Building Bridges - Part Three
Part Three: Genocide
The bridge construction progressed rapidly. We completed excavation in a matter of days, filled the foundations completely with rocks, and began raising the tiers. While we mixed mortar for building the walls of the tiers, I traded English and Kinyarwanda with Nzeyimana and taught him to sing, “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.” His grin was contagious and illuminated his face under his floppy sunhat as he pointed to his head, shoulders, knees, and toes and pronounced the words in English. He doubled over in laughter when I asked if he could sing it backward. Nzeyimana could have been a Hollywood star in an alternate universe – I imagined him rolling up in a limousine, stepping out to flashing cameras, clad in tuxedo and sunglasses. He reminded me of someone who had thought of something funny and couldn’t suppress a smile – this was Nzeyimana all the time. Every morning, he arrived at the worksite smiling and cheerful, greeting everyone on the Duke team warmly by name. When we shook hands, he would raise his eyebrows and whisper gleefully, “Adam! Last night, Nzeyimana and girlfriend jigga-jigga too much.” He grimaced jokingly and rubbed his sore back. “Work today…bigger, bigger problem.” It didn’t take me long to figure out what jigga-jigga meant, and then I realized why Nzeyimana was always so happy.
A few days later, as I handed rocks from the pile up to the masons working on the tiers, Aisha left her spot mixing concrete and approached me. “Adam, give me a sweatshirt,” she said. I shrugged and handed her the grey Nike pullover I brought to work every day. Why did she need my sweatshirt? When Aisha returned, she handed me back the sweatshirt. She had twisted it into a pad and tied it off with a spiral of twine. Smiling, she demonstrated how I should place the pad on my head and use it to carry rocks that way. I swelled with appreciation. “Urakoze chane, Aisha!” I said, shaking her hand. “Thank you very much!”
Aisha’s sweatshirt head pad changed everything. I marveled at how it dispersed weight and cushioned my head from the sharp edges. Instead of the rock pressing unevenly on one shoulder or the other, now it rested centrally on my head, its weight dissipating throughout my body – a much more effective technique. As I reveled in my newfound rock-carrying tool, Nzeyimana flashed a smile, puffed out his chest, and put his hands on his hips with pride.“Adam, head!” He gave a thumbs-up, using his new English vocabulary.
“Head very good!”
One day, under the harsh sun, Nzeyimana wiped beads of sweat from his forehead after we finished shoveling another pile of mortar. “Adam,” he said, looking up at me. “I go to America?” I leaned on my shovel, exhausted. “I go to America one day?” he repeated sincerely. “How much to go airplane to America?” Nzeyimana smiled and waited for my answer. I calculated the price of a plane ticket. A pit formed in my throat. Nzeyimana would have to shovel wet mortar in the searing heat for five more years to purchase but one ticket to America. I didn’t have the heart to tell him - he would never, under any circumstances, set foot in America.
Despite the outwardly friendly atmosphere at the worksite, muted feelings of strain lurked under the surface. I found myself scanning the faces of the Rwandan construction workers while I carried rocks or mixed concrete, peering into their eyes, wondering what they concealed. 1 million killed in 100 days. By sheer statistics, everyone had a story, yet nobody said a word. Observing Jamvier, I noticed a deep scar crossing the top of his forehead – he had been using the wool beanie to hide it. I recalled how my conversation with Aristide had quelled to awkward silence.
“What about the Genocide?” I had asked hesitantly.
Until then, neither of us had brought up the topic, but I could tell, by the look on his face, that Aristide had known the question was inevitable. His bright smile faded. Sinking back against the bench, he sighed. “Even today, it’s a very complex issue for Rwandans. People still have history and memories from twenty years ago, and a lot of the emotions haven’t gone away.” He looked directly into my eyes.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t bring up the Genocide.”
To be continued next week!
About the Piece
Dedicated to the people of Base, Rwanda. In loving memory of the beautiful times we had. I can’t wait to see you again soon.
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