I was born in 1997, in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), the neighbor of Rwanda.
My mother’s name is MURORUHIRWE Edith. I grew up only with her—I never saw my father.

As a child at ages 3, I spoke the Congolese local language, though I don’t know for sure if it was Swahili. At that time, I had full hearing and could hear loudly and clearly.

I witnessed many frightening things, but to me they felt normal. Youth used to patrol the roads, marching and singing like soldiers in the local language. At that age 3, I had no understanding of life or politics, so even scary things felt ordinary.

Some of the songs I still remember:

“ANIGISANGANI ANIGISANGANI”

“HIYA HIYA COMOKA BAJYESIWE HE!!!”

My mother and I lived in a very small house near the road, with neighbors around us. She often took me to the farm early in the morning, around 4 AM, before sunrise. She would put me down with some food while she started digging the land with a hoe to prepare for planting.

I remember the morning call of a dove (Inuma in Kinyarwanda), singing: “Gugu segateke, gugu segateke.” Since becoming deaf, I no longer hear this bird.

After working, my mother would tie me on her back and carry me home.

During the day, I played with friends, some older and some younger. We climbed on abandoned cars and trucks—old military and civilian vehicles left behind. We pretended to drive them and had fun.

But I also faced danger. One morning, I woke up unable to open my eyes. I called for my mother three times, shouting that I could not see. She rushed in, stressed, and put medicine in my eyes. Suddenly, they opened again. That moment was terrifying—I almost became blind.

Life with my mother was difficult. We were not rich. She worked with neighbors, though I don’t know if she was paid.

At night, the streets outside were always noisy. Petrol sellers would bang bottles and shout to attract buyers:

“Mugure petrol petrol weee!”

“Muguru muzitu muzitu weee!”

The area was full of both Rwandan refugees and Congolese families living together.

My uncle BUGINGO Alfred sometimes came to visit. I thought he might be my father because he came and went without staying. Later, I believed he lived in Rwanda, across the border between Rubavu District (Rwanda) and Goma (DRC).

When I was once in hospital, I heard a Swahili gospel song:
“Nitaingia na moto nayola, Mungu akubana na moto, nitaingia na moto…”

Outside, another voice played a Bob Marley song:
“Azariko ya o Mwananzambe, azariko ya o Mapendo na Lokonzambe…”

One of my neighbors had a wedding. My mother helped by cutting potatoes and cooking. I played with kids but often went to her crying, saying, “Mama, ndashonje” (Mother, I’m hungry).

After the wedding, people played a prank. A man was sleeping on a desk, and others killed a snake, buried it, and later placed it near him. When he woke up and saw it, he screamed and jumped like a crazy man. Everyone laughed.

Later, my mother brought me back to Rwanda, to my grandparents’ home. There I met my uncles:

BUGINGO Afrodis and his wife Vivianne

BUGINGO Jean Aime, who was still young and a student.

The house was large, with many rooms, but I never met my grandparents—they had already passed away, and I never saw their photos.

The house was surrounded by banana plantations on the hillside. My family worked by cutting plantains, burying them in the soil for a few days, then uncovering them to make juice and banana wine.

Many people came to buy the wine. It was not only my uncle—many neighbors also made wine from their own plantains. It was part of life in that region.

When my uncle and his wife moved to a house a few kilometers away—near his brother BUGINGO Alfred—my mother took the grandparents’ house with a young uncle, Jean Aime. We continued living together, sharing small things: food, help with farm work, and visits. Outside the house, my uncles who lived separately would sometimes take me to their homes when my mother was away. I felt love for the one uncle at times and preferred his house because of the care he gave.

BUGINGO Alfred had a daughter, Emma Linca, and I went to see my beautiful cousin when she was a baby. The uncle who lived together with us later had a son Dickson my other young cousin and many guests came to visit for the celebrations. Their house held many parties with a joyful mood, unlike my mother’s home where we rarely had such events. My mother sold fruits big bananas, small bananas, mangoes in Gisenyi and across to Goma in the DRC to make a living. When she went to work, I often chose to visit my uncles and play with the kids: games like imboma and ibijenje, hide-and-seek among banana plants, and other local childhood games. 

This picture is me as little boy, my mother held my cousin Linca

When I turned 7 i started school, my uncles discussed putting me in primary school because my friends were already going. I was enrolled in Primary 1 at Kiroji in Gisenyi (now Rubavu). I didn’t like studying at first and would run to my friends’ classes. Once when the teacher counted students and I was missing, she found me sitting with friends and sent me back to my proper class. During break time many students had coins to buy juice; I had no money and felt left out. One day I was sent to collect 50 RWF from uncle Alfred for dinner, but I hid the coin and later used it to buy juice at school. When uncle asked where the money was, I lied and was punished.

This is my old primary school, it is when I was hearing enrolled here and left when hearing lost and never returned.

There was often noise outside movies and gatherings and I was curious about them. At a Saturday patronage at Kiroji school, I saw a deaf person called Nshuti for the first time. Hearing people made jokes and insulted him, calling him “kiragi” (dumb/mute). I was surprised and uneasy at how people treated him. Later, I fell ill in class, was sent home, and then slipped into a coma for about three to four weeks.

In the year 2002, while in primary school, tragedy struck. I suddenly fell sick and fainted, slipping into a coma. When I woke up, strange noises filled my head—like airplanes, arguments, and crowds but nobody else could hear them. After weeks in the hospital, I was discharged.

The next morning, I joined my childhood friends to play. On my way, my hearing suddenly blocked. My mother called my name many times, even threw a stone to get my attention, but I didn’t respond. When I finally told her, “Sorry, Mom, I can’t hear,” she was shocked.

My uncle tied me to a bicycle and rode me to many hospitals and pharmacies, but nothing could restore my hearing. I was now deaf. This left me depressed, unhappy, and excluded. My family decided I should not continue school, unlike my cousins who were educated, valued, and loved.

I felt neglected. My uncles from Kigali would visit, bringing gifts for their children, but nothing for me. My heart was deeply wounded.

In this picture, it is me after lost hearing.