Tale of Two Black Cities (II)

“Chika! No! How did you pass through immigration with this?” screamed my hostess. She held out the plastic bag containing what I had carefully selected from the mall and packaged as her gift. Her large eyes were now the size of twoakara balls, those delicious Nigerian bean cakes fried to perfection by the ever jovial grandmother at the side of the dilapidated road intersection.

Her reaction shocked me. I stared first at the bag, then at the stiff hands that rigidly held it out, before looking at the eyes that spoke of something I could not easily tell.

My heart began to beat widely as if I had just completed a black coffee drinking competition where I downed 30 cups in 10 minutes. Surely, someone must have slipped in some banned substance into my carry-on luggage while I waited for my Kigali flight. I stared at my hostess, as she repeated her question.

‘Chika, you mean you were allowed to carry this past the security checkpoint?” Clearly she expected an answer and was waiting for it.

“Carried what?” I swallowed hard and looked inside the bag as bottles of perfume and some work shirts showed through. I summoned courage and took the bag, peering inside it. I dipped my hand in the bag, retrieved the shirts and started to shake them thoroughly, expecting to see some white substance falling to the ground. Instantly, my hostess’ eyes returned to normal and glowed;

          “What a lovely shirt! How did you know I desperately needed work shirts” She was unbuttoning to try on the shirts as I stared at her.

 One moment she was screaming and the next, her face was lit with joy.

“What did I bring that is not allowed in the country?” I ignored her questions as to how I guessed her favourite colour.

“Oh! The plastic bags. They are not allowed in the country. I don’t know how you passed through immigration checks, they would usually seize it.’

“Are you kidding me? Plastic bags are not allowed in this country?”

 “Yes. But never mind. I will destroy this. You must not be caught on the streets carrying plastic bags of any type. It will be confiscated.”

Welcome to Kigali, Black man’s cleanest capital city; a city synonymous with death in modern world history. From Kigali in 1994, orders were issued that mandated the elimination of ten percent of the population, the minority Tutsi. At the end of the blood chilling exercise, one million Tutsi and moderate Hutu men, women and children lay dead. The entire country and particularly the capital city was unfit for human habitation. Corpses at various stages of decomposition littered the narrow, potholed and dusty streets. Skulls, femur, tibia, fibula and other skeletal remnants  - scraped clean by dogs – lay here and there. Thousands of homes were burnt down, government offices, hotels and hospitals had been raided and looted. Several technocrats, academicians, public intellectuals, civil servants, entrepreneurs had been murdered. Kigali was a dead city in 1994. Western interests, who watched unconcerned as the killings of black people who have neither oil, gold nor diamond to purchase their souls lasted, wrote off the country  as finished.

Nevertheless, guilt money poured in. The derelict Kigali International Airport was awakened with much vigour.  Western “development” experts poured in, briefcase carrying men and women, with little or no experience in post-genocide reconstruction, brought their pale skins as “resume,” a CV that most often grants the bearer unrestricted access to even the private bedroom of an African Head of State. In Rwanda, however, the expatriates were met with a different attitude. Paul Kagame and his freedom fighting men were not about to deliver the country into the uncaring hands of Western capitalist “development experts.” As if he saw years ahead  into the current crisis of development that has engulfed the West, President Kagame insisted that Rwanda must have a say in the terms of development of the country.

At first, he was treated suspiciously. Here comes another rent seeking African landlord, intent on corruptibly enriching himself with aid money. But President Kagame proved the doubters wrong. There are still men of dignity and integrity in Africa, men who care about their country and have vowed to give their lives for it. President Kagame happens to be one of them. He set to task with his team of carefully selected men and women, and began to rebuild Rwanda, economically, socially, politically, culturally and psychologically.

In Rwanda today, the black man feels human and proud to be associated with his people. It must be made clear, that it was not the penance-like pouring in of money by the “repentant” West that built Rwanda, but the discipline, tenacity and ability to live above seeking vengeance on the perpetrators of the genocide. As much aid has poured into the Democratic Republic of Congo, Uganda, and Kenya, but these countries are nothing compared to what Rwanda is today.

Kigali city is spotless. The bus drivers and conductors are so clean you could hire them as your secretary and plead with them to resume immediately. The markets are tidy, so tidy, you could sit on the floor and chill for a while in the midst of your shopping for organic fresh vegetables and fruits. The commercial motorcyclists are so well kitted, their motors so sound looking, that even a car owner would be tempted to ask for a jolly ride on them, every now and again. People are polite. There are no street fights going on between a conductor and an irate passenger, or a street hawker and a cheated buyer. Actually, there is no street hawking in Kigali.

The time is 1:00 a.m. on Friday, and young and old are walking the streets, some drunk from partying, but everyone is happy. I do not know of any other country in the world as safe as Kigali. Kigali is safe. Black and white, red and yellow walk the streets at all hours without fear of a stray bullet, or of being the direct victim of attacks. Education is free and 95% of all residents have health insurance.

The weather and environment in Kigali bear mentioning, also. While the extremities of the winter and summer in Washington D.C. could lead to bipolar disorder or mild depression, in the least, Kigali is the epitome of good weather. When it rains, it is just exactly as needed. When the sun shines, the weather retains its coolness. The pristine the cleanliness of the air in Kigali, and the awesome 24 hour breeze, bear no comparison at all with the carbon monoxide passed around as oxygen in Washington D.C. The mountainous terrains of Kigali, the beauty of the unpretentious, earth coloured brick houses portray life as real and cool,  contrasting sharply with the blood pressure inducing structures choking up residents of Washington D.C., but being acclaimed as the epitome of human civilization.

Yes, I will rather be in Kigali than in Washington D.C. where life for the average black person is aptly captured by the Hobbessian state of nature; nasty, brutish and short.  Nasty, because from the moment you wake up in the morning, it is clear to you that the society in which you live detests you, and places no value on your person. Brutish, because the white police officer has a right to shoot you, just for being a black man ask.  Short, because except you can afford the exorbitant health insurance, you will die in your bedroom from common infection for which no doctor will prescribe antibiotics. 

Yes I will rather be in Kigali where I can work and see the fruit of my labour, where I am regarded for the content of my character and not the colour of my skin. Kigali is where I am constantly reminded of the dignity of the black man and his tenacity in being able to rebuild his life from the scratch. Between Washington D.C. and Kigali, I will choose Kigali anytime, any day.