It is said that a person's celebration days are only two: the wedding day and the day of death. I think the reason why these two days are highlighted is because they both bring people together from all corners—sometimes even those the celebrant doesn't know will attend. While I'm still alive, I have nothing to say about the day of my death, but one thing I'm sure of is that no one will speak ill of me. I've realized that in our culture, people fear offending the dead but have no problem offending the living. They fear spirits but don't care to understand their connection with those spirits while they're still alive, even though their tongues once falsely proclaimed eternal love for them.
Speaking of love, there is another important day in a person's life—the day love fills the heart and one person opens their mouth and says to another, "I love you." That phrase is always spoken in a calm voice. I've never heard it shouted or spoken in anger. When the other responds with, "I love you too," that day becomes extraordinary. A person's nature changes. Some go as far as changing their parents' religion or adopting a whole new culture just to please their lover. That phrase is music to the ears, it fills the heart, and it marks the beginning of a new journey. We often believe we're on the right path, led by hope alone, without really understanding what made our hearts accept that this love is true.
But when our friends and family ask, "Do you love him/her?" we confidently answer, "Yes."
The questions get harder when they ask, "Does he/she love you back?" Before answering, we pause, our minds going over every single thing that person did for us—searching for proof of love. After a while of thinking, we finally open our mouths to confirm or deny it.
Sometimes I sit alone and wonder what life would be like without love. It feels like an impossible question with no answer. But there's one thing my grandfather told me before he joined our ancestors. He said:
"Love is what begins life, and love is what ends life."
Now I understand he was right.
My name is Kalisa wa Ngoga, grandson of the Abega, nephew of the Abagesera. I'm thirty-nine years old. My parents are still alive, though I avoid meeting their eyes. Even though we live in the same world, I feel like a refugee—when they look for me, they never find me. Not because they are bad people—no, I was one of the lucky children. They gave me not only life, but a good life. We are four children, and we were all raised well and educated in good schools. As the firstborn, I had the privilege of following in my father's footsteps. He showed me every corner of life I would need if things ever got hard. And I never disappointed him. When I finished secondary school, he placed me in the family construction company. It was no secret—he was the one who sent me to study construction so I could take over the business.
My mother was thrilled, always telling me, "Be a man like your father."
Now, when I remember those words, I whisper in my heart, "Forgive me, Mother."
I don't know if she hears my inner voice.
My father and I used to attend many meetings. I met influential people because of him. I kept studying even while working—it was important if I was to lead the company someday. I didn't have time to rest or play with friends. My time was strictly managed. I didn't want to waste even a second. Things like girls and love—I only heard about them from my sister Ayinkamiye, who always told me stories about boys trying to woo her. She would show me their pictures and ask which one I thought she should pick. I always told her, "Whoever you choose, I'll support you."
She'd then look at me and ask, "Haven't you found a girl you like yet?"
I'd usually shake my head, thinking about how to grow the family business.
She never made it easy. She kept insisting, "A partner is essential in life. They bring balance."
I'd sigh and reply, "Sometimes, they're the reason life loses balance."
She'd laugh and say, "Find someone—you're growing up."
I don't know what she meant by "growing up," but I was already twenty-five, had learned a lot about construction, and how to manage money. My father would look at me proudly and tell his friends,
"This boy takes after his grandfather. If I didn't have a son like him, I'd be cursed."
He enjoyed drinking local brew with his friends and sharing wisdom.
My university graduation day finally came. We prepared a huge celebration at home. My parents were happy, glowing with joy. My father's friends showed up, as did neighbors, because my father loved people and always taught me:
"Friends are the foundation of life," and
"Trust is what creates wealth."
He had so many friends that our home couldn't accommodate all the guests.
My sister Ayinkamiye also invited her friends—and even brought her boyfriend. They wore matching outfits. Watching them, I thought the party was for them.
Many speeches were made, and I was deeply thanked. That day was one of the best in my life.
After my father's speech, I was given the microphone. I had many words but summed them up in one: "Gratitude."
I stood before the crowd and said:
"I thank my family who stood by me through this tough journey. For twenty years, countless teachers took turns educating me—I thank them too. I don't know how this journey would've been without good friends—I'm grateful for them. I thank my ancestors and the God of Rwanda who protected me. I promise never to let you down, and I will continue to be the son who unites you in celebration."
The applause was loud. I heard people whispering, but couldn't catch what they were saying.
When the event ended, people broke into small groups based on their connections.
Since it was my day, I had the right to join any group.
I reached my grandmother, who was leaning on her walking stick. She hugged me tightly and reminded me,
"Do you remember that car you promised to park at my house when you visit?"
I laughed and said, "Yes, I remember."
She held my hand and asked,
"So… where's the person you haven't introduced us to yet?"
Before I could answer, she continued,
"Don't you realize you're a grown man now?"
She said that while touching my beard. I understood what she meant and replied,
"Soon you'll be attending another celebration."
She smiled and said,
"Hurry up—my days are numbered. I don't want to go before I meet your wife."
I smiled and joked, "I won't marry just to make you live longer."
We both laughed.
Just then, Ayinkamiye called me over—her friends wanted to talk to me.
I found four girls and one boy. I noticed the boy and didn't see anything wrong with him—he must've been her boyfriend.
She introduced me, and we shook hands. I asked for their names. The boy introduced himself first:
"My name is Felix."
I looked at him and said, "That's not a real name."
I added that I don't like names given by colonialists. He then said,
"My real name is Murego."
I smiled and replied, "That's your name."
The girls introduced themselves, except for the last one. She said,
"I don't like speaking in public."
I smiled and asked,
"If you don't like speaking in public, why did you listen to others introduce themselves publicly?"
Before she could answer, my sister interrupted and asked the others to leave us alone.
Now we were alone—just the two of us—under a starry night sky, with crickets chirping in the distance.
She said: "Congratulations."
I replied, "Thank you."
She paused, then said:
"I wanted to buy you a gift, but I had no money—I haven't found a job yet."
I smiled and said, "No problem—I'll write it down."
She laughed and said no one writes down their own gift.
So I said, "Then give it to me."
She thought for a while, touched her wrist, and showed me the bracelets she was wearing.
"Pick one," she said.
I held her hand, looked at the bracelets, and she smiled gently as I stared at her beauty.
I picked the one in the middle.
She removed it and asked me to stretch out my hand.
She put it on my right wrist and said, "Your debt is paid."
We both smiled. I asked,
"What's your name?"
She started to say a colonial name but changed her mind and said,
"My name is Irere."
Before I could respond, she said,
"Don't tell me I have a beautiful name."
Surprised, I asked,
"How did you know that's what I was going to say?"
She replied,
"That's what boys always say after hearing a girl's name."
I smiled and said,
"Still, you have a beautiful name."
She smiled again. I added,
"And you have a lovely smile."
She suddenly closed her lips, shy like a true lady.
I apologized and told her I had to go greet others,
But as I walked away, I felt like I had left my heart behind with her.