August 29 - Jovite

Dinner at Ethiopian restaurant

After several practices of awkward greetings with the group, I finally had my traditional hugging and handshake down and was ready to meet my father. It was sad that our orientation group was now going to devolve into individual homestays...but we would be reunited soon for international excursions and during our independent research period. The main questions still floating in my head concerned my fears about religion, divergent identities, and multicultural inclusion. But I was sure that I was analyzing too much, and needed to go with the flow in this instant more than anything else. My fears, apprehensions, and nerves needed to be replaced with a paradigm of openness, flexibility, and adaptability.

Anticipation had subsumed any other emotions I had been feeling previously, and the butterflies in my stomach had multiplied. I was picked up by host father near the hostel, Moucecore, we had been staying at for the orientation week. We embraced with a simple handshake, and his crooked smile connoted an accommodating and welcoming environment. I said goodbye to my orientation fellows and stepped into a car with a complete stranger on the dusty road leading to Kimironko…

His name is Jovite Rutiyomba, and he is 62 years old. With a bald head and glasses which slipped down his pointy nose, I could see that he was studious, sharp, and educated. He works as a consultant in construction and has three children – Briece (11 years old), Egide (19 years old), and Erneste (22 years old). Unfortunately, my host mother, Veneranda Nzamvazanaria, died in May 2000. The family is Catholic and attends Regina Paciss church near their home in Kimironko. 

Umudugudu Imanzi. Plot number 49. This would be my new home for the next couple of months. The house was quaint with more than enough space for three people to live. The first person I met was Welarse, the home’s “worker” or houseboy who helped with the chores and internal/external maintenance. My attention immediately turned to him, and by the looks of his downtrodden clothing and disingenuous smile, I could see a presence of undervalued work and a past of maltreatment.

Erneste, Jovite’s nephew, and my host brother gave me a long extended hug. We talked to each other about Shania Twain, Usher, and Eminem. American pop-culture had obviously invaded Rwanda and was making quite an impressionable impact. Erneste and I instantly bonded, and although the patriarchic environment was overwhelming and disconcerting at first, Erneste made me feel at home through a short Kinyarwanda lesson and a discussion about Rwandan politics and American exceptionalism.