Upon receiving the call from the team I had hired to search for my mother and two younger siblings in the Congolese jungle of Biambe, informing me of their discovery, I was initially filled with disbelief. It seemed too good to be true, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were merely trying to elicit excitement from me in the hopes of receiving additional funds. Prior to their expedition, I had equipped them with two Chinese smartphones and a portable solar cellphone charger, ensuring they could stay connected while journeying back into the Congolese jungle to locate my mother. As a deposit for their services, I had entrusted them with $2,600 and committed to providing the remaining $4,400 upon successfully reuniting me with my mother. The total fee they requested was $7,000, with a promise of a refund should they fail to locate her. These individuals were well-known among most Rwandan refugees in Nairobi, having built a reputation for their expertise in family reunification by tirelessly searching, finding, and reconnecting refugees living in Nairobi with their long-lost loved ones from the depths of the Ituri forest. Knowing that their own families resided in Nairobi provided some assurance that they would honor their refund commitment if, against my hopes, they were unable to find my mother. Nevertheless, doubt still lingered as many years had passed with no news of my mother’s whereabouts. Despite my reservations, I chose to hold onto hope and requested that they provide photographic proof of their discovery, a promise they made once they had settled after this momentous find.
Unlike the year 2000 when the majority of people in Africa lacked access to cellphones, the landscape had significantly changed by 2012, with smartphones becoming increasingly popular. Kenya, a country known for its educated and hardworking population, had witnessed a surge in the availability of affordable Chinese smartphones in electronic outlets across Nairobi. It was this growing prevalence of smartphones that gave me the confidence to request that the team searching for my mother send me photographic proof of their discovery. They assured me that once they reached a place called Butembo town, where they could purchase airtime units and access the internet, they would send me the photos I eagerly awaited. After about a week, two momentous photos arrived in my Facebook inbox. As I stared at them, seated on a hotel room bed in Arusha, Tanzania, I found myself gazing at the ceiling in sheer disbelief, whispering, “This is my mother.” In the photos, she wasn’t alone; she was accompanied by two young children who, I later learned, were my long-lost siblings whom I had never met. I hastily sent them a message confirming that indeed they had found my mother. It was a momentous occasion; after nearly 15 years, I was finally seeing my mother again. My last memory of her dated back to that fateful night in the Kibumba refugee camp, just hours before Tutsi soldiers invaded the camp around 3 a.m., mercilessly slaughtering anything that moved. I had awakened to the deafening sounds of gunfire and the sight of bullets whizzing overhead. With no time to wake my mother or bid her a proper farewell, I fled, naked and terrified, into the depths of the Nyiragongo forest.
Now, 15 years later, as my siblings were entering their teenage years, I received the astonishing news that my mother was still alive. It was a revelation that struck me with disbelief because millions of Hutu refugees had met their tragic end, both inside Rwanda and within the unforgiving depths of the DR Congo. I had never dared to entertain the hope that my mother could have survived the relentless onslaught by Tutsi soldiers. She had sought refuge in the Congolese forest after Tutsi soldiers, under the command of General Kayumba Nyamwasa, had brutally taken the lives of her husband and several of my siblings in a place called Mukingo commune in 1998, located in northern Rwanda’s Ruhengeri region. The realization that there was an increased chance of reuniting with my mother left me overwhelmed with joy. I fell to my knees on the hotel room floor, tears streaming down my cheeks, and with arms raised toward the ceiling, I offered heartfelt thanks to God. Amidst the flood of emotions, my lips stammered in gratitude, “You have done it for me once more.”
After enduring a week of anxious anticipation, fervently counting down the days until my mother’s arrival in Nairobi, the long-awaited call finally came. On the other end of the line, I heard my mother’s voice for the first time in 15 years. Her words filled my heart with a mixture of emotions, and as I listened, tears welled up uncontrollably, much like those of a helpless infant yearning for the soothing embrace of its distant mother. She, too, was overcome with emotion and asked, “Twayigize, my son, is it truly you?” With equal intensity, I assured her, “Yes, Mom, it’s me.” Her next words resonated with faith and gratitude as she said, “Now, I thank my God, for people may break their vows, but God cannot break His word (Heb. 6:17-19). His word is eternal and unchanging, just like His promises.” I could only respond with a heartfelt “Amen,” affirming my agreement with her profound words. Later that evening, they boarded the 7 p.m. bus in Kampala, destined for Nairobi and a long-awaited reunion. Positioned at the Mash Bus stop in downtown Nairobi, I eagerly awaited the moment that would mark the end of our 15-year separation.
When the bus finally pulled into the Mash station at Nairobi’s bus station that morning, my mother couldn’t contain her excitement. As soon as the bus doors opened, she stood up and made a beeline toward me. Our long-awaited reunion was marked by an embrace that seemed to stretch for eternity. She held me so tightly, squeezing every bone in my body, a gesture deeply rooted in our traditions, ensuring I was real and unharmed. Throughout the embrace, she whispered in our mother tongue, “Uwiteka Yadukore Ibikomeye Natwe Turishimye,” her favorite Bible verse from Psalm 126:2-4, which proclaims, “…The LORD has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.” For nearly 10 minutes, she refused to let go, showering me with blessings and words of gratitude, to which I responded with heartfelt “Amens.”
She then introduced my younger siblings to me, and their expressions were a mix of wonder and disbelief. It was understandable; they had never seen me before, and I looked much older than them. The questions must have swirled in their minds as they tried to place me in their lives. Who was this stranger claiming to be their older brother? Despite their initial confusion, there was also a glimmer of happiness in their eyes. For the first time, they were meeting their older brother, and the prospect of having a new family member filled them with a sense of joy and anticipation.
After our heartwarming reunion at the bus station, we made our way to a hotel where we would spend the next two weeks together. During this time, my mother’s days were marked by an unceasing chorus of praise and hymn songs, a continuous celebration of joy and gratitude. Sleep often eluded her, for the overwhelming joy of being reunited with her son left her wide awake. She would roam around our hotel room, arms reaching toward the heavens, showering praise and glorification upon God, thanking Him for keeping the promise she had believed in for so long. For years in exile, she had clung to the hope of seeing her son alive again, and now, that long-awaited day had finally arrived. Much of her time was spent reading the Bible, and she regularly gathered me and my siblings for heartfelt prayer sessions. Whenever I ventured outside the hotel, she would patiently stand by our room’s door, eagerly awaiting my return with open arms, ready to continue celebrating our miraculous reunion.
Whenever an opportunity arose, my mother would pose countless questions, her curiosity burning with the need to understand how I had survived. In return, I listened to her heart-wrenching accounts of the brutal fate that had befallen my father and my siblings at the hands of Tutsi soldiers. Some nights, our conversations would take a somber turn as she delved into the memories of the kids we had grown up with, the same children with whom we had played soccer and engaged in spirited games of hide and seek in our peaceful village. She recounted in vivid detail how they were ruthlessly taken away and mercilessly slaughtered by Kagame’s soldiers. The stories she shared were a tapestry of joy and sorrow, reflecting the stark contrast of our experiences during those turbulent years between 1996 and 1998.
Amidst the tales of our neighbors, friends, family, and acquaintances meeting tragic ends, one story pierced my heart deeply. It was the account of my childhood friend, “Ntuyenabo Deogratias,” affectionately known as “Doga.” The soldiers had cruelly seized him, along with his wife and their four-month-old baby, from his mother’s home. They forced him into the open market near Musanze caves, where unimaginable horrors awaited. In that macabre setting, Doga’s life was brutally extinguished as they severed his throat. His wife faced an unimaginable choice, as the soldiers demanded that she drink her husband’s blood to spare her own life. In a display of unimaginable courage and defiance, she refused and requested that they end her life alongside her beloved husband. Tragically, they first took the life of their innocent four-month-old son, a horrifying act witnessed by the entire community in disbelief. As the mother saw her precious child cruelly slaughtered, she couldn’t bear the weight of her grief and shock. She rushed toward one of the soldiers, who promptly ended her life with a fatal shot. Doga, his wife, and their son were left exposed in the open market, their lifeless bodies a haunting testament to the brutality of those dark days. Doga’s mother, upon witnessing this unspeakable horror, never recovered and spiraled into madness, forever scarred by sorrow, trauma, and unimaginable sadness.
As the time approached for me to return to the USA to continue my graduate studies, I shared with my mother how God had abundantly blessed me, drawing together people from distant corners of the world to contribute to the life she now witnessed. People had conveyed to her that God’s blessings were upon me, but it was only when she saw His grace manifested in our surroundings that she truly believed. She marveled at the hotel where we resided in Nairobi, the way we navigated the bustling city streets, and our visit to the majestic Kenyatta International Convention Centre (KICC). I explained to her that this very building had once housed my office, where I had served as a civil servant, and it became a symbol of the community, family, and friends that God had provided in a foreign land when my own country had seemingly betrayed me and conspired against my life.
I suggested that now God had reunited us and it was time for her to settle in Nairobi, where she would experience peace and be near me, allowing us to be together whenever I wanted. “In Nairobi, you won’t have to worry about being chased away by our potential threats, and I am more than capable of supporting you in your old age, given the blessings and abilities God has granted me,” I assured her with conviction. However, to my surprise, my mother lovingly reminded me of the solemn promises she had made to God during those 15 long years when we had no knowledge of each other’s survival or well-being.
She began, her voice filled with emotion, “My son, when your father and your siblings were tragically killed by the Tutsi soldiers in 1998, I prayed day and night, imploring God to preserve you—the first fruit of my womb—so that you could return to me and provide solace in my grief. I poured my heart into fervent prayers, fasting, and heartfelt pleas, making a solemn vow that if God would protect you and miraculously bring you back to me alive, I would devote the remaining years of my life to His service. Now that our gracious God has upheld His end of the bargain, I find it difficult to stay in this foreign land. I fear I won’t be able to serve Him as I should here, given my unfamiliarity with their language, customs, and beliefs. I’ve witnessed your remarkable journey, how you’ve not just survived but thrived, receiving a quality education, living in a peaceful country, and being embraced by kind-hearted people. It’s time for you to start your own family, raise your children in the knowledge of the Lord, and share with them the boundless goodness of our God.”
With profound conviction, my mother invited me to sit down with her, her weathered Bible in hand, its pages marked and underlined by the passage of time. She began to recite her favorite Bible verse from Joshua 24:15 (KJV), infusing it with her own interpretations that resonated deeply with me: “And if it seem evil unto you to serve the Lord, choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell (it was by God’s grace that you survived the killers of Kigali. It was by God’s miraculous hands that you came into these foreign countries, where you found favor with their people. It is by God’s grace that we are reunited today. This is why I have made the decision to serve our God, just as Joshua declared): but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
At that moment, a profound realization washed over me. I understood the depth of my mother’s commitment to our God, and her unwavering faith shone brightly. She remained resolute in her decision to return to Rwanda and devote the remainder of her days to serving the Lord, just as she had solemnly vowed. I didn’t want to be the reason she couldn’t keep her promise and commitment to our God. So, I embraced her decision, and together, we began the preparations for her journey back to Rwanda.
The brief time we spent together had a profound impact on me. It rejuvenated my faith and made me recognize the areas in which I was lacking. I made a personal vow to follow in her footsteps, inspired by her unwavering devotion and her determination to fulfill her promise to God. Her words, infused with her profound faith, served as a powerful testament to her unshakeable commitment, and they left an indelible mark on my heart.
With those heartfelt words, my mother embraced me tightly, imparting her blessings upon me as we then accompanied her to the bus bound for Rwanda, a place she had been away from for 15 long years. The house we once called home had been reduced to rubble by the Kagame’s government, a grim reminder of the past. I knew that we needed to rebuild her house from the ground up so that she could have a place to live, a sanctuary to call her own. With a final kiss goodbye, I left for the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport to catch my flight back to the USA. Our hearts brimmed with joy and gratitude, for our God had undeniably performed extraordinary deeds in our lives, despite our unworthiness.
As I boarded the plane bound for Boston, a profound sense of contentment enveloped me. Our God had faithfully fulfilled His promises, just as He had assured me during the vision within Kigali’s torture chambers. It became unequivocally clear that God’s benevolence, miracles, and favor had undeniably shaped my life. Filled with gratitude and a deep desire to pay it forward, I reaffirmed my commitment to invest more in supporting bright, underprivileged children from marginalized communities, including those residing in slums and urban refugee populations throughout East Africa. I firmly believed that this act was not only a means to share the message of God’s boundless love but also to provide these children with a second chance at life through access to education and opportunities for a brighter future, thus fulfilling the mission of our ministry, ANEHOPE.