Each spacious residence on our street was surrounded by tall cypress saplings and a high chain-link fence covered with rush matting for privacy.
Settling in and decorating our home was a pleasure for us both – especially for me. I felt like a bird adding the final feathers to its nest.
With free medical service on site, plus a nursery school financed by the business, almost everything we might need was at hand. Nyakabuye, the market town where we bought fresh vegetables and fruit on Saturdays, was a mile and a half from Bugarama’s factory and housing complex. The company kept the road in excellent condition.
High-ranking staff, including my husband, used Cimerwa cars for trips; a white bus – nicknamed “Apartheid” by those who were not allowed to use it – took wives of executive employees to Muganza every Friday for shopping. I was one of these privileged few. When common workers needed to travel, they had to catch a ride on the Daihatsu Transporter that carried both goods and passengers.
Walking was still our favorite way to relax. Evenings after work, we often hiked out to our vegetable plot, where we planted some basic crops. We were entitled to this allotment, near the quarry where Charles had first proposed to me, because of his company status.
Or we strolled around the factory grounds. We would visit the night crew, and Charles had them show me their work. Most impressive was the kiln where a mixture of red clay, quartz, travertine, and slurry was heated to 2,700 degrees Fahrenheit – approximately the temperature of molten lava. We had to wear special glasses to look into this furnace, even though we kept a safe distance from the heat.
A week into married life, I started working for Cimerwa, in administration. I purchased supplies, maintained office equipment, and was responsible for tickets to the workers’ canteen. I liked my supervisor, a Chinese lady called Li.
Another young employee, Annemarie, came by each day for the meal tickets. She took time to help me build my Kinyarwanda vocabulary and improve my pronunciation, and we became friends. We soon found we had much in common. Like me, Annemarie sought God’s guidance in every aspect of life, and we shared our hope that our husbands would someday do the same.
Before entering marriage, I had pictured it as heaven on earth. Now I realized that not every problem disappears at your wedding. In fact, new ones emerge.
Beginning and ending each day with prayer had always been essential for me. After Charles and I were married, I expected my husband to lead ours, as my father had always done for my family.
Looking blank, he said, “I have no idea how to pray.”
Startled, I reminded him that he had been baptized before our wedding.
“My last prayer was at seminary, when the Hutu were trying to kill us,” he admitted.
“Just offer a word of thanks, from your heart,” I said. As Charles did, I mentally added, “Help me win him for you.”
Church had also been central in my life, so I was distressed that Charles spent Sundays on other activities. I joined his jaunts to visit friends, playing the loyal wife, but I missed spiritual fellowship.
One day I opened the door in answer to a knock and was surprised to see five people outside. I recognized them as Cimerwa colleagues, and they now introduced themselves as a prayer group. I invited them in.
The leader’s name was Oscar. He said his wife, Consolée, had heard that a young believer had moved in, and they wanted to get acquainted. I told them my situation, and we were soon reading the Bible and singing together. Oscar and Consolée soon became some of my closest friends, and through them I got to know more Christians in the area.
CHARLES AND I were both thrilled, a year into our marriage, to realize I was pregnant. Coming from big families, we both wanted the same.
Secretly hoping our first child would be a boy and our second a girl, as in my own family, I dreamed of raising sons and daughters in the fear of God. My husband’s dream was not identical to mine, yet he, too, meant to do his utmost for our child. He was keen to provide a good education and to raise a well-behaved family. Respectful children give their parents a good reputation in our culture.
As the weeks and months inched toward my due date, I seesawed between expectation and anxiety. I missed my mother. “Lord, I don’t know how to raise a child,” I prayed. “You will have to show me how. And please, protect our little one.” I was determined to make our home a warm, nurturing place where our baby should lack nothing. Meanwhile, I kept regular appointments with my doctor, exercised, and read books for expectant mothers.
Charles and I took a day off work to go shopping in Bukavu. Our spree was well worth the twenty-five-mile drive and the border crossing into the Congo. Exploring the modern stores, comparing prices, and finally making our choices thrilled me with anticipation. We could barely fit our purchases into the Cimerwa car. Our bassinet and blankets were the best available, and I sorted the baby clothes several times during our return drive, trying to decide which were cutest. Even their smell excited me.
I went into labor on the first of August. Charles called Oscar and Consolée, and the four of us drove to Mibilizi Hospital together, in a Cimerwa car. Early the next morning, August 2, 1989, our baby arrived.
My husband took our firstborn son into his arms. “You did it!” he said, looking from me to the baby, and back again. “You wonderful woman!” He kissed us both.
I was deeply content. Our child was safely here. We were a complete family.
Charles gave me igikoma cy’umubyeyi. Every new Rwandan mother enjoys this healthy drink, made from milk and sorghum, that betokens future wellbeing. Friends, relatives, and colleagues came to congratulate us and admire the baby. Charles and I named him Rukundo Charles-Vital. Rukundo means love, and Vital was the name of my husband’s best friend.
NINE MONTHS LATER, in May 1990, my husband traveled to Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, on Cimerwa’s behalf. Since my brother Phocas lived there, Charles decided to drop in on him. And since it happened to be Sunday, Charles waited outside the church. There, from the doorway, he listened to the sermon.
As usual, I watched for my husband’s return. He would always park the car at Cimerwa and walk the short distance to our home. This time, I noticed a spring in his step and a sparkle in his eyes. “Denise, I’m a born-again Christian!” he called as he approached.
When he had heard the preacher’s words, “The blood of Jesus has power to wash the dirt from our lives,” Charles told me, all his past sins had appeared before him. Admitting he had been baptized before our wedding primarily for my sake, he now sincerely dedicated his life to Christ. “Denise, I will pray with you from now on,” he said. “Jesus says he gives living water. With you, I will keep going to him for that water, so I’m not pulled back into my old ways.”
A week after his trip, as Charles and I walked hand in hand to the service in Mashesha, I overheard a neighbor say, “What? Educated people believe in Jesus?” I didn’t care what the neighbors thought. I had received my heart’s desire, and I sensed that our family now had a firm foundation.
Formerly, Charles had disparaged Hutu behind their backs at every opportunity. I never heard such talk from him again. Instead, I heard a lot more laughter – until they took him away.
6
Trouble
