Truth, by Omission Page 18

  I helped Gabe from the ground. He was crying from the punches, and I suppose from the fear of punishment to come from Father Michel.

  “C’mon, Gabe. You’ll be all right.” We walked toward the dorm. “What happened? How did that start?”

  “I was just having fun and then he jumped me,” Gabe said.

  “There must have been more to it than that. What did you do to him?” I asked.

  Gabe looked at the ground. “I narrowed their goalposts when the goalie wasn’t looking. I guess he saw me. But it was just for fun.” He looked up at me as we walked and cracked a smile through the tears, and then he began to laugh. Throwing my arm over his shoulders, I shook my head and couldn’t help but smile back at him. That was Gabe, a goofy practical joker. The boys from our school all knew him and often put up with such antics, recognizing it all as good fun. But the neighborhood boys, those unfamiliar with Gabe, took moving the goalposts as a severe offense.

  Once in the dorm, laid out on our beds, staring at the ceiling, Gabe turned uncharacteristically serious. “Azi, thank you for helping me.” I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, no big deal. We were silent for a long moment before he spoke again. “Nobody else helps me.”

  I turned my head to the side to look at him and noticed tears running down his face. Throwing my legs over the side, I went to sit on the edge of his bed. “What’s wrong, Gabe?”

  He rolled his head side to side and more tears flowed. “I’m all alone, Azi. I’m all alone.”

  “You’re not alone, Gabe. I’m here.”

  “I miss my mom and dad,” he said.

  I nodded quietly, understanding how he felt. Orphanhood was a kinship we shared but never spoke of. It began to dawn on me that the outward facade of joy that Gabe wore was a well-crafted disguise for his own inner turmoil.

  “Do you want to tell me about your parents?” I asked.

  He wiped his tears on his arm and sat up.

  “The rebels in the north killed them.” The words made me slump as I thought of my own participation with such rebels.

  “First my mother, when I was very young,” he said. “And then my father about three years ago.”

  I sucked in a slow deep breath and my heart thumped. Three years ago I was running with the despots in the north. But I said nothing, letting him continue.

  “They made us all gather to watch, and then they made a boy, just a little boy, just ten or eleven, shoot them all. He did it. How could a boy do something like that, Azi? He killed my father. I ran away, but when I went back to see my father’s body, they had cut off his head. How could they do that, Azi? How could they? My father, Azi. My father.” Gabe was sobbing, and he buried his head in my chest.

  I wrapped my arms tightly around his small body, shamed, nauseated by his revelation, and I sobbed uncontrollably along with him.

  From that moment, I felt I owed Gabe my own life. And I might have. I asked him no further details of the death of his father or the town he was from, unable to deal with the possible reality of it all. I forced the thoughts from my mind, crowding them out with a vow to myself to keep Little Gabe safe.

  Outside of our sheltered school environment, the situation in our country was rapidly deteriorating, and we couldn’t ignore the political and cultural upheaval taking place. The battles of the insurgents in the northern mountains were creeping farther and farther south, embroiling more of Rwanda. The NRA had been replaced by the Rwandan Patriotic Front as the leading militant group. The RPF was far better organized and financed than the old NRA, and the political conflicts were becoming race conflicts as the minority Tutsi population sought to reestablish its hold on power over the majority Hutus. A couple of the older boys at the school began openly touting their support for the Patriot Front, and Father Savard stepped in immediately and expelled the two students. Neither he nor the nuns wanted any part of the greater racism issues polluting our Catholic school environment.

  We discovered that the outside world was taking some notice of the near civil war situation that was brewing in Rwanda when a BBC news crew showed up one day. Our school was much appreciated and respected in the local community, and indeed the entire city of Kigali, and it must have also had some reputation abroad. The BBC wanted to interview Father Michel and the nuns and even some of the students about our island of neutrality in the center of the sharply drawn lines between factions. Father Michel thought that I would be a good example to parade out, especially with my previous history of being right on the front lines in the guerrilla battles. I reluctantly agreed to help him, but I had no intention of speaking about the things that I had seen and done.

  I tagged along with Father Michel and Mother Katherine for several hours as they showed the reporter and camera people around the school and answered their various questions.

  At one point the interviewer turned to Father Michel. “Father Michel, what is it that draws a priest from the safety and comfort of parish work in France to come down here to a country teetering on the brink of war?”

  Father replied, “We all have our reasons—I suppose.”

  “But what about you, Father?” the interviewer persisted. “What about you personally? What are your reasons?”

  Father Michel’s eyes made an involuntary glance my way as he answered, “Opportunity. Opportunity to do God’s work.”

  Later, just before the crew was about to leave, the interviewer asked another interesting question of Father Michel. “Father, as a current outsider, someone who can observe from afar but has an understanding of such things, what is your opinion of the sex abuse scandals that are currently plaguing the clergy across much of Europe and North America?”

  He didn’t even flinch. “Let he among us who hath no sin cast the first stone.”

  I was glad that I was not asked too much during the visit. When they did question me about whether I had any idea what armed conflict might look like if it came to that point, I simply responded, “We can only pray that it doesn’t.”

  I think this must have been an answer that very much pleased Father Michel because I remember him smiling proudly when I made the statement. After the crew left, Father was gushing about what an excellent job I did.

  “Come see me in half an hour, Azi,” he said. “Come to my office, we’ll celebrate.”

  I wasn’t sure what we had to celebrate but I knocked on the door to his office as instructed. This was when I was first exposed to the truth of another rumor that circulated among the boys as he pulled from his desk drawer a flask of liquor.

  “Sit down, Azi. Gin only on the most special of occasions.” He raised the flask in a toast before taking a hearty swallow. “This interview could mean great things for the school’s funding. You did an excellent job answering their questions. Thank you, Azi. We’re blessed to have you at the school. You do like it here, don’t you? I can see you appreciate all we’ve done for you. You’re comfortable here, aren’t you? I mean, you were exposed to a lot where you came from.”

  I could tell by the way he rambled on that he had been drinking before I arrived. He took another swig and stepped around behind my chair, continuing to yak away. I felt him place one hand on my shoulder, and I let him blather on about what a great school we had, and how difficult it was for him to work in this secluded environment so far away from his home in France, and what a great pleasure it was to have a student like me at his school. I was getting more uncomfortable the longer it went on, and I swiveled around in my chair to see him, but was confronted, right at face height, with his gushyukwa. He was stroking it and didn’t bother to stop even as I pulled back and stood up.

  “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you, Azi—living in isolation with men as you have all your life?”

  Unsure how to respond, I just nodded.

  “You know how men sometimes need … relief, don’t you?” he continued to prattle on. “Did you ever
… help the men? Relieve them, I mean. Would you like to help relieve me, Azi?”

  I felt like taking his pathetic little pink dick and cutting it off right there, but instead just shook my head and left his office, slamming the door behind me.

  That was the turning point in my relationship with the priest. The worst of the school’s rumors were now confirmed, and I had not a shred of respect left for the man. I could no longer bring myself to afford him the deference of calling him “Father” and began to avoid addressing him directly. In my mind, I thought of him only as Savard or “the sick priest.” I contemplated walking away from the school, but even if I had had somewhere to go, I didn’t want to leave. Despite Savard, there was too much good about the school. I had become very close to some of the boys, especially Little Gabe, to whom I now had a self-imposed responsibility. And I adored the nuns. They weren’t just superb teachers, they were among the best of humanity. Their examples of kindness and selflessness were ones which, by then, I strove to emulate. They were the only female influences I’d had in my life since Auntie Nyaka was killed. They became more than teachers; they were mothers and grandmothers and sisters and aunts and friends. And I loved learning. I craved the new knowledge and soaked it up with a passion. All things weighed out, I could work around the sick bastard.

  By my third year at the school I was assumed to be fifteen, and I was indeed physically big enough to easily pass for that age. I was moved to the older boys’ dorm. It was a proud rite of passage for all of us when we moved from being with the youngsters in the group into the smaller, but more prestigious, seniors’ house. Those of us who lived in the seniors’ dorm also received the extra privilege of being able to go off-campus on our own, as long as we were back by study curfew at seven in the evening.

  I had accumulated a few extra trinkets over the three years since arriving at the school, but there wasn’t all that much for me to pack for the move. I took my most prized possession, the ivory-handled knife, which I still cherished, from its hiding place under my mattress and threw it in a cardboard box. As I emptied my few belongings from my footlocker into the box, Little Gabe came along and sat on my bed.

  “I don’t want you to go, Azi,” he said.

  “Gabe, I’m just going next door to the seniors’,” I said. Our bond was so close that I’d expected this would upset him.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Gabe said again, this time with his body tensing and his chin trembling.

  “Is something wrong, Gabe?” I asked.

  He shook his head “no,” and nodded then “yes,” and then shook “no” again.

  “What’s wrong, Gabe?”

  Again he silently shook his head, this time unable to stop tears from forming. He fell forward into me, wrapping his arms tightly around me and burying his face between my shoulder and chest. He clung to me. I sensed there might be more upsetting him than my changing dorms, and I tried to get him to open up. “Gabe, are you thinking about your parents again?”

  He shook his head in my chest.

  “What then?” I asked.

  He took his time before saying anything. “Do you think it could be true what they say about Father Gushyukwa?”

  “That bastard. Has he done something to you, Gabe?”

  He shook his head again, before feebly managing a mumbled, “No.”

  “He’s done something to you, hasn’t he, Gabe?” I pushed him away and held him squarely by his shoulders. He gave a small shake of his head, “no.”

  “You’re sure? You’re telling me the truth? Are you, Gabe?” He looked down and gave a small nod.

  “You’ll tell me, you’ll tell me if he ever touches you. Promise?”

  He nodded again but refused to speak. I could tell he wasn’t going to say any more, so I pulled him back in tight, cuddling him close, holding him for a long while. Eventually, he stemmed his tears and bravely picked up my box of belongings, carrying it next door to the seniors’ dorm.

  By the fall of 1993, the situation in Rwanda had deteriorated substantially from the previous year when the BBC had come to the school to do their interviews. The predictions of the reporter were coming true around us. Several bombings had occurred right in downtown Kigali, and patrols of soldiers and artillery on the streets were commonplace. Demagogues abounded, spewing racist rhetoric and inciting hatred among even the most peaceable of peoples. Everyone was lining up on one side or the other, with moderates caught up in the spreading flames of the hardliners. Several militia groups had spawned and were being openly supported by the government with guns and money and the RPF was brazenly recruiting right off the streets. No one trusted anyone, everyone suspicious of the other, neighbors turned against neighbors.

  One evening, as I left the school compound, I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Azi. You’re a man now.” I turned to find Idi smiling at me. “Look at you. I’m proud of you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You’ve stayed in school all these years?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Good, good. We need smart men,” he said. “We need smart men now, and we’ll need you after. Good, smart men to run this country. I want you to come with me. We’ve got important work to do.”

  “Idi, I don’t do that anymore,” I said. “I can’t go with you.”

  “You have to, Azi. Everyone is going to be in this fight. You have to pick a side. Sooner or later you have to choose.”

  “I’m not a fighter, Idi,” I said. “I never was. Not really.”

  “You were a good fighter, Azi. You still are. Look at you. Look at the size of you. You’re a man now. You were a good fighter as a boy, and you’ll be a better fighter as a man. Come on. Most of these pussies don’t know how to kill. You’ve killed. You’re the kind of man we need. You’ll be great, Azi.”

  The more he spoke about killing the more negative effect it had on me. I’d spent three and a half years trying to forget the killings and now this beast was back trying to glorify them.

  “No, Idi.” I looked him in the eye. “You stole my childhood from me; you won’t steal my manhood.”

  We stood there, each waiting for the other to make a move. Finally he shook his head. “Fine. Fine, Azi. But mark my words: a time will come when you will have to choose. You might as well choose the side that’ll reward you the most. I’ll wait for you. I want you on my side, Azi. Come to me when you choose. Major Ntagura. You remember him? Ask for him at the army headquarters, and he’ll know where you can find me.”

  I just shook my head “no” until he had walked away and turned the corner.

  Around this time, we’d started to see armored convoys from the United Nations patrolling the streets. Evidently the world had taken notice of things in Rwanda and had come to try to help us. But even as the numbers of UN peacekeepers increased in Kigali, the bombings continued, and eventually street battles were breaking out between the militia factions. The priest and the nuns tried to keep the school operating as best they could, but most of the parents quit sending their boys, fearing the streets too dangerous. For most of us who lived at the school there wasn’t an option, since several, like me, were orphans with nowhere else to go. Those of us who remained living at the school compound became an even closer-knit little family, relying on each other for support.

  Little Gabe was one of those who was still left at Notre Dame de la Paix. I had noticed that since I’d moved to the seniors’ dorm he had changed a bit, becoming more introverted and quieter. He wasn’t quite his same jovial self, but I assumed that was just Gabe’s way of dealing with all the distractions and disruption around us. As the wars of the north moved closer it was bound to bring back memories for him. Also, several of his other friends no longer attended the school. Finally, it didn’t help that I was in the other dorm, which meant we weren’t spending quite as much time together. Fortunately, as our numbers at the school
continued to shrink, all the remaining boys were eventually moved into the seniors’ dorm. Gabe selected a bunk right next to mine, and for the first few days after moving in his disposition perked up.

  One day, while sitting on the lawn in the shade of the azalea shrubs helping Gabe with his studies, he suddenly closed his books and laid back on the grass. He looked straight up into the yellow-gray haze that tented the sky.

  “Azi, why is all this happening?”

  I laid back beside him, took his hand in mine, and searched the haze myself for some suitable answer.

  All I could come up with was a small unknowing roll of my head.

  “But why are there so many bad people in the world, Azi?”

  “They’re not all bad, Gabe.” It was hard for me to speak convincingly since I knew that there was far more bad than good around us. But the few good people in my life had been really good to me: a long time ago Nyaka and Dzigbote, and now, the four sisters, Wigy, and Mamba. I wanted to be good like them for Gabe.

  “You’re the only one, Azi. You’re the only good person I know.” I rolled toward him and cuddled myself around him, both of us finding security in our brotherhood.

  It was hard to find true happiness in those days in Kigali. The mood of the city was gloom, and it pervaded the very air we breathed. The bond between Gabe and me gave each of us a small bit of respite, but it wasn’t enough to halt Gabe’s deteriorating mood and increasing reclusiveness.

  Then one morning in early March I awoke to find that Gabe had already risen from the bed beside me. I made my way to the bathroom, and I pulled the shower curtain open to step in. I was stalled in midstride by the sight of Little Gabe hanging from a rope around his neck which had been fastened to the showerhead, a chair knocked over beside him. I gagged, and at first couldn’t even find enough air in my throat to scream. Wrapping my arms around his little body, I lifted him up, taking the weight off the rope, and shouted for help.