Mbabarira, or, my heart hurts

I have a slew of things to post from Congo, but right now, indulge me, from Kigali.

Mbabarira is Kinyarwanda for “Forgive me,” which is what I mean to say.

Today, I hosted a farewell party for myself in Kigali. I did this largely because it was the easiest way to see people I hadn’t seen since I ran away from Kigali to report from Uganda and Congo six weeks ago, and the result was magical. There were sparks between some of my Rwandan friends who didn’t know each other–intellectual sparks, conversation that popped and snapped and bubbled. I heard my friends speaking brilliantly about complex topics, in English and, at moments, in Kinyarwanda. And though I couldn’t understand much of the latter, the tone and the inflection made me realize I was in priveleged company.

And now, I think about these amazing people I spent time with here; I think about how many things I didn’t do, how much time I didn’t make for them, the many, many things I should’ve done… and I ache.

I leave this part of the world on Tuesday, and I can hardly stomach it. I know that I am the gazillionth mzungu to come here, and that I mean nothing to this place. But this place means so much to me that the very possibility of its indifference hurts; and the people mean so much more that I tear up a bit thinking about leaving. Not that my presence does anything for them…but they are my friends. We have traded the most secret of stories, and those are the people you want to be near.

And I must leave. Ever, again, with the leaving. By this time, I should be better at it. But I haven’t learned a good trick.

So if anyone knows how to make it easier, I’m all ears.