Film-makers should always respect the subjects of their stories

When your travel ambitions ‘collide’ with more pressing needs, you cede, sit down and occupy yourself by lazing around. It was while I was thus lazing around during my holiday last December that I chanced upon this captivating story in the film, The Queen of Katwe.

It’s set mainly in Kampala’s slum area, Katwe, which was made famous in the days of Idi Amin Dada. The story is the usual rags-to-riches kind, and lately we’ve seen many a similar offering, say the India-based Slumdog Millionaire, but in a way Katwe so pulled at my heartstrings as no other Cinderella-genre sort of story had done.

It’s not the story line that gets to you, of a slums girl realizing her dream of making it among the chess grandmasters of the world. Nor is it that, if you are an old-timer, you’ll necessarily identify with the Idi Amin era just because you lived in Kampala during his time and partook of “Radio Katwe news”, the rumour mill that was more relied upon than official news.

Personally, it’s when I thought back to other films I’ve seen that were based on reality, and that should have touched me but didn’t, that I saw its real attraction.
The first one was Gorillas in the Mist, a story about famous conservationist Dian Fossey and her life among our very own gorillas. Her death at the hands of a government that should have lionized her for her work but didn’t because it had no direction should surely be touching.

But imagine it. One of the locals, as portrayed in the film, called out to a fellow local: “Aterere! Nũmwũnire?”

On hearing the language spoken, the Kenyan friends I was with laughed me out of the cinema hall!

That was in the 1980s when I lived in Kenya and I’d just explained to some Kenyan friends that the animals they were calling baboons were actually gorillas of Rwanda, where Dian Fossey had lived. The irony was that those portrayed as locals were speaking Kikuyu, one of a number of Kenyan languages. It still shames me to recall.

Then there was Hotel Rwanda. The story was going according to the reality of what took place inside Hôtel des Mille Collines – minus the hoax of a hero it was based on, who had duped the film’s producers – until the scene moved to a taxi park, supposedly downtown Kigali.

Instead of the familiar ‘Twegerane’ (Kigali’s minibus commuter-taxis) with their green dotted-line bands of the time, the minibuses were spotting unbroken yellow bands. That and the language spoken in the crowd betrayed the fact that the scene had been taken in South Africa.

Combined with the fake on whom the story is based, a fake who had actually used the chance of managing the hotel to collaborate with the génocidaires in their gory enterprise, you can imagine what the film did, and still does, to the feelings of the survivors of that hell.

A weighty subject like the Genocide against the Tutsi, a vile occurrence of the century, treated so casually? What’s the essence of film making if it’s not that it should be faithful to its subject?

We know that these American and European film companies are flush with funds. And we have seen how they are ready to deploy them to get the facts behind their stories. Why do they sometimes entertain this amateurish oversight, if at all it’s an oversight?

In The Queen of Katwe, what is truly delightful is the way life in Kampala and the exact conditions the hero of the story lived in are captured and shown to a minute but correct detail.

You see Nakivubo Channel with its dirt-choked waters; sufurias packed beyond their rims with banana-leaf-wrapped matoke; humanity swarming around minibus-taxis that so easily ‘dig’ a route through and around them; et al. You lose yourself in the life of the area if you’ve been there or, if you haven’t, instantly recognize it when later you visit.

But what’s most convincing about a story probably are the people who tell it; their common mannerisms and their language.

And so in Kampala, where Luganda dominates other local languages, in the film you hear that language often or hear it mixed with their English, which is invariably peppered with that unique Ugandan accent that the actors convincingly affect. In fact, even their common mistakes in English are not ignored and so where a team beats another, you hear: “We won them!”

So, here in Rwanda, why don’t we demand an apology, in the form of remakes, over our vulgarized and abused stories? Is it impossible to get legal redress?

But then again, the way I see it is that there may be complications if, for instance, the producers of the two films were to ask for our assistance in the realisation of remakes. Where, in this Rwanda of today, can you get the primitive conditions of those days?

Still, the way respect has been accorded Queen of Katwe should inspire us to demand justice for Gorillas in the Mist. But as for Hotel Rwanda, may it go the way of those brute times!

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Are Rwandans in Kigali finally turning into urbanites?

My, how time flies! Whoever coined this phrase didn’t know the half of it.

Tell me, isn’t 1994 only the other day, when some of us were emerging from a 35-year hibernation of exile and gingerly treading onto this place that was called La Ville de Kigali? And, at the hearing of which, you looked around and saw nothing ‘ville’ (city) about a scattering of villages?

Whereupon you concluded: in this corner of the earth, a ‘city’ is defined by many hills dotted with few, solitary buildings.

Because, remember, on the many hills, as you see today, were buildings like the incomplete Kwa Kabuga, which still stands today, albeit with a massive haul-over. Then there was Hôtel des Mille Collines whose facelift hasn’t been much in the way of ‘lifting’.

There was the Central Bank, BNR, today more or less in its original form, and Telecom House, both buildings holding their own as good architectural pieces.
Unfortunately, the bizarre leadership of the day was such that the architect of the latter two sole buildings that were reasonably good was hunted down like a common criminal and killed simply for being who he was. But shank the barbarous leadership!

There were hotels Diplomate (now gone), Merdien (current Umubano), Chez Lando (hauled over) and that was about all, save for motley heaps of brick-and-iron semblances of buildings housing government offices and a post office.

If you’ve seen a 1918 photo of Quartier Comerciale (Kigali’s business district), where loin-clothed ‘Kigalois’ tended herds of goats in between attending to their grass-and-wattle ‘shops’, you’ll admit time seemed not to have budged an inch between then and 1994, as opposed to after.

However, if the hills of Kigali showed that they were villages, the residents went beyond that to conduct themselves in ways only attributable to villagers of the Stone Age. This was most demonstrably evident during your journeys around ‘town’, especially in the few minibus commuter-taxis that rattled on dust roads as they plied the area.

Say you are sitting at the window to catch some fresh air and, inevitably, some dust, from the many avocado trees along the roadsides……..

Those trees. You’ll remember that they were ostensibly planted to ‘feed’ residents while they roasted in the sun or drenched in the rain, waiting to cheer the then country’s president on his triumphal journeys out of, or back into, Kigali.

“Triumphal” because those days all business, including schools, came to a standstill as everybody was out to line along the road whenever the country’s head travelled.

On such occasions when avocados were in season, people happily munched and chanted as they waited for the “Omnipotent who had defied all gnawers” (Ikinani cyananiye abagugunnyi) to pass. Moving on the road alone was headline news, not the quiet affair of today. As for jostling for a lane with him on the road, blasphemy of blasphemies! But we digress……..

We were talking about you, ensconced in the back at the window in the commuter taxi, with no apparent vacant space next to you. Even then, woe betide thee if you were not a smoker, for a passenger was literally ‘grafted’ onto you and the passenger next to you. And this new loudmouthed arrival did not think twice about blowing all of their reeking traditional smoking-pipe fumes in your face, as he puffed away.

The loudmouth would have entered with a younger, more ‘civilized’ cigarette-smoking friend, who would be ‘folded in two’ , standing at the front, all the seats having been taken.

After briefly breaking their chattering with “Mwaramutse/Mwiriwe” they’d resume their conversation, raising their voices to hear each other over the din already in the taxi: “…So, like Rukuba, you remember how yesterday the man had zoned off part of his food so that nobody could touch it…”

At that point the whole taxi went dead silent, as everybody picked interest in the story. And the story-teller would warm up to that, clear his phlegm and spit through the window, narrowly missing you, then ceremoniously resume: “…When he came back to see that his food had been touched, it was the first and second world wars both combined. Hahaha!”

Poor you, everybody joined him in his burst of laughter at his inane joke while you bled with disgust inside but what could you do? Those were the times.

So, when this is where you are coming from, it’s interesting to sit and observe life in Kigali today and, especially, the conduct of the commuter.

An elder who shouts “Haroh!” in his phone will receive combined looks that will literally drill holes into his skull. In any case, with everybody silently bent over their laptop, tablet, smart or ordinary phone, etc, as if in prayer, who dares breathe into that gadget?

Gone are the obnoxious cigarette and pipe smoke everywhere; the phlegm tossed out at will; the answering of the call of nature everywhere; generally the dirt, disorder and darkness. The Kigali resident has mutated into an urbanite.

Of course, occasionally there are those of us still seized in our old village-bumpkin ways of the 1950s, rekindled in 1994, who may impulsively ‘answer that call’. But it’s enough that it touches off a national concern. Maybe it serves to push our planners to consider multiplying these so-far mean public conveniences!

Otherwise, that this place is in so short a time an emerging metropolis is nothing short of a miracle. Truly, time flies!

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May 2017 herald the end to aid dependency!

Today’s few remnants of gloaters at the misfortunes of this country must have laughed their scornful heads off a few days ago, on hearing this call: “We should resolve to set a deadline…[when we]…will no longer be waiting for what others hand out to us.”

But so did a murderous cabal of compatriots and their foreign backers twenty-six years ago, when they heard a call to this effect: “Tutakomboa nchi yetu. Inatubidi tu tuwe na uamuzi na nidhamu”. Roughly translated, with determination and discipline, we shall liberate our country.

Such a call made in 1990 sounded ever so much more hollow, of course, considering it was made to a tiny guerrilla group trying to get a foothold on the surface of a homeland they’d long been denied. With a world that was totally indifferent to their plight from the 1950s-60s, they’d been left to roam the earth, mocked and ridiculed wherever they went.

When theirs had always been a thin line of survival then, how could they dare talk about liberation?

After over 30 years of this borderline survival, however, they were determined to claim their rightful place in the future of their country, knowing their compatriots within it were not faring any better, either. All of which meant that the struggle’s intent was to coalesce Rwandans around a common cause that could see them reclaim their destiny.

Alas, having resorted to forceful self-repatriation after all other options had failed, the group was repulsed with such force that they were almost wiped out.

Their determination could not match the countering force mounted by practically all African Francophone armies, led from the front by France, all backing the regime of the time. It was all the group could do, to pull themselves together again.

Still, they’d survived the overwhelming lashing and could live to fight another day.

And, indeed, the Rwanda Patriotic Front and its fighting guerrilla wing (RPF/A) did not only survive but was growing into an ordered, strong organization that was quickly earning diplomatic clout, as it took over more territory, when again the shock hit them whack in the face.

They were ‘punished’ with the hitherto unfathomed apocalyptic horror of horrors, the Genocide against the Tutsi, even as success was in their sights.

How the ruling clique could punish what it called ‘foreigners’ by eliminating a section of its own people, right inside the country, no one among the regime’s supporters and in the wider world cared to ponder.

For the RPF/A, it was a stack reminder, if any was needed, that no one cared for Rwandans but they themselves, unless maybe it was in internecine annihilation. And that gave them the burst of energy to rise and halt the horror.

From there, the RPF went on to remove the whole genocidal machinery from the surface and system of this land to post an epic feat of survival.

Discipline, determination and right had triumphed over arrogance, greed and might.

Nevertheless, a nation does not live on battleground success alone, however sterling.

The new RPF government, saddled with a devastated economy and the herculean task of uniting their people, had a whole population to sustain. It had no alternative, therefore, but to swallow its hard-earned pride and turn to donors and foreign NGOs.

Talk about handouts! Donors and their NGOs came out in droves to dole out ‘gifts’ and made sure to make the fact abundantly clear.

So, everything was emblazoned with the name of every Santa Claus bearing a gift in wide, glossy letters. “Gift of the US”, complete with that ‘multiracial’ handshake. “Don de la Belgique”, with its country’s royal court of arms – but without mention of its perennially shaky governments!……

The gifts came in form of a motor vehicle for a government official here; sacks of rice, maize meal, beans, etcetera, there; tins of cooking oil; discarded jerry-cans for fetching water; name it.

I even remember seeing tin-cups, used to pick rations for individual families from those sacks, which were marked “Regalo dell’Italia” or “δώρο της Ελλάδα”. Come to think of it, shouldn’t Rwanda think reciprocity today, seeing the economic doldrums Italy and Greece are in?

That, however, is for the birds. What’s for real, the government was fed up with this donor and NGO ‘magnanimity’ and booted out most of the NGOs, even before a year was out.

Now, from total dependence to accepting about 30% donor assistance today, isn’t it a feat to beat other feats?

But 1995 isn’t where it all began. It was the end of one lap and beginning of another, in a succession of laps of a journey that will end when, finally, Rwandans can sit among prosperous societies as equals. That’s the meaning of that sworn “ukombozi”, liberation.

A pipedream? To pick one sentence from Habyarimana Joseph’s lengthy delivery: “Haki ya Mungu, with our leadership that’s the envy of the region, as my neighbours never tire to tell me, there is no height we cannot scale!”

Joseph is a villager in the remotest village of remote Rusizi District, at the border with D.R. Congo. He was speaking at Umushyikirano2016, in the ultra modern Kigali Convention Centre.

Methinks the story of this land is being written in the village. Indeed, the transformative power of good leadership should not be underestimated. The journey so far is testimony.

May 2017 be the harbinger to beckoning aid-less days to come!

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When will service providers know that our lives and rights matter?

Published on 14th December 2016

Many people have bemoaned the shoddiness of the service delivery in this land and none can tell the reason for it. Is it incompetence, laziness, carelessness, arrogance or a combination of these and more?

Personally, I am simply baffled by how this shoddiness manifests itself in some professionals.

Take the Health Sector. A month ago when a brother who was feeling feverish went to a doctor at a hospital of high standing here in Kigali, the doctor glanced at him and dismissed his affliction as “stress” and prescribed some tablets.

The brother, seeing as the doctor had not checked anything, thought to seek another opinion. Because after all, when you go to a doctor, don’t you expect him to check your temperature, blood pressure, heart rate – the routine – as the first thing?
Even a witchdoctor asks some preliminary questions before making a ‘diagnosis’, surely!

So, the brother went to this simple clinic on KG 169 Street. When the doctor looked at him, he exclaimed: “Don’t say you came on your own!” And immediately put him on the examination table. After elaborate tests he found the brother had a deadly malarial infection in his blood that’d probably have cost him his life!

Considering that the doctor singlehandedly oversees this clinic that can cater for as many as twenty inpatients at a time, can you imagine the difference a little effort can make?

That “little effort”, however, seems to be an insurmountable task to some officials. There is this big referral hospital that the government, on its overstretched budgets, has over time turned around. From an asbestos-roofing death-trap in 1994, the hospital has become a well-equipped, simple but clean establishment – apparently.

“Apparently” because even I, fit as I was (save me derisive chuckles!), was scared to near-death when I saw its Intensive Care Unit (ICU). I was petrified by the threat of getting some infection from the uncontrolled crowd around the patients, during visiting hours. A desolate, half-empty bottle of hand-washing disinfectant is the only deterrent to passing our own diseases to the prostrate patients. No headdress, no nose-mouth-covering mask, no removing shoes, no nothing.

Well, that was not necessarily the reason a nephew didn’t see the light of next day but some measure of hygiene can go a long way in mollifying bereaved souls.

All the aforementioned, however, pale in comparison to the dangerous negligence of some health officials in our villages. And it suffices to recall the case of the woman who, after a caesarean section, was left with scissors and cotton buried in her. Pray, can you wrap your mind around the reason for such terrifying negligence?

Even in India they know that hospitals are hallowed places where hygiene is king and where only the best and most dedicated in the health profession dare to tread.

This, even when reaching that hospital means fighting your way through beggars tagging at you; men answering the call of nature all over; motorists-cyclists conspiring to burst your eardrums…… With all due respect to my Indian bosom buddies, one of whom,if it were not for him, I wouldn’t be walking upright today.

So, anyways, in this clean environment that’s Rwanda, what gives, with some service providers?

Luckily, these bad apples are only few, even if, unfortunately, they are spread across all sectors, not only in Health.

Maybe they should all be regularly inducted in our national Itorero Programme. A pep talk on the values of patriotism and ‘ubupfura’ (dedication to virtues), as practiced in our old tradition, may make them see the sense in “doing unto others as they would have them do unto them”.

But that assumes that the Intore (cadres in Itorero) in charge of these programmes are themselves ‘shyashya’ (any less blame-worthy). Going by the complaints about this year’s last Itorero, sometimes the conditions those programmes are conducted in are an insult to those very values.

Other complaints aside, in this land that’s on the world’s lips for its fastidiousness, where from does an organiser get a venue with bedbugs? And to think that the venue plays host to our sons and daughters during school time! Which, in the first place, should tell an Intore instructor a thing about where to begin with their inductions, if not with self!

All in all, these ‘bad apples’ in Health, Infrastructure, Education, Itorero and sundry other areas, do they pause to remember where we are coming from?

This country is where she is today because Rwandans came together to rescue her from being sunk into the abyss by deranged compatriots. The leadership and the populace, working in unison, marshalled their energies to pull her out of the barbarity of yesteryears, turn her around and place her on the path to civilization.

Now it’s even reported that these ‘don’t-cares’ and self-seekers are becoming so audacious as to swindle this no-nonsense-corruption-wise government out of millions of dollars?

No, the sanctity of a Rwandan’s life will never be violated in any way, ever again.

The sword of justice will come down mightily upon they who think otherwise.

And as the bearer of that sword hasn’t slept a wink since setting off to lead that rescue mission, so is he not about to, in these malfeasants’ life time.

Self-seekers and ‘gross-indifferent’, stand warned!

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Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the best, and with only a little effort

If you have not been in some backstreets of Kigali, where disorder may still be waging a battle to keep residents in ‘garbage bondage’, you’ve started to take cleanliness in other streets for granted.

Sure, you may be telling yourself that if there is still any battle at all, it’s a losing one.

Even then, what you may not know is that even as those streets lose that ‘back’, where you think you’ve seen the pinnacle of cleanliness, soon it may be a thing of the past.

So unrelenting is the continuum of change. In this land, no top seems to be high enough.

Maybe you’ve watched these two videos that have been doing the rounds on social media. If you haven’t, you should. They both show the city-centre—airport street, one in 2004 and the other, mid this year.

The green medians, tiled sidewalks and leafy roadsides that did not exist in 2004, despite concerted cleaning and greening, what a world of a difference!

So, what beauty was I crooning about in 2004? Which tells you this: as you celebrate, always be mindful that this country may not yet be done, springing surprises.

As we talk, the Kigali landscape is graced with Kigali Convention Centre and Radisson Blu, Kigali Heights, Marriot Hotel, Ubumwe Hotel, new housing estates and individual residential houses, etc, that mid-year Kigali may not have reckoned were in the works.

As to the new green roundabouts, greening being my arch interest, I add, once again, my plea for outer ring roads. Concentric rings that will hold those roundabouts, concretes, gardens, etc, in their embrace with the last one hugging the city, for highways to feed into.

And to that plea, I add another for artificial lakes to enhance the beauty of these untamed swamps.

It’s all doable. After all, who would have guessed that that ugly rocky wall at Sopetrad would have leafy plants clinging onto it today? Not to mention the ubiquitous wonder bricks, on sloping roadsides, from which spring plants that regularly break out into joyous flowers.

For, is foreigners’ admiration of Rwanda’s beauty over glass or concrete constructions? Nay, such eyesores are myriad in other places and what charms them is an orderly, clean, green and healthy environment, when we are a country of modest means. They are fascinated by these lines of flowers that decorate the whole road network of the country.

Interestingly, the 12-year space between those youtubes is donkey years, going by the speed of this beautification. The transformation in some areas, especially Kigali, is at such a dizzying speed that there are areas you will not recognise if you’ve not visited for a week.

Take me, self-confessed connoisseur of everything green and outdoor, always seized, as I am, in a strong urge to check out the Kigali landscape every few days and that of the countryside every few months, for I pride myself in being up to the minute in keeping tabs on any positive change.

Yet even I was caught flat-footed when recently I visited the ‘1930 Prison’ side of Kigali, only to find a breezy city, called Down-Town, where the other day there was savannah-land that was home to ramshackle ‘uniport’ shacks housing our “gendarmerie” (police).

In place of those ‘uniports’ has sprouted a spacious centre that brings to mind Johannesburg’s suburban city of Santon and its outlying estates.

The shopping centres of those estates in Santon and their extensive, verdant parking areas are a feast for the eyes. But, alas, considering the direction South Africa seems to be headed, that order and its heavenly cities may not be here for long.

South Africa wouldn’t be the first to see its top-notch cities crumble. Next door, in Zimbabwe, when Mugabe took over the reins of power, he unleashed a destructive machine that has all but ground Zimbabwe to a halt.

Harare, once a crown jewel among African cities, today is in a steep plunge-into-hell effort the reversal of which will prove a complex puzzle to his unfortunate heir.

Nearer home, the beautiful lakeside city of Burundi’s Bujumbura seems to be quickly drowning in filthy Lake Tanganyika, on whose formerly sandy shores it sits.

To the north, D.R. Congo’s capital, Kinshasa, once a sparkling star, and Bukavu nearer to our west that was known as ‘Petite City of Colours’, may soon give up on pretensions of being cities.

In their glorious days, their beauty was only surpassed by Côte d’Ivoire’s Abidjan, known then as African capital of art and fashion. But for it, too, that was then. Today it scrapes by, but just.

To our east, we all remember how in the 1970s our craving of a lifetime was visiting the mystic Green City in the Sun, Nairobi, and the City of Lights, Kampala.

A few years ago, when I revisited Nairobi and looked at how Kenya’s disorderly construction craze was threatening to swallow up its city’s spaces, my heart sank.

And a few weeks ago a walk on Kampala Road during Carnival Day threw me back to 1979, when bullets whizzed over our heads as we chanted “Twagala Lule oba tufa tufe!” Today’s bedlam of litter, roasting meat, muddy water, disorderly constructions, eardrum-splitting music…

But, being resilient, the two cities may be down but never will they be out.

Down or not, though, is it impossible to at least maintain, if not improve on, what the colonialist left?

Thank you, researcher Bernard Sabiti, for showing me that Rwanda, despite starting from scratch, is leading the way in demonstrating this: we can stand shoulder to shoulder with the best.

As President Kagame has put it, “To clean our compounds, do we need donors’ assistance?”

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The expression ‘Manna from Heaven’ takes on reality flesh in Rwanda

The launch early this month of unmanned aircraft to deliver life-saving medical supplies may not have raised ripples but I think it was remarkable. If the drones can save one life – and word is that the one already launched is giving a good account of itself – where the life would be lost with time-consuming land transport, that alone would be significant.

But if no other country has adopted the use of these drones for such services, it’s not that none needs them. Is it for fear of venturing into the unknown? Did anyone burn their fingers using them? Or have the drones proved to be ineffective?

Of course we know how the US government has used its infamous drones to advantage, blowing the daylights out of its real and perceived enemies of the world, especially the Arab World.

We know they are picking out the Al Qaeda, terrorist by terrorist, even if once a terrorist is liquidated in one place, another solidifies in another, signifying need for another approach.

Which latter, of course, is not the reason for the story that’s told of an American who tried to use a drone in his country.

He was met with an inexplicably prickly wall when his drone espied a sludge emanating from a factory and he tried to publicise the ‘eureka’. The small individual realised, to his grief, that in this democracy that owes its robustness to deep pockets, you don’t go snooping around the source of that wealth, however committed an environmentalist.

But our self-professed democracy had burnt its fingers, nonetheless.

You’ll also remember these see-alls (drones) that were brought to Goma by the UN to help it and the DR Congo government pacify the Kivu provinces but, especially, to scare off a stubborn country that would not look away while they were ‘pacifying’ a rich neighbour, a feat that had eluded them for eons.

The endeavour has continued to elude them as those snoopers mysteriously split into a thousand pieces trying to lift off, leaving the humungous UN mining….sorry, fighting….force to freely demonstrate that if the Congolese people were not willing to be liberated, the stones in their mines were not equally averse to the UN’s kind concern.

But whoever paid for those drones realised, to their embarrassment, that some giants (remember MONUSCO?) do not always necessarily take kindly to unsolicited assistance!

So, when the big boys don’t want these nosy busybodies, where does tiny Rwanda get the audacity from, to navigate uncharted waters? Or, if charted, to open her skies to these modern-day pigeons whose range of uses may be unknown to her?

The answer to that, search me, but I know one thing for a fact. This country’s government as we see it today was conceived and delivered under menacing skies and long ago learnt to thrive and turn such adversity into boon, whatever swords of Damocles hanging over its head.

To take you back, remember when a ragtag force by the name ‘Rwanda Patriotic Front/Army’ (RPF/A) attacked northern Rwanda in now-distant 1990?

Literally from that 1st October, French jet fighters, backing the then-government ‘Force Armée du Rwanda’ and a coalition of African Francophone forces, kept the tiny RPF/A force under a daily hail of bombs for all the four years that it was in the trenches.

When everybody thought it was good and gone, the force momentarily stumbled but rose, thanks to that ingrained conviction that it could manipulate adversity for positive effect.

From there, it turned phantom and coalesced into a formidable force that, after those four years, routed the whole collection of bomb-raining super-power and all its ‘running minions’.

The super-power was left to “cling on the plane”, repetitively crying: “Investigate the Habyarimana crash!” Flogging this dead horse for redemption, however, is like hoping to be pulled out of the cesspool depository of génocidaires the power is in, by clawing at straws.

Even then, expect the tempo of the comedy to rise, what with the erstwhile Francophone ‘minions’ coming to Rwanda in droves, for inspiration.

And the rest is not history, even if the super-power may be; nay, it’s only the beginning.

The beginning because “…we chose to stay together…to be accountable…to think big…”

That’s how, when that plane crash became an excuse (not ‘trigger’) to effect the long-planned Genocide against the Tutsi, the RPF put a halt to the genocide and united all Rwandans into a force (no revenge) that would strive to give flesh to the mythical “manna from Heaven”. (Heaven not being up but all around us, as the world is not flat – i.e. the following are not all from up).

So, this government has emboldened Rwanda to be first in the world to jump on the big idea of openly using drones to drop medicine to the masses; to be first in extracting methane gas from water and it comes down from poles as electricity; proffering universal medical insurance; enabling women to claim their rightful place; pulling court system from old tradition to deliver justice, et al.

And so, all ye ‘guys’, shy not away from celebration: these drones will deliver!

The world is taking note, too. Want anything done pronto? Turn to action-man/woman, Rwanda. Want cumbersome AU reformed; the intractable Montreal Protocol amendment signed?

Reminds you of this song: “Ibanga Abanyarwanda tugendana……” Nay, Rwandans, your secret is out!

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The 21st-century tourist will be a hard nut to attract

In southern USA, between the states of Tennessee and North Carolina, there is a short stretch of road that has become a sensation among Americans, and bagged ‘bags’ of money for residents of the area in the process, for exactly not being a stretch!

It’s said to be an 11-mile long road of “hairpins, blind cutbacks and cloverleaves” that had always been there without attracting attention until a motorcyclist decided these turns and twists, all 318 of them, posed an interesting challenge and let out the ‘secret’.

Today, the road, nicknamed ‘The Dragon’, has become the never-miss destination of motorcyclists, car enthusiasts and all who have an adventurous or curious spirit, money to spare and time for an outing. Residents of the area are said to be laughing all the way to the bank.

Bankers, health providers, hoteliers, restaurateurs, those who sell curios, artifacts, photos, name them – maybe even sim-card sellers and battery-chargers? – are harvesting dollars (not “deplorables”!) by the basketfuls.

Now, if you ask me, that’s exactly what the doctor…..er, the economist?….ordered for this Land of a Thousand Hills.

For this is not only the land of a thousand hills but also of over eleven million souls eager to be free and weaned off the pittance of donor handouts. These souls need to lure money spenders to this land, and remember to give back money’s worth, if they are to finally sustain themselves.

Lacking in natural resources, we have to borrow a leaf (as suggested elsewhere before) from out-of-the-box thinker countries and places that are rich without being overly resourced. Only then can we wean ourselves off dependence on others’ taxes and stand tall, our dignity fully intact.

There are many ‘leaves’ we can borrow from many countries and places.

For instance, the leaf we can borrow from ‘The Dragon’ is that of projecting ourselves as ‘Adventureland’; Disneyland for the old, so to say.

What many people don’t know is that ‘The Land of a Thousand Hills’ is a gross understatement!

Strictly speaking, this is the land of almost as many as 12 million hills, the number of the souls who call it home. The veracity of this is borne out by the fact that our ancestors used to say that every Rwandan had their own hill, such that “Agasozi ka Nyira/Kanaka” was a common point of reference for directions.

These many hills, then, imagine how many turns and twists you can put on them, Karongi and Musanze roads being good indicators.

Adventure, however, cannot be hand-in-glove with smoothness and comfort, which is what asphalt-covered roads mean.

That’s where, once again, we can borrow a leaf from the East African Safari Rally of yore. Those who remember that car rally season will remember the clouds of dust and splashes of muddy waters associated with it. The death knell of the Safari Rally was sounded the moment many roads were covered with tarmac.

Considering how rugged and wild our innumerable hills are, it’d be no sweat etching out new rough tracks that will be hell in the dry season, worse in the wet!

Then, in the bargain, our Gorilla Rally and Tour du Rwanda can also learn to borrow an appropriate leaf, not simply that of being “rally”.

Which is not an indictment on Rwanda for not thinking out of the box for, if there was any clincher to so-thinking, Kwita Izina was brilliant it.

And, come to think of it, somebody in our neck of the woods may have borrowed a leaf from that, our baby gorilla naming ceremony.

You’ve probably heard the story. In Mamba Village, at the Kenyan coastal town of Mombasa, wedding bells will soon be tolling in nuptials that will attract the Guinness Book of Records.

Come December, the lucky groom, a 100-year-old, 1,000-kg crocodile named Big Daddy will be tying the knot to his two croc brides, 35-year-old Sasha and 40-year-old Salma. And don’t fret for good old bozo BD; he ain’t breaking no laws. Kenya legalized polygamy in 2014.

It’s said that crowds galore from every known corner of this globe are raring to descend on Mombasa, their money bags on their heads for the event!

If borrowed, this indeed was a good ‘leaf’ and should be a pointer to how many more ‘leaves’ Rwanda can continue to borrow, from herself and others. Lion cub naming ceremonies; wrestling matches between human and buffalo ‘matadors’; ‘skiing’ in the volcano mountains (not with skis); water skiing competitions…… Our youthful brains, those who have ears…..

All of which goes to show you this: gone are the days when all you needed to attract money were mountain gorillas; parks and their game; sandy, sunny beaches and their clear waters, et al.

We need to create more stories around luring money to this land, plus these clean, orderly and peaceful streets must be made to chip in and more loudly tell their story, too.

Well handled, money spenders can sound the death knell to the shackles of donor aid.

But, beware! Attracting the 21st century money spender will call for a whole new paradigm, adorned in a whole new sequence of continually renewed spins.

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