Kenya Hakuna Matata

Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM

“KENYA HAKUNA MATATA” ALL ARE WELCOME TO KENYA

In the bustling streets, food vendors catered to Akamba Bus passengers traveling between Uganda and Kenya. Ugandan street food, known for its affordability and healthiness, attracted both locals and travelers. Meanwhile, in Kenya, Akamba Bus Ltd dominated the transportation scene with a fleet of over 100 buses. As a Rwandan refugee, I spent two days with Ugandan relatives in Kampala before heading to Nairobi. The renowned Akamba Bus, despite its reputation for overnight journeys and a tragic 2000 accident that claimed over 150 lives, connected Mombasa, Nairobi, and Kampala. Despite concerns, I had no choice but to choose Akamba Bus, known for adventurous long-distance travel. Akamba had been a pioneer in cross-border journeys and various transportation aspects, but it faced challenges due to mismanagement after the death of co-founder Sherali Hassan Nathoo in 2000, ultimately leading to its decline.

Arriving In Kenya

One night in 2000, after a two-day long and treacherous journey, fleeing from the Tutsi regime’s persecution in Rwanda to seek refuge, I arrived at the Malaba crossing border. I was walking, leaning on crutches because of the wounds and beatings I had received from the Tutsi officers while I was held in the torture chamber in Kigali. Little did I know that my struggle for safety and medical treatment would be met with an unsettling and distressing encounter at the Kenyan border. This was my experience, one that would forever be etched in my memory.

I had always heard good stories about Kenyan people and also listened to their song, “Kenya Hakuna Matata.” However, the officer at the border that night seemed not what I expected from a fellow African. The whole world had been told to hate Rwandan Hutu refugees. The Western media propaganda had reached every household on the planet. Our story never included the story of three Hutu presidents assassinated by General Paul Kagame in just a year.

As I limped forward to approach the immigration officer at the Kenya-Uganda border, I hoped for a glimmer of compassion and understanding. Instead, the moment I disclosed that I was a Rwandan seeking medical support in Kenya (as I couldn’t reveal that I was fleeing and seeking refugee protection status), the officer’s demeanor changed drastically, and he became hostile toward me. His response was callous and harsh as he coldly threatened to send me back to Rwanda. His justification was the alleged capacity shortage for receiving refugees due to the influx of Rwandan Hutus crossing the border seeking refuge in Kenya daily. While this was true, it overlooked the complex and tragic situation in Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo, where the people were in desperate need of safety and protection.

Terrified and desperate to avoid returning to the horrors I had fled in Kigali, I sought a way to appease the officer. I remembered my family friends had pooled together what little they had to support my journey. With their generosity, I had around $215 in my possession. I wanted to give him $100 so that I could remain with $115 to survive on once I arrived in Nairobi. However, when the immigration officer saw that I was dividing the money into two, he reached out and snatched the money from my hand without a second thought, leaving me emotionally shattered, empty, and vulnerable. Then he pushed me out of his office and told a Boda-Boda man who was standing nearby waiting for a customer to take me to Akamba Bus. A Boda-Boda, or “border to border,” are bicycles and motorcycle taxis commonly found in East Africa which were first used to ferry passengers at the border between Uganda and Kenya.

As the boda-boda driver raced to catch up with the Akamba bus, the cruel reality of the immigration officer’s deliberate actions weighed heavily on my mind. The bus had pulled away just moments before our arrival at the station, and it was abundantly clear that the officer’s motives were anything but benign. His intent seemed calculated to leave me abandoned, exposed, and utterly helpless. This heartless act, all the more callous considering my fresh wounds and reliance on crutches for mobility, left me in a dire predicament. I had nothing left to offer as a bribe, for every last penny had been extracted from me. Even though I had pleaded with the officer, explaining that the money he had taken was crucial for my survival in Kenya, where I knew no one and lacked the means to effectively communicate in English or Kiswahili, my pleas fell on deaf ears. He showed no trace of compassion, leaving me penniless and in misery as I entered Kenya for the first time.

Discovering that the Akamba bus had already departed from the Malaba border station plunged me into a whirlwind of panic. The stark reality that I was stranded in an unfamiliar place, coupled with the knowledge that my funds had been ruthlessly seized by the heartless immigration officer, weighed heavily on my mind. Desperation took hold as I implored the boda-boda driver not to abandon me in this dire situation.

In a remarkable display of compassion, the boda-boda driver, despite his limited authority, decided to go the extra mile to assist me. With unwavering determination, he pedaled tirelessly until we managed to catch up with the Akamba Bus, which had only covered a distance of about 2 kilometers. Through his persuasive efforts, the bus driver agreed to make an unscheduled stop by the roadside, granting me the opportunity to climb aboard and claim my seat, which had remained vacant until that moment.

In the midst of the chaos that characterized Kampala’s bus stations in 2000, I found myself thrust into a surreal world where buses and crowds of people in Uganda converged in seemingly endless commotion. As I sought passage to Nairobi, I was fortunate to meet a kind-hearted Ugandan woman who worked as a house help where I stayed during my brief two-day stopover in Kampala. She generously offered to escort me to the Akamba Bus Station downtown, which was a lifeline I desperately needed to navigate the chaotic landscape of buses, passengers, and general disorder that defined the city’s transit hubs. Kampala’s bus stations, or bus terminals, should ideally be organized places, but in reality, they were a nightmare, especially for first-time visitors like me, risking getting lost amidst the blend of buses, public transport, private cars, multiple languages, and the overall chaotic entity known as “Kampala Country Bus.” Shockingly, over 70% of Ugandan buses operated without designated parking areas, often disregarding them completely, resulting in buses loading and unloading passengers on busy city pavements, further contributing to the turmoil of Kampala’s streets

Upon our arrival in Eldoret on a pitch-black night around 3 am, the Akamba bus briefly halted, allowing passengers to stretch, use restrooms, and grab late-night snacks at nearby eateries. Eldoret’s bustling nocturnal energy was a stark contrast to my previous experiences, and it reminded me of Kinshasa’s constant activity in 1997. It highlighted the unwavering work ethic and potential of African people, albeit hindered by a lack of effective leadership. Intrigued by Eldoret’s uniqueness, I delved deeper into its history, discovering its origins in South African European farmers escaping British colonizers in South Africa. Unlike other Kenyan towns shaped by Indian dukas brought in by railway laborers, Eldoret grew from Boer settlers, mud huts, and vast wheat farms. The town even boasted the unconventional Rat Pit, notorious for its doorless entrance. Eldoret witnessed the birth of the Standard Bank of South Africa in 1912, a modest matope and mabati structure, now the site of Standard Chartered’s branch. The legend persisted of a safe too heavy to lift, prompting JM Shaw, the branch manager, to construct the bank around it—a fascinating piece of Eldoret’s history.

When the immigration officer threatened to deport me back to Kigali if I didn’t comply with his demands for money, my heart sank deep within my chest. I was overcome by dread, envisioning the horrors that might await me at the hands of Tutsi soldiers, imagining the gruesome fate of being tormented and mutilated. For refugees like me, even the slightest incident can trigger overwhelming fear and anxiety. The immigration officer’s menacing words were no small trigger; they shook me to my core. I hastily emptied my pockets, inside and out, to demonstrate that I had nothing left to give him.

Now, I found myself aboard the Akamba Bus, en route to Nairobi. Unfamiliar with the distance between the Malaba border and Nairobi, I opted to keep a low profile, refraining from engaging in conversation to avoid drawing attention to my foreign accent. My silence served as a shield against the perception that I was an immigrant seeking assistance in their country. The journey took us along the Nairobi–Malaba Road, a significant highway in Kenya, the largest economy in the East African Community. We passed through places like Turbo and eventually reached Eldoret, a journey that felt interminable despite taking approximately three hours.

Upon our arrival in Eldoret, the Akamba bus conductor invited passengers to disembark and stretch their legs. However, I remained in my seat, gripped by the fear that the bus might depart without me, knowing I lacked the means to pay for a boda boda ride if left behind. Consequently, I was the sole occupant left seated within the bus. These experiences, deeply etched into the lives of refugees like myself, continue to cast long shadows over our thoughts and emotions. The wounds inflicted by those who should offer compassion and assistance persist long after we have found refuge in foreign lands. Such harrowing encounters serve as a poignant reminder of the urgent need for empathy, fairness, and the unwavering respect of human dignity in every border interaction. For years, this encounter left me trembling at the sight of anyone donning the uniform of a Kenyan immigration officer, reigniting the haunting fear I had felt on that fateful day.

After about five minutes, the lady who had been seated beside me realized that I had not disembarked from the bus. Concerned, she made her way back to check on me and discovered me still securely belted into my seat. She inquired about my reluctance to step out and stretch my legs, but I assured her that I was alright. Nevertheless, she insisted that I should exit the bus, even going so far as to purchase Masala Tea, three queen cakes, and some cookies for me. We were eventually summoned back onto the bus, which continued its journey towards Nairobi.

As our journey continued through Kenya in the bright light of day, I couldn’t help but be captivated by the strikingly different landscape that unfolded before my eyes. Kenya’s topography presented itself as primarily flat, adorned with a multitude of valleys and vast expanses of level terrain, a stark contrast to the rolling hills that had always defined my native Rwanda. Rwanda, often lovingly referred to as “le pays de mille collines” or “the land of a thousand hills,” is situated south of the Equator in east-central Africa, boasting lush slopes, green hills, towering mountains, and deep, water-rich canyons, crisscrossed by an intricate network of streams and rivers. In Kenya, however, I found myself in the midst of an incredibly beautiful savannah landscape, with expansive horizons stretching out before me. As the bus traversed the valleys within the Great Rift Valley, I experienced an uncanny sense of déjà vu, as if I had journeyed through this region before. It was truly remarkable how the Kenyan scenery felt strangely familiar, a sensation that defied explanation. Although I had never resided in Kenya, these landscapes resonated with me, perhaps a distant memory from a time when my soul had traversed these vast savannahs.

As we pulled into the bustling Akamba Bus station in Nairobi around 11 am, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief and happiness, knowing I was far removed from the troubles of Rwanda and had arrived safely in this vibrant and dynamic city. Yet, despite my sense of liberation, I found myself immersed in a whirlwind of activity and surrounded by the cacophony of numerous languages being spoken by people from diverse Kenyan backgrounds. The diversity of languages, some of which sounded eerily similar to my mother tongue while others seemed entirely foreign, left me feeling lost in thought. With my limited command of English and Kiswahili, I opted to keep my voice hushed, fearing that my accent would readily reveal my status as a foreigner.

However, what gave me some semblance of comfort was that my appearance seemed to blend in seamlessly with that of the Kenyan locals. I bore a striking resemblance to individuals from various Kenyan tribes, particularly the Luhyas, whose physical features and characteristics closely mirrored those of the Banyarwanda people. This physical resemblance, coupled with my already subdued presence, seemed to contribute to my relative anonymity in this bustling place. In fact, during my brief stay at the Akamba Bus Station, two individuals, whom I would later learn were Luhyas, approached me and greeted me using the quintessential Luhya greeting, “Mulembe,” which was the only Luhya word I was familiar with at that time.

Amidst the whirlwind of bewildering languages and bustling activity at the Akamba Bus station, the same compassionate Kenyan businesswoman who had been my fellow traveler on the long journey from Kampala noticed my look of bewilderment. With genuine concern, she approached me and inquired about the cause of my confusion, asking if I was expecting someone to meet me at the station. Grateful for her kindness, I explained my situation—that I had fled Rwanda and knew no one in Kenya except for the UNHCR and the Karura SDA Church, both of which had been recommended to me by friends in Rwanda and Uganda.

My friend Nibishaka, a trusted companion from Ruhengeri who had played a pivotal role in helping me navigate the treacherous journey from Rwanda to Uganda, had also given me a small note. This note bore the name of the Karura SDA Church, a place he believed might extend a helping hand to me. Nibishaka’s optimism stemmed from his own experiences, as he had previously preached at that very church. His belief in the potential assistance I could receive there was one of the reasons I carried the note with me on this arduous journey.

Conversely, the Kenyan businesswoman who had shown me such kindness during our bus journey hailed from central Kenya and was unfamiliar with the Karura SDA Church. Despite her lack of knowledge about the specific church, she shared my conviction that a church could be a sanctuary of refuge and support for a refugee in a foreign land. It was a belief founded on compassion and a desire to offer assistance to those in need, even if the name of the church was unfamiliar to her.

With boundless empathy and a genuine desire to help, the Kenyan businesswoman wasted no time in taking action. She embarked on a mission to uncover the whereabouts of the Karura SDA Church, determined to assist me in reaching a place where I might find refuge and support. After learning that the church was located in Karura and that Matatus serving this route could be found near the Kenya Odio Cinema, she went above and beyond. Not only did she cover the cost of my bus fare, but she also provided explicit instructions to both the Matatu driver and conductor, ensuring that I would be safely dropped off right at the entrance of the Karura SDA Church. With my cherished Bible, which had been my constant companion throughout this journey, securely in hand, my backpack firmly strapped to my back, and my crutches supporting me, I boarded the Matatu. Thus began my journey to the Karura SDA Church, where I would soon be dropped off, thanks to her unwavering kindness and assistance.

As the Akamba Bus traversed the Kenyan Rift Valley, I marveled at the captivating natural beauty that unfolded before me. The landscape, resembling an artist’s masterpiece, featured endless valleys with gentle, rolling curves. These valleys cradled vast farmlands adorned with lush green maize fields swaying in the breeze, while golden wheat fields stood tall on either side, reaching out to touch the distant horizons. The radiant waves of wheat shimmered in the sunlight, creating a scene that felt like stepping into a dreamworld where words couldn’t adequately describe the land’s extraordinary beauty. This Kenyan Rift Valley, with its sprawling landscapes and thriving farms, was a testament to the wonders of nature and the unwavering dedication of the people who cultivated it. It left an indelible mark on my memory.

The Malaba Kenya Crossing border is not only a critical connection between Kenya and Uganda but also links Rwanda, South Sudan, Burundi, and the Democratic Republic of Congo to Kenya. For me, this border represents a place of refuge, where I sought safety while escaping persecution in Rwanda. As I approached it, I was filled with a mix of excitement and anxiety. On one hand, I eagerly anticipated entering Kenya, hoping to leave behind the torment inflicted by the Tutsis. On the other hand, I was uncertain about how the Ugandan immigration officers would allow me to proceed to Kenya, given the infiltration of the Ugandan administration by Rwandan Tutsi refugees. There was a fear of being cleared by a Rwandan Tutsi posing as a Ugandan, which could complicate matters due to my distinct Bantu appearance that revealed my Rwandan heritage. However, my clearance on the Ugandan side went relatively smoothly. At the Kenyan immigration checkpoint, though, I faced a daunting challenge as the officer confiscated the $200 I had, leaving me destitute. Despite this despair, I found solace in a higher power’s presence, reminding me that strength and resilience lay within me, and my journey was far from over.

As our Akamba Bus continued its ascent toward Nairobi, we began to climb higher into the hills, and a sudden downpour enveloped us in a curtain of rain and mist. The passengers called this place Limuru, and it marked the approach to our destination. For someone hailing from Rwanda, particularly from the northern region like Mukamira, Limuru felt like a journey back home. The fog hung thick in the air, shrouding the landscape in an embrace of familiarity, reminding me of the lush, misty hills of Rwanda that I had left behind. The vibrant greenery that surrounded us evoked bittersweet memories of my homeland. I couldn’t help but miss the natural beauty of Rwanda, even though the actions of its people had tarnished what was once a paradise, turning it into a place of sorrow, despair, and heartache. As we neared Nairobi, I felt a mix of emotions, drawn to the allure of Kenya, a land known for its development and industriousness. Yet, the uncertainty of starting anew in a foreign land, far from familiar faces, weighed on me. With God as my guide, I stepped into this unknown chapter of my life, my heart echoing the journey’s complexities and the myriad emotions that intertwined along the way.

The Karura Christian Sanctuary

As I finally arrived at the serene headquarters of the Karura Central Kenya Seventh-day Adventist Conference, the clock marked a tranquil Friday afternoon. The journey from Kampala to Nairobi aboard the Akamba bus had taken nearly two days, leaving me parched, utterly drained, bone-weary, and teetering on the edge of exhaustion and sleepiness. Anxiety gripped me as I pondered what the night held in store. However, in the midst of my weariness and hunger, the very presence and vision of this Christian sanctuary breathed new life into my weary soul.

Stepping into the tranquil compound, I couldn’t help but recall the profound teachings of my mother. She had imparted a core Christian principle: when someone in need approaches you, the first response should be to extend a helping hand, without delving into a barrage of questions. As a Christian, your home should provide refuge beyond expectations, offering sustenance and clothing to those seeking aid. To those who come for mere water, offer them the finest wine, letting the boundless generosity bestowed by God flow through you, signaling that you are merely a vessel for sharing His blessings. This fundamental lesson, etched deep within me, emphasized the act of quenching a thirsty soul’s longing for water before probing their plight. With these teachings echoing in my mind and the church compound before me, my heart swelled with hope, restoration, expectation, and an overwhelming sense of assurance that I had indeed arrived in the presence of God, or so I fervently believed.

As the gateman led the way towards the pastor’s office, my fingers instinctively sought reassurance in the pocket where I safeguarded the letter from my friend Nibishaka, a faithful member of the Rwankeri SDA Church. Deep within, an unshakable conviction anchored my spirit: when the moment arrived to meet with the pastor or any fellow Christian within that compound, my burdens, carried all the way from Rwanda, would find their long-awaited respite. I whispered to myself that the Father of the fatherless walked beside me as I navigated the path to the pastor’s office, my sanctuary of hope, where I believed God would promptly respond to my earnest prayers. As the clock’s relentless hands approached 5 pm, I pressed onward, clutching my crutches, my energy waning, and my parched mouth longing for refreshment amidst the weight of despair. My backpack, containing nothing but the sacred Bible, a pair of pants, a jumper, and shoes, rested on my back. I reached the pastor’s office just in the nick of time, a fear gripping me that the church doors might close before I could find the solace I sought in the presence of the pastor, or so I fervently hoped.

Stepping into the pastor’s expansive office, a flood of relief engulfed me, grateful that I had arrived just in time before the church doors sealed me off from hope. Within the room, four individuals extended a warm welcome – two gentlemen and two ladies, one of whom served as the pastor’s secretary. The kind-hearted gatekeeper, whose earlier compassion and eagerness to assist had touched me deeply, introduced me to the pastor’s secretary. The kind-hearted gatekeeper, whose earlier compassion and eagerness to assist had touched me deeply, introduced me to the pastor’s secretary. With a sense of urgency, I proceeded to explain my recent arrival in Nairobi and my eagerness to meet with the pastor, offering the small note with the hope that she would convey my message to him. This meeting held the key to my hopes, as my friend Nibishaka had assured me that the Karura church was a haven of compassionate believers, steadfast in their faith in Jesus. Armed with such reassurance, I clung to the belief that an encounter with the pastor would transform my anxieties into a triumphant arrival, fervently praying for this outcome. The secretary then directed me to a seat, where I patiently awaited the conclusion of the ongoing conversation between the pastor and the three individuals. As the gatekeeper cast a sympathetic glance my way, he wished me good luck, subtly hinting that the pastor’s generosity might not align with the lofty expectations I had built in my mind.

As I observed others completing their meetings with the pastor, I knew my turn had come. I entered his office with a pronounced limp, my backpack hanging from one shoulder, and my weight heavily supported by crutches. My throat felt parched, and my attempt at conversation was a mix of broken English and Kiswahili. Despite my limited language skills, we managed to engage in a brief exchange. I began by explaining that I was a refugee from Rwanda, having endured brutal torture that left my legs riddled with fractures and fresh wounds. I had just arrived in Kenya, a mere four hours ago, seeking assistance from the church. I emphasized that the church was my sole source of support in this unfamiliar land, as I knew no one else in Kenya except for a friend who had once worshiped at Karura SDA Church, and it was upon his recommendation that I sought help here.

However, for reasons that remain a mystery to this day, my words seemed to trigger an inexplicable agitation in the pastor. His eyes blazed with an intense rage, and his irritation surged uncontrollably. As my surroundings blurred into darkness, a suffocating dread settled over the room. Fearing that the situation was spiraling dangerously out of control, I hastily retrieved the letter from the Rwankeri SDA Conference and extended it to him, desperately hoping it would ease the mounting tension whose origin eluded me. To my profound dismay, not even this letter from their sister church in Rwanda could quell the storm that was brewing within him. In a sudden eruption of anger, the pastor abruptly rose from his chair and advanced menacingly toward me.

My eagerly anticipated encounter with the pastor, in whom I had placed my hopes as a desperate refugee, took an unforeseen and nightmarish turn. Inside the dimly lit office, my words seemed to kindle an unexplained inferno within him, transforming his once light-skinned countenance into a visage of seething rage. Before I could fathom the source of his anger or even extend an apology, he unleashed a ferocious storm of violence. With callous disregard, he seized my crutches and backpack, hurling me from his sanctuary as if I were discarded refuse, condemning me to the harsh embrace of the unrelenting concrete below. My legs flailed helplessly, my crutches somersaulted through the air before landing in a nearby cypress fence, but providence intervened to spare my head from a brutal impact, all thanks to the backpack that served as an unexpected cushion. Stunned and bewildered, I bore witness to the pastor’s eyes ablaze with wrath, a stark contradiction to the serenity I had envisioned in his sanctuary. The bewildered secretary, frozen in disbelief, watched the shocking spectacle unfold, and to her surprise, one of my shoes descended from the office roof, where it had been flung by the force of my impact on the concrete ground. Meanwhile, onlookers, later identified as being from Kisii, stood in horrified amazement, grappling with the enigma of what had provoked this explosive outburst. The pastor’s bitter words, “We don’t want refugees in this compound! We are not UNHCR! Go to UNHCR!” hung in the air, leaving me shaken and disoriented, plagued by hunger, thirst, and a head still spinning in disbelief at the abrupt and shocking turn of events, as I grappled with the stark reality that my day had unraveled so dramatically at the hands of a pastor.

After this incident, when kind-hearted individuals extended their help, a multitude of thoughts swirled in my mind, pondering whether I had encountered a true pastor or someone else entirely. In those moments, two poignant scriptures from the book of Matthew came to my rescue. The first was from Matthew 7:15, where Jesus admonished, “Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.” The second, from Matthew 7:21-23, echoed in my thoughts, “Not everyone who says to me ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven.” Despite the pain and disappointment I experienced, I chose to anchor my faith in God, seeking His guidance and strength to navigate through such challenging situations.

Upon my arrival in Nairobi, as our Akamba Bus navigated its way from Westlands along Waiyaki Way, it became abundantly clear why many Rwandans regarded Kenya as a realm that transcended earthly boundaries. Comparing Nairobi City to Kigali was, in essence, a study in contrasts. Everything felt refreshingly novel to me — the people, the languages, the remarkable development, the pervasive sense of civilization, and the rapid pace at which life unfolded in Nairobi. As our bus meandered through the bustling downtown avenues, I found myself on an exploratory journey, discovering a whole new dimension of life. Kenya’s allure reverberated throughout the region, its reputation as one of East Africa’s most developed nations well-established. In my formative years, the pride of utilizing MADE IN KENYA products was a constant presence in our classrooms, a testament to the nation’s remarkable industriousness. Yet, as I embarked on my odyssey, escaping the tumultuous past of Rwanda and venturing toward the unknown territory of Kenya, my emotions swirled in a blend of hope and trepidation. While I was undeniably drawn to the promise of a fresh start, the uncertainty of forging a new life in a foreign land, where familiar faces were scarce, cast a shadow on my heart. Nevertheless, with unwavering faith in God’s guidance, I took that courageous step into the uncharted, determined to carve a new path.

This photograph, captured on a Friday in 2000 when I first arrived in Kenya, depicts me standing proudly at Uhuru Park in Nairobi, within the bustling city. The image holds a special place in my heart as it was taken by newfound friends I had met at the Karura SDA Church after a rather unwelcoming encounter with the pastor, who had dismissed me from his office. These compassionate friends, hailing from Kisii, snapped the photo as a cherished memento of our journey, even creating two copies and graciously gifting me one—a keepsake I still hold close to this day. At that time, my possessions were minimal, comprising only the essentials: a backpack, a Bible, two pairs of pants (one worn, the other stowed in my backpack), and a sweater. This particular moment was captured as we made our way to Nairobi Central SDA Church, where we sought refuge. I was accompanied by these three steadfast Kisii individuals who had remained by my side after my unfortunate encounter with the pastor at Karura Church.

Nairobi SDA Church

Thrown out of the pastor’s office at the Karura SDA Church, I found myself sprawled on the hard, unforgiving concrete floor, strangely enveloped in a cloud of swirling dust despite its apparent absence, my ears still ringing from the forceful impact. Disoriented and dazed, I couldn’t help but overhear the lady who had been with the two gentlemen from Kisii, confronting the pastor with her hands pressed to her head, questioning his heartless treatment, likening it to the scorn for a supposed outcast. The pastor, probably in his hurry to prepare the next Sabbath sermon, paid her no heed and slammed his office door shut, abruptly ending our interaction.

In that pivotal moment, the two compassionate gentlemen from Kisii swiftly came to my aid, recognizing my struggle to regain my balance, my vision still blurred by the lingering dizziness from the impact. With remarkable skill, they retrieved my crutches, which had been unceremoniously flung into the fence of cypress trees, and diligently located my missing shoe. Their caring gestures continued as they gently helped me to stand, meticulously brushing away the clinging dust from my pants and sweater. As we worked to recover from the shock of the incident, one of the gentlemen muttered under his breath, “Who does this pastor think he is?” referring to the man who had ejected me from his office. His companion, in a hushed tone, advised against commenting further and encouraged their efforts to ensure my well-being. They continued their attentive care, inquiring about my condition. With no other choice, I assured them I was fine, though my foremost thought was to avoid any further drama and leave the church compound promptly.

Beneath the veneer of outward composure, I couldn’t help but grapple with the notion that the pastor might have Tutsi heritage, potentially descended from those who had fled Rwanda in the tumultuous year of 1959. It was during that time that Hutus, including our own forefathers, brought an end to the Tutsi monarchy and secured independence, heralding an era where the majority held sway. This possibility cast a heavy shadow over my thoughts, leading me into a self-dialogue filled with uncertainty. I worried that I might have unwittingly recounted my harrowing experiences with Tutsis to the very person I shouldn’t have. Still, I tried to console myself, recognizing that even if my suspicions were valid, my top priority was to find an exit from the church compound before matters could take a turn for the worse.

Amidst the internal dialogue unfolding within my mind, one of the two Kisii gentlemen, his eyes brimming with genuine empathy, reached out to me with comforting words, saying, “My brother, I am profoundly sorry to witness the adversity you’ve endured in your current circumstances. But do not despair; this is but a fleeting moment. Some of these pastors don’t have a true calling; they are pretenders, like the Pharisees of old. They preach water but drink wine. Rest assured, the God who allowed this fall is still with you, and the burden now rests upon the so-called pastor. Things will undoubtedly take a turn for the better, and one day, you’ll look back in astonishment, wondering if it was truly you who faced this hardship. Unfortunately, we hail from a distant place known as Kisii, and we too have just arrived in Nairobi today. Nevertheless, we have a single option to suggest to you. Though uncertain of our own lodgings, we know of another SDA church, the Nairobi Central SDA Church in downtown, and we can escort you there before they close their doors in preparation for the Sabbath. If they do not accept you, you will be welcome to stay with us, even if it means sleeping on the streets.” With unwavering reassurance, they comforted me and led me out of the church gate, where we caught a Matatu minibus heading downtown.

Our journey took us through Uhuru Park, where they paused to capture a photograph, assuring me they would find a way to get it to me later so as not to forget me. Together, we proceeded to the Nairobi SDA Church. As we entered the church compound, we encountered a pastor named Mr. Guto, who coincidentally hailed from Kisii. In their shared language, they introduced themselves and explained my circumstances. Pastor Guto approached me, and I promptly handed him a letter from Rwankeri SDA Church, hoping it would help him recognize the efforts of my late friend Nibishaka in protecting me. Pastor Guto reassured the three individuals who had brought me to him that I would be safe, as he called upon three gentlemen: the late Kiama, the church custodian, Mr. Caleb, the church driver and archivist, and Mr. Ouma, a young man in charge of church care. He instructed them to take me to the church’s guest house to wait until Monday to address my case.

Overflowing with gratitude, I warmly embraced the two gentlemen and the lady, extending my heartfelt wishes for God’s abundant blessings upon them for their selfless dedication of time and resources to ensure my safety. Soon after, I was escorted upstairs to the church’s guest rooms. Upon arrival, Kiama and Caleb kindly assisted me in taking a soothing hot shower, while Ouama was entrusted with procuring two packets of milk and a loaf of bread for my dinner. Before bidding me goodnight, they joined me in prayer, their voices resonating with sincerity and comfort. With promises to reunite on the morrow, they took their leave. I expressed my deep gratitude for their unwavering support, their prayers, and bestowed upon them heartfelt blessings before they departed.

Following their departure, I engaged in a heartfelt and solemn conversation with God. With profound gratitude, I acknowledged His intervention in rescuing me from the harrowing experience with the pastor, making a solemn vow that should He save and restore me, I would openly express my thankfulness and share stories of His boundless compassion. I made a commitment to establish an organization dedicated to aiding underprivileged children in Kenya, with a vision to construct a school that would provide education within a Christ-centered community, instilling values of compassion and care for others. I pledged to actively seek out children in need and extend my support, ensuring they understood that Christ’s love was showering blessings upon them because He had loved me first.

Alone in the guesthouse, my emotions surged, and tears flowed freely as I bared my soul to God, the room feeling like a sacred sanctuary where I was the solitary supplicant. The burdens of my recent experiences finally yielded to exhaustion, and I surrendered to a deep slumber, undisturbed until the following day, which marked their Sabbath Day with church services in full swing. The tranquility of my rest was abruptly shattered by the harmonious voices of a choir emanating from the sanctuary below; the clock read 11 am. With a hurried shower and an improvised mouth rinse, given the absence of a toothbrush and toothpaste, I made my way to the church service. Positioned in the balcony, where the youth typically gathered, I discreetly observed the multitude of cars parked outside and the exuberant congregation within. In hushed tones, I continued my dialogue with God, probing the depths of my suffering and seeking clarity amidst the confusion that enveloped me.

This is Karura SDA Church, situated within the compound of the Kenya SDA Central Conference. It holds profound significance in my journey, as it was the first place I sought help upon my arrival in Kenya in 2000, after fleeing Rwanda following three years of torture, beatings, and unimaginable suffering. Tragically, more than 300 people with whom I had shared the horrors of a torture chamber did not survive. Miraculously, my friends aided my escape, promising to support me as I sought exile in Kenya. Among the few possessions they entrusted to me was a letter from their church administration, the Rwankeri SDA Conference. When I presented this letter to a pastor at Karura SDA Church, he callously threw me out of his office, declaring that his church was not a refugee center. It was from this church that kind-hearted individuals came to my aid, as I limped away from that encounter, and they took me to Nairobi Central SDA Church on the same day.

This is Nairobi Central SDA Church, where I found refuge during my first arrival in Kenya. After a traumatic experience of being violently chased out of Karura SDA Church, I encountered three kind-hearted individuals from Kisii who offered to take me to this church and request shelter on my behalf. I met Pastor Guto, who graciously allowed me to stay in their church guesthouse for three days since it was a weekend. The following Monday, they arranged for me to be transported to the UHCR offices, then located in Westlands. My initial day in Nairobi was marked by intense turmoil, but through it all, I found solace in God’s providence, as He guided my journey and orchestrated the path before me.

However, before I could conclude my conversation with Him, the church elder introduced the day’s preacher, and to my astonishment, it was the very same pastor who had expelled me from his office the previous night. Anxiety welled up within me as I attempted to conceal my face, fully aware of his influential position within the SDA church in Nairobi. In desperation, I implored God not to subject me to another ordeal, to provide me with a means of concealment. Summoning the remnants of my courage, I quietly left the church, hoping to evade recognition and prevent any further danger. I positioned myself near the street vendors outside the church gate, patiently waiting until the majority of the congregation had left the church compound, with only the late Kiama, Mr. Caleb, and Ouma remaining, before I cautiously re-entered the church grounds.

Engaging in casual yet heartfelt conversations with the three men, I watched as they diligently tended to the security and neatness of the church compound following the conclusion of the Saturday church service, typically around 5 pm. Their kindness continued to shine as they once again graciously provided me with two packets of milk and a substantial loaf of bread, emphasizing that this would sustain me until our reunion two days later on Monday. The late Kiama’s boundless generosity further touched my heart when he surprised me with a quarter-kilogram of sugar and a kettle, enabling me to prepare tea. Their unwavering compassion left a lasting impression on me, and I relished the opportunity to enjoy a peaceful and uninterrupted night’s sleep, a rare luxury considering the exhaustion accumulated over an entire week of travel, during which I hadn’t experienced a single restful night—from Kigali all the way to Nairobi, Kenya. My serene slumber was eventually interrupted by the early hours of Monday when Ouma delivered the news that the church minivan awaited me, ready to transport me to the nearby International Red Cross offices.

Expressing my apprehensions about my past dealings with international NGOs, Pastor Gunja (a pseudonym), who stood alongside Pastor Guto, imparted wise counsel, remarking, “Young man, contemplate this splendid guesthouse where you’ve found refuge for three days without spending a shilling. It was erected by devoted church members as a source of revenue. Yet, we comprehend your financial constraints, and it’s not feasible for you to continue residing here gratis. This guesthouse typically accommodates those with the means, and it comes at a considerable expense. We intend to guide you to charitable organizations where you can seek the assistance you require. However, it’s important to realize that our church policy primarily extends aid to pastors’ families, and since you don’t hail from such a background, we cannot extend that help to you.” Reflecting upon the disconcerting incident at Karura SDA Church and the unsettling revelation that the previous day’s preacher was the very individual who had forcibly ejected me from the church premises the prior Friday, I resolved to heed their counsel promptly and departed from the church compound, resolute in avoiding another expulsion. I subsequently boarded the church minivan, with Mr. Caleb at the wheel, Kiama in the front passenger seat, and Ouma and me occupying the back seats, en route to the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) located on Denis Pritt Road.

The paragraph inaugurating the November 1997 Amnesty International report, titled “The dead can no longer be counted” (“On ne peut plus compter les morts”), stems from an anonymous account given by a Gisenyi resident in northwestern Rwanda. During the span of October, November, and early December 1997, Amnesty International was inundated with near-daily accounts detailing the killing of unarmed civilians within Rwanda. These accounts were characterized by extrajudicial executions carried out by soldiers from the Rwandese Patriotic Army (RPA), as well as deliberate and indiscriminate killings perpetrated by armed opposition factions. Instances of particularly grave violations committed by both sides are presented within this very report. The geographical focus of these distressing incidents primarily lay in the northwestern Gisenyi prefecture, with additional occurrences reported in the adjacent Ruhengeri prefecture. More recently, instances of killings have also surfaced in the centrally located Gitarama and Rural Kigali prefectures. This document constitutes an update to a previous 55-page report issued by Amnesty International on September 25, 1997, titled “Rwanda: Ending the Silence” (AFR 47/32/97), which outlined the human rights landscape in Rwanda spanning from January to September 1997.

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DR. WILLIAM

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Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM