THE HOUSE WITH THE CRIMSON ROOF

Past Gatare’s last road, everything changes. A congregation of nuns bought up the old soccer field and built shops in its place. The district offices moved into a new five-story building. The Red Lion’s terrace now extends all the way to the street, facing cell phone and beauty-cream boutiques. A neon-lit service station has replaced the run-down gas pump. In Gatare, on the other hand, every bush and tree between the low adobe houses looks familiar, as do the people going about their routines within their hedge-lined courtyards, among broods of children, chickens, and goats.

The birds continue regardless, unruffled. The ashen cranes still lift their beaks to sing in the first glimmer of daybreak, followed soon after by the throaty cooroo-cooroos of the green turacos. As one advances in the thicket, one spots them between rays of sunlight (that is, if a mooing cow doesn’t suddenly intrude), sporting their green crests and matching breasts, hopping from branch to branch as if to entice their fellows to join the choir. Then, over the rhythm of stamping pestles, as the cooking-pot smoke and the hymns of young house girls rise from the courtyards, the bush erupts in a symphony of songs, among which those of gonoleks, weavers, and bee-eaters—birds no longer heard on Gatare’s main street. For along with the new asphalt and electricity, armies of pied crows have landed from Kigali, their caws overwhelming all but the swallows, which fly too high to be bothered.

A roof of crimson sheet metal sets Édiths Uwanyiligira’s house apart. To my great surprise, she offers me home-distilled honey-sweet urwagwa left over from the young orphans’ wedding she hosted the day before. Although I boarded at her place for several months, I never had the chance to taste the fruits of her talents as a distiller. Her house, a haven of cheer removed from the racket of the street, is open to all. Her hospitality flows from good-natured sanctimoniousness. In the late afternoons, a bevy of guests stop by: neighborhood women gabbing as they fill their jerry cans with water at the tap; ladies from the parish gossiping about the clergymen, who are, of course, the most frequent of Édith’s visitors. She loves to hear the cooing of the priests, deacons, guitarists, and choristers, all devout parishioners who gather at her place to commune in song and prayer and sometimes laughter—because one can hardly resist Édith’s mirth—as their impatient eyes gaze hungrily at plates of sweets and their nostrils thrill to the kitchen’s aromas.

A new priest has dropped in today for a sip of drink. It didn’t take long for him to learn where he might find a fine reception. He launches into a fiery theological discussion. He is brilliant, young, and handsome, which Édith can’t help noticing. Still, although she is sincerely devoted to her congregation and holds limitless admiration for the priests, she will only ever love one man on earth, her husband, who was taken from before her eyes in their frantic escape from the machetes. His name was Jean-de-Dieu Nkurunziza, about whom one pleasant evening she had this to say: “My husband and I always lived as happily as newlyweds. We had loved each other since childhood. We grew up just five hundred meters apart on the very same hill. After secondary school, we loved each other for real—we got married. The day of our wedding, I was decked out in a white embroidered dress like in the photos. A crowd of elegant and joyful people came. My husband and I loved each other more than was necessary. I was capricious. He loved me too much and even preferred that I leave the housework alone.”

Sometimes, when the memory of her husband’s death brings her to the brink of a bewildering void, headaches or violent fevers keep her confined to her bedroom, where she stays to avoid stumbling or collapsing in front of the children. Several days later, she will reemerge, cheerful once again.

A band of kids bustle in the courtyard, some washing up at the tap or playing stick and hoop, others plunging their hungry hands into a big plate of fufu or pestering a duck and its ducklings—just as they had during my first stay here fifteen years ago. It makes one wonder if, within the walls of this little realm, the children have aged as little as those in children’s books. Except, that is, for Sandra, Édith’s daughter. Fifteen years ago she was an impish little girl, looking out onto the world with big, inquisitive eyes and ruling over the horde of kids in the courtyard. She was a touch wild, always ready to bolt on her matchstick legs toward new adventures.

Today she is a slender young woman, easygoing and headstrong, as thin as her mother is plump. She inherited Édith’s exuberant cheerfulness and tremendous courage, which help her to confront the neurological disorder that afflicts her.