Abstract
When the 90s drew to a close, the world was still coming to terms with the bloody events that had defined the decade. Index’s network of on-the-ground correspondents came across stories rarely found elsewhere
SIX YEARS AFTER the genocide, in a street in Kigali, a young girl was huddled on the ground yelling gibberish, throwing dust at passers-by. A crowd gathered and an indignant shopkeeper moved the sick girl out of the way, which only made her yell even louder. A woman passing by relieved the tension by laughing and a few others followed suit. Everybody continued on their way, leaving this bothersome person to whatever her fate might be. I couldn’t see the funny side: all I saw was her pain, but then, it was not my story. I suppose I must have missed the point.
I’ve heard lots of stories told by Rwandans, stories that were horrible, bizarre, often tragic, but I don’t remember ever hearing a funny story, nor of any Rwandan comedian.
And then, one evening, the people of Kigali were invited to a show put together by artists from all over Africa. It was devoted to the idea of remembrance and the duty to maintain a written record, and it was, of course, focused on the genocide. Not, on the face of it, the sort of thing to make you split your sides. The text was a montage of testimony by survivors and, from the outset, the audience found it harrowing. It was one of those official functions where it’s as important to be seen as it is to watch the show, and it managed to take everyone by surprise.
There were some very explicit scenes of fake violence and accounts of atrocities so minutely detailed that they sounded like messages from beyond the grave. All this was interspersed with pounding musical improvisations, spotlights cutting through the darkness like machineguns, and presented in a monotone by an old man who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. This continued until a character emerged from the audience and interrupted him. He was an imposing, wide-eyed giant of a man who seemed to creep along like a leopard and swallow up all the available space. To begin with, he spoke like a raving madman, and there were one or two laughs from the audience, then a few more. He stopped dead, stared into the audience, trying to see who it was that had laughed. Then he burst into uncontrollable laughter. It was not the laughter of communication but it carried more significance than any cry; so much so that the other actors gathered round him, waiting to see what he might have to say. The man seemed to grow calmer for a moment. Then he hoisted himself on to a table and said: “We are all Rwandans on the outside, but they’re different outsides, and because we’re all coming from all these outsides, we’ve forgotten where the inside is and we’re all going crazy. For example, on the roads, we don’t know which side to drive on anymore! Those who come from Uganda play it careful and keep to the left, those coming from Burundi play it safe and keep to the right. That kind of madness is really dangerous, yet it would be so simple if everybody were just to drive in the middle of the road!”
Almost without noticing it, many Rwandans had just heard their first funny story for a long time and they burst into laughter and applause and waved their arms about for joy. The actor continued to act the part of a fool but his words became serious, tragic once more. It was no good, though: the minute he opened his mouth the crowd would laugh and shout things out to him. It had taken a first-class actor from Cote d’lvoire to dare, after all this time, to make the Rwandans laugh. That laughter still echoes in my memory like some painful surprise.