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seemed to have evaporated. Neighbors supported each other, and everyone made their living from agriculture, with fishing on the side. Children helped adults in the fields. Mukoma’s red soil was fertile, yielding corn, sorghum, millet, beans, peanuts, onions, celery, and eggplant. Most families had sheep and goats as well as cows. Though not prosperous, theirs was a comfortable, harmonious existence.

      As Charles and I walked or drove together, we discussed our hopes, dreams, strengths, and weaknesses. We became convinced that we were meant for each other, and we promised to stick together through good days and bad. After some months, he drove me to Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, to get the working visa I needed in order to stay and work in Rwanda.

      We set our wedding date for December 26, 1987.

      Charles had planned for us to be married in the Catholic Church, in keeping with his background. But as soon as he appeared at my parents’ home on Christmas Day, I knew something was wrong.

      My levelheaded fiancé looked distraught. When I hurried to meet him, he said that the Hutu priest of Shangi Parish, to which Mukoma belonged, was refusing to marry us. The priest said it was because Charles was marrying a Protestant, yet he had known our intention for months and could have raised his objections before the last day.

      “I bet it’s because we’re Tutsi,” Charles said. We never learned the priest’s reason, but he later went to prison for his part in the genocide against our people.

      When Charles told my parents our predicament, they went straight to their own pastor. He assured us that everything would work out. After spending some hours talking with Charles, he baptized him. And the next day he married us.

      Tateh Damaris, Tateh Ephraim, and many other relatives and friends from Rwanda and Burundi came to the Congo to attend our wedding. After the ceremony at my parents’ church, we all drove to Rwanda to celebrate at my in-laws’ compound in Mukoma. We had invited many more acquaintances to meet us there.

      Frequently, Tutsi entering Rwanda from the Congo or Burundi would be refused entry; so I was apprehensive as our cortege approached the crossing into Rwanda – especially as some of our guests had no travel documents. Amazingly, none of us was detained. No one was even asked to display ID.

      This was the same border at which I had been thrown out of Rwanda the previous year, so I felt like a queen when guards flung the barriers wide for my wedding party. This welcome seemed a Christmas wedding miracle, along with the sun that shone so brightly in usually wet December.

      Mukoma villagers built a wedding canopy overlooking Lake Kivu, and my sisters-in-law cooked huge pots of rice over outdoor fires and prepared the traditional mixed grill of beef, lamb, and goat served with vegetables and onions. This was no small task. Since Charles and I both came from large families and had numerous friends, over four hundred wedding guests were pulling into Mukoma.

      My bridegroom’s coworkers arrived, including the Chinese engineers he knew so well. Even Cimerwa’s three directors, who later became deadly enemies, joined our festivities that day. Everyone took part in the singing, and our guests drank as much banana beer and Fanta as they wished.

      Blooming acacia and lemon trees and plantations of banana, avocado, coffee, and eucalyptus flowed down to the shore. There could be no lovelier setting for our wedding celebration, I was certain. The blue water sparkled below us, backed by Congo’s green mountains fading into misty distance. Charles and I were perfectly happy.

      Fortunately we had no inkling that our marriage would last only seven years – or that we would live together for less than three.

      IN BUGARAMA, we were assigned a quality brick house in the row reserved for company management. Each spacious residence on our street was surrounded by tall cypress saplings and a high chain-link fence covered with rush matting for privacy.

      Settling in and decorating our home was a pleasure for us both – especially for me. I felt like a bird adding the final feathers to its nest.

      With free medical service on site, plus a nursery school financed by the business, almost everything we might need was at hand. Nyakabuye, the market town where we bought fresh vegetables and fruit on Saturdays, was a mile and a half from Bugarama’s factory and housing complex. The company kept the road in excellent condition.

      High-ranking staff, including my husband, used Cimerwa cars for trips; a white bus – nicknamed “Apartheid” by those who were not allowed to use it – took wives of executive employees to Muganza every Friday for shopping. I was one of these privileged few. When common workers needed to travel, they had to catch a ride on the Daihatsu Transporter that carried both goods and passengers.

      Walking was still our favorite way to relax. Evenings after work, we often hiked out to our vegetable plot, where we planted some basic crops. We were entitled to this allotment, near the quarry where Charles had first proposed to me, because of his company status.

      Or we strolled around the factory grounds. We would visit the night crew, and Charles had them show me their work. Most impressive was the kiln where a mixture of red clay, quartz, travertine, and slurry was heated to 2,700 degrees Fahrenheit – approximately the temperature of molten lava. We had to wear special glasses to look into this furnace, even though we kept a safe distance from the heat.

      A week into married life, I started working for Cimerwa, in administration. I purchased supplies, maintained office equipment, and was responsible for tickets to the workers’ canteen. I liked my supervisor, a Chinese lady called Li.

      Another young employee, Annemarie, came by each day for the meal tickets. She took time to help me build my Kinyarwanda vocabulary and improve my pronunciation, and we became friends. We soon found we had much in common. Like me, Annemarie sought God’s guidance in every aspect of life, and we shared our hope that our husbands would someday do the same.

      Before entering marriage, I had pictured it as heaven on earth. Now I realized that not every problem disappears at your wedding. In fact, new ones emerge.

      Beginning and ending each day with prayer had always been essential for me. After Charles and I were married, I expected my husband to lead ours, as my father had always done for my family.

      Looking blank, he said, “I have no idea how to pray.”

      Startled, I reminded him that he had been baptized before our wedding.

      “My last prayer was at seminary, when the Hutu were trying to kill us,” he admitted.

      “Just offer a word of thanks, from your heart,” I said. As Charles did, I mentally added, “Help me win him for you.”

      Church had also been central in my life, so I was distressed that Charles spent Sundays on other activities. I joined his jaunts to visit friends, playing the loyal wife, but I missed spiritual fellowship.

      One day I opened the door in answer to a knock and was surprised to see five people outside. I recognized them as Cimerwa colleagues, and they now introduced themselves as a prayer group. I invited them in.

      The leader’s name was Oscar. He said his wife, Consolée, had heard that a young believer had moved in, and they wanted to get acquainted. I told them my situation, and we were soon reading the Bible and singing together. Oscar and Consolée soon became some of my closest friends, and through them I got to know more Christians in the area.

      CHARLES AND I were both thrilled, a year into our marriage, to realize I was pregnant. Coming from big families, we both wanted the same.

      Secretly hoping our first child would be a boy and our second a girl, as in my own family, I dreamed of raising sons and daughters in the fear of God. My husband’s dream was not identical to mine, yet he, too, meant to do his utmost for our child. He was keen to provide a good education and to raise a well-behaved family. Respectful children give their parents a good reputation in our culture.

      As the weeks and months inched toward my due date, I seesawed between expectation and anxiety. I missed my mother. “Lord, I don’t know how to raise a child,” I prayed. “You will have to show me how. And please, protect our little one.” I was determined to

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