID arrived without a signature, just like those of most of my age mates. This time was different. My signature was captured and legally registered. It felt like I had just copyrighted and trademarked it. Before going through the process, I imagined the digital ID would work like logging into an app, with everyone having a personal portal. But standing there—surrounded by people of all ages and backgrounds—I realised how complex that would be. The system made sense when another message came in: “Your enrollment application has been approved successfully.” It included a number—my digital ID. The entire process was smooth, quick, and precise. It took 10 minutes or less. The team advised me not to lose the number. I’m hopeful I won’t—especially after losing my physical ID twice. That, perhaps, is the beauty of technology. What started as a simple visit to a friend became my first step into Rwanda’s digital future. As a tech lover, I couldn’t be happier. With digital ID registration now active in Kigali, the future is no longer something to watch from a distance. It’s something to take part in.
