Reflections on sunday : Rwandans have been abused, and how!

Human Rights activists might have us for breakfast one of these days, the way they are going on about “lack of breathing space”! Did I say “breathing space”? No, sorry, they call it “political space”! Confounded at all the hurly-burly raised by these organisations, I approached my trusted source of wisdom. Nyiragacecuru, my ‘font of traditional knowledge’, is an old lady known in my home area as the liberal dispenser of vital advice. “My son, Ingina,” says Nyiragacecuru, “Ba Rutuku are like that.” (For your information, improbable as it is, there are people who call me son, too!) Anyway, continues she, do they give any hint as to why they are unhappy? I explain that these activists are sad because political parties like ‘Inkingi’ and ‘The Green Party’, newspapers like ‘Umuseso’ and ‘Umuvugizi’, etc are being ‘stifled’. Nyiragakecuru picks his pipe and stuffs it with tobacco, puffs out a cloud of smoke and then gives a hearty laugh that sends tears down her cheeks. You know, son, she resumes, suddenly becoming serious, ba Rutuku of today just want to be like their ancestors. Eleven million Rwandans created their political space and are living happily together again as brothers and sisters and somebody says Rwandans have no “political space”? And that because they don’t accept abuses from three or four of their wayward compatriots? (For information, ba Rutuku [the Red Ones] recalls the term that Rwandans used to refer to White colonialists. Their tanned skin tended towards red rather than white, in contrast to their usually white or khaki clothes.) Anyway, Nyiragacecuru resumes, the arrival of the colonialist on the Rwandan soil saw the end of all respect and dignity for Banyarwanda. That is how some of them came to despise themselves and lost the bond that knitted them together. Son, I’ll tell you the story of Mwikarago, father to your brother in Parliament, Hon Nibishaka. Mwikarago was chief in this area, appointed by Rutuku (Red One) as a man of integrity. Yet, he was more known as the object of Rutuku’s kiboko (whip) than as a respected chief. You know, those days, chiefs used to be asked to bring Bahutu to work, say, on the private pyrethrum plantation of a Rutuku businessman. In a country where all were treated equally under the king, now those who were tall and owned big herds of cattle were chosen as Batutsi chiefs to rule over Bahutu so-called “tillers of the land”. Whenever Mwikarago was asked to bring a hundred Bahutu, which was the practice then, he used to pick a few Rwandans and confess that he had failed to identify who was a Muhutu or a Mututsi and only got a few who were most likely Bahutu. When Rutuku was told that, he became even redder, taking it for contempt, and ordered your uncle stripped naked. Then he was ordered to lie down and two of his people were given a kiboko each to both whip him until his bottom was bloody. After that, he was asked to pay a fine of an ox, which would be given to Congolese soldiers who were in charge of the sovereignty of Rwanda. The country did not have its own military force – another long story! But, son, you should know the case of your grandfather, Rwoganyanja. Rwoganyanja was chief in an area adjacent to Mwikarago’s but genuinely didn’t know how to count. Even those among his subjects who offered to help could not count beyond forty, which meant kiboko and an ox almost everyday. Your poor grand dad, it is said that was why he lost his sight at an early age. Similar cases were everywhere in Rwanda. And if you think that is the height of humiliation, listen to this. You know, Rwandan men had to pay poll tax but Rutuku’s dilemma was how to tell their age. Being illiterate, Rwandans could not tell when they were born. You could not rely on their appearance, either, since there were men who looked like boys. So, a Rutuku thought of a bright idea to beat that. Get your whip, take a Munyarwanda unawares and hit him behind the knee-cap. A mature man will not instinctively bend his knee, but an immature one will. Even that, though, was found to be unreliable after sometime. Then another Rutuku thought of a new method that involved getting the ‘stones under your manhood’, and putting them on a small, shallow bowl. If your balls filled the bowl, you were old enough to pay tax! And that is why Barera (Rwandans from the chilly slopes of Mount Muhabura) never used to pay poll tax. Uti how? Rutuku would line up all men side by side and then bring out his shallow bowl. Rutuku would look for the balls only to find creased skin clinging to the rest of the body -- so cold was the climate!And that is the end -- of the story, not of me (Si njye wahera, ……)! ingina2@yahoo.co.uk