A week ago, I traveled to Gisenyi, near the border of the Democratic Republic of Congo to see John's father who was sick.
We walked into his village pass his late sister's house, then towards his cousin's house. My older sister is buried there, he pointed to the foot of the tree. The wind rustled the leaves in the trees around us. The heat of the sun hit our skin. We followed him here to where his family lived. Children scurried around us, anticipating where we were going. We walked on the dirt path uphill through the grass and into a mud-brick house.
"Karibu," we heard the word 'welcome' beckoning us to come in. After we all greeted his mom, sister, niece, cousin, and neighbours, he asked if we wanted to see papa. Yes, we came all this way to see papa. We followed him into another room, and there in the shadows I saw the gentle face of John's father. A hand reached out from under the blankets and gripped the covers. The fingers seemed strong. Sunshine spilled in the room casting a warm glow on John's head and the bed on which his father lay.
John greeted his father softly and today his father recognized him. I came in and reached out to shake his father's hand. Muraho, I said, as I held his fingers. With fresh breath he mustered energy to squeeze out air to ask me, Amakuru? Ni Meza, I replied, still surprised he said something. John had told me he barely could talk or recognize people. Flo and Helen also greeted him. John gingerly lifted the blanket to explain his father's condition. There we saw the bed sores on his thighs on his legs. They were bent, muscles wasted away and the legs were not able to move on their own. Bed-ridden in a village home or in a fancy hospital, what matters most in the end is that your family cares and is around you.
I thought it would be nice for John to have a photo with his dad. He sat next to him by the bed. The green walls gave a dramatic backdrop to a memorable moment between son and father. Rays of sun dispersing down, softening the edges of their features. They had a resemblance to each other. Together side by side.
We saw John's father last week. Breathing every precious breath not knowing when it was his last.
A life of happiness, family, war, and pain...it was full. A refugee to the DRC with his family, then returning to Rwanda and rebuilding a life. Then having to flee again back to DRC during the 1994 Genocide. Did he know peace? I am curious to know more.
Today John sent a message to say his dad died. Born in 1914, he was 97.
