Each night is weighed down by the hope of the day that follows. Our hopes were subtle, unconscious, and simple. We hoped that the morning would not be too long and that we would quickly get rid of our books. Above all, we hoped to catch one or two birds, run and laugh together. We hoped to prolong these moments as much as possible before being forced to go back. Before adding to the slumbering sun with new hopes. Subtle. Unconscious. Ours.

At night, I thought about the jokes I would tell Germain. I thought about the questions I should ask Isaac. I never understood why there were two "a’s" in his name. I wondered what he did with the second. Perhaps, I already thought, his parents had a plan for that second letter.

We knew our parents had plans. We, as little children, saw in our parents' eyes greater, more conscious, and distant expectations than our own. We did not understand all of them, but we knew.

In the morning, I went to school after eating. Between the greenery of trees, the birds' singing, and the wind's breath, there was me. Me and my hope that the morning would not last, that the books would pass quickly. There was also me and my consolation in my mind; the presence of Marie.

I have never seen a girl with teeth as white as hers. I had always been impressed by her smile, the dimples on her cheeks, and the purity of her teeth. Sometimes, I looked at her and thought of the birds' singing in the morning. Her smile was as light and sweet as that. During the breaks, I called her name very loudly, then hid to see her turn around. I liked that.

According to reports, her parents were from Butare, Rwanda. Her late father had taught there. Her father and mother died together in an accident. She lived in our village with her mother's half-sister.

I am from here, my father was born in this village, but my mother, like Marie, was born on the other side of the border. In Rwanda. I wanted to be like my father. On Saturdays, my father recited poetry to Yona, my mother, and here I am.

I also wanted to recite love poems to Marie and marry her. To marry a Rwandan and have children.

The roses are red/The trees are green/My perfume is pleasant/And so are you. / Bella's flowers reach/Up to the serene skies. / The voice is sweet/And so are your eyes. / Unity/Work and love/Are as beautiful/As together our union...

That morning, I had not thought of poetry or Rwanda. Germain, Isaac, and I had to check if the traps we had set the day before were successful.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise. Then, I heard nothing. I became deaf. The loud noise deafened me, and a great dust rose.

When the dust cleared, there was a hole in the roof. Germain and Isaac were no longer there. There was only blood and pieces of human beings. I was on the ground, unable to walk.

The Saint-Gilbert school in Biruma is in mourning. Papa Joseph mourns Germain. Mama Sifa mourns Isaac. My two comrades sleep with banana tree roots. Underground. Fear makes the village run at the slightest noise. The authorities spoke of a bomb and the M23. People spoke of Rwanda hating the Congolese. All Rwandans. All Congolese. Yet, my father, Papa Promedi, has always loved my mother, Mama Yona.

I have never understood what was good about walking every morning among the green of the trees, after the dew of dawn, to go and lock oneself up between four walls where one is deprived of the joy in the wind and the beauty of games. And yet Rwanda knows how to love Congo.

I still remember, it feels like yesterday. My hands wove through your hair, wild and free in the breeze. Like a young explorer, I traced every inch of your skin. First, the parts everyone can see. Your fingers intertwined with mine, fitting perfectly into the curves of my hand. I brushed against your hairy leg. I pressed myself close, feeling the warmth of your bare shoulders.

And we were each other’s…

Later, I ventured to more forbidden corners. A meticulous explorer, I left no part of your body unknown to me. I knew you. You knew me. We belonged to each other. We belonged… But not tonight. Tonight, the light has fled your eyes. Tonight, you long to belong to another. To shatter the vows you spoke with such joyful air. To break my heart, which loved you wholly. A torrent of tears lies in wait beneath my eyelids. The light saw it, felt shame, and slipped away.

For four hours, the electricity has been gone. Aurora, outside, rain falls in torrents, as if the sky itself understands my sorrow and weeps with me. You sit beside me in the darkness, your body bare, our bodies unclothed. What do you expect me to say? Your skin brushes against mine, its soft bristles stirring my own, just as they did on that first day. The warmth of your flesh is nothing compared to the pain you’ve etched into my heart.

I spent years losing myself joyfully in you. Today, I’ve wandered, weakened, beneath an all-knowing, mournful sky, faltering in you under heavens that weep. Then you sat me down and told me everything. You said I was lucky to have you, with your dark skin and blue eyes, but that my luck wouldn’t last forever. You blamed me for the child we still don’t have, despite the rivers I’ve poured into you. You said another was more handsome than I am. To me, who thinks of you constantly, who sows hope for our future, who watches the dog sleep and hears the rooster’s cry, who twice kept death from claiming you. You said I no longer see you, no longer love you. You said your lips would now be strangers to me.

You say you belong to another…

Aurora, you know how to bring nightfall over an entire life. Your lips know it. They declared that your heart and soul, today, belong to another. Here you are, sitting with me in the darkness, your body bare, our bodies unclothed. What do you expect me to say? I will stay silent. My thoughts, though, churn and boil.

Aurora, all at once, the fork with its filed-down tines feels fitting. I love the damp forest and its soil teeming with termites, where bodies turn to earth. Aurora, I imagine heads rolling down distant slopes. Over there. Suddenly, I love our police and their shoddy investigations, our state that halts at the capital’s edge. I love this darkness and the silence that has fallen over the capital. At last, I rejoice in knowing the other, in having trusted him, in knowing where he lives.

Aurora, I want to tell you. I love you, but the other will not have you.

This is an English translation of “Cher Aurore, l’autre ne t’aura pas” a short story originally published in French on Mondoblog (blogging website of Radio France International).

The saddest part is that the topics aren't that different. I read books, magazines, and watch videos. Everywhere, the same subjects. The troubles of African countries are old and sadly still relevant. These troubles, now wrinkled, wear new clothes, visit new cities, but remain the same. The span of a lifetime, the time since independences, has changed nothing for the better in the living conditions of African countries. Yesterday and today (hopefully not tomorrow), the relationship between the Global South and the North remains unchanged. Why, who benefits from the power structure, and more importantly, why even bother writing about these things?

It’s 01:30 AM. I’m transcribing what I wrote on paper. On YouTube, a replay of a live broadcast is on the screen. For three hours and 53 minutes, they talked about “Russia’s agents in Africa.” This kind of video is far from scarce.

Whether in videos, on the radio, in the streets, or less so in writing, the discourse on the state of Africa is widespread around the continent. This is for simple reasons:

You have to restrain yourself not to talk (or write) about it

Since the space that surrounds us has been given a name from the outside: Africa. We have to find words to talk about Africa or restrain ourselves not to talk about it. It is quite clear that the need to talk about it is there. We must find words to explain why a 91-year-old president (over 40 years of which on the throne) disappears and then reappears after weeks of absence. Why one must swim to reach home after a rainstorm, why... All these things, which words in reports, in the lines of law, or in budget figures presume nonexistent, exist in reality. So, we must find words to acknowledge them or suffer in silence. When words say that the weak and the strong are equal, and yet the rising days crush the poor, we need words to recognize it. To say it. To name and notice it.

Speaking of my Africa

People are proud of Africa. On social media and in public. The pression of the society, the deciders of good, are asking me to take pride in the uglinesses to the point of scorning anything that might reveal the beauty we know is so inexorably present. If those who love Africa (or the South) with the soft touch of words that speak of a beauty that does not exist happen to read this, I ask for their forgiveness. To those who can only see beauty, even when they are lost in oceans of darkness and peculiarity, I ask for a little compassion if they still have any left. True compassion will make this continent rise, real compassion and truth.

We must write Africa because it is changing

And yes, I’m wrong. The topics are not all old. There are challenges Africa faces today (which may worsen) that it didn’t face a few years ago. I think, for example, of its expanding cities or its security issues.

I am Omaw Buame, and I am writing this newsletter to show Africa in a simple way. Here, I will write to you about Africa as I live it and feel it. I’ll tell you about its culture, I won’t hide its ugliness, and I’ll show you its extravagant beauty.

I will send you newsletters of all kinds, including literary fiction. I also will share some profound poetry with you. I hope you’ll enjoy it. Feel free to subscribe and share it with those around you. Let me know what you think as well.

Thanks and see you soon.