The bus trip to Kigali was rough: roads still bore marks of conflict and danger. In Kigali I stayed with uncle BUGINGO Emmanuel in Kimisagara, Nyarugenge District, with his wife and newborn. I missed my mother and cried at night. When that arrangement didn’t work, uncle Alfred moved me to his home in Nyamirambo. I still cried for my mother until one day another uncle from Gisenyi came and took me back home. Returning home brought joy and relief.

After becoming deaf, my family did not think I should continue at the previous school. I stayed home, wandering with friends and missing out because I could not hear or speak normally. My voice changed and people made fun of me—mocking my speech and calling me names. I begged them to call me Fabrice, but the teasing continued. Still, because their parents were friends and neighbors with my mother, I had to remain in that social circle.

This picture, in the right is my mother and left is my aunt uncle Bugingo Emmanuel’s wife, down is me.

In this picture, I wear hate with black shoe sign like a star. 

A friend’s father once noticed my deafness and invited my mother to his house. His family had a deaf son and they welcomed us kindly. They told my mother about a school for the deaf in Gisenyi. The next day we walked a long way to find that school, and the founder/teacher welcomed us. That day I met other deaf students and felt scared but curious. A teacher began to teach me basic signs using drawing and ink. I began to observe deaf interactions and felt the pull to learn sign language.

This is the man his name is Desire in the right wear black the founder of deaf community.

At the deaf school I learned some alphabet signs and basics. When I joined a deaf school, I faced difficulties. The school was not connected to government teaching programs. The founder was also the teacher, but he wasn’t a professional. He was an artist who painted clothes and managed the school alone without hiring teachers. When I returned to the neighborhood and tried signing, people laughed because they didn’t understand. I loved playing traditional games and competing with other children. I became close friends with a deaf boy (Nshuti), and we became like brothers protecting each other from insults and fights. Together we played football, made balls from balloons and thread, and sometimes got into trouble like stealing sugarcane or bananas to eat. 

The school deaf community, we hard display paroling on the biggest gathering from various parts. The spell says “deaf children” beside is founder of community. His name is Desire instructed us.

Life as a deaf child brought painful memories: teasing, fights, and being treated as less than others. I remember when my friend Nshuti’s father, a kind and respected policeman, died from the drown while swimming because it’s his role as a research or water protector. The community gathered to mourn. His mother struggled alone afterward; her businesses declined without her husband’s support. 

The whole family started to take care of themselves. It was sad to see business decline, but his mother tried to manage small things, like selling alcohol from the remaining land. Later, her first daughter got married legally, and it was a big celebration where I was also gathered. After some time, her second daughter married as well. The rest of the family stayed together. His mother’s sister, who seemed wealthy, owned the house we used as the school. We attended classes in the morning and left at noon.

My close deaf friend and I would walk home together. He always stopped at his mother’s shop to get money. He often cried and begged loudly until his mother gave him some coins. Afterward, we ate lunch together at his home, near the grave of his late father.

We loved hunting birds with handmade tools, especially in distant forests where larger birds lived. After hunting, we went to watch movies. I rarely had money, so I depended on my friend, who wasn’t afraid to beg or even steal from his family to pay for us. Watching movies became our favorite relaxation.

Sometimes I hated going to school, so I fled early in the morning to spend the day at the movie place. My uncle or his wife often forced me to carry water, and avoiding school gave me an excuse to escape this heavy work.

Around that time, my uncle from Kigali visited Rubavu and asked to take me and my friend to Kigali. It was my friend’s first time there. Life in Kigali was different—there were security gates, heavy traffic, and fewer freedoms compared to the village. But the food was delicious: bread and milk tea for breakfast, which I had never tasted back home.

One day, we were taken to a large religious assembly. The pastor prayed loudly, trying to heal us from deafness. He touched our ears and asked if we could hear, but nothing changed. After repeated prayers, he gave up. My family thought a miracle happened, but it was just false hope.

My uncle had taken us to Kigali because in Rubavu we had developed bad behaviors—fighting, misbehaving, and disrespecting people. He wanted to change us, but he didn’t understand our real needs as deaf children. Eventually, we returned to Rubavu.

When I came back, I discovered my mother had secretly married and moved to another house with her new husband. I was shocked and refused to live with them at first. Later, I joined them, but I was never comfortable.

One night, while we had dinner with my uncle, I didn’t realize it was the last meal with my mother. The next morning, the landlord woke me and told me my mother and stepfather had left for Kigali, leaving the house empty. I ran quickly and managed to find my stepfather with their belongings, but my mother was hiding. He lied, saying they weren’t leaving me, and offered me money to calm me down. Foolishly, I accepted and went home.

The landlord shook her head and said, “Why did you let them go? Do you really think they will come back?” That was the first time I felt abandoned. The landlord kindly told me I could stay with her, but in my heart I wondered if I should instead go to my uncle Bugingo Alfrodis’s home.

My uncle asked me to move to my grandparents’ house, where he lived with his wife Vivianne and their two sons, Bugingo Dickson and Bugingo Hubert. I agreed and walked there. Vivianne welcomed me, showed me my room, and asked me to inform the landlord, Petero, about my move. When I explained, Petero asked if I preferred living with my uncle instead of where I was. I didn’t know how to answer. I was just a shy, quiet child.

Carrying my belongings was embarrassing because they were old, dirty, and unpleasant. Among them was my worn-out foam mattress. That night, I sat with my uncle Bugingo Afrodis, his wife, and my other uncle Jean Aime. I asked when I would see my mother again. Afrodis didn’t respond, but Jean Aime said bluntly, “You will not see her.”

Life there was very difficult. I felt invisible, treated as if I didn’t matter—looked at but never valued. I wondered, “What am I to them? How can I survive like this?”

With limited guidance, I and my deaf friends sometimes escaped school to watch movies or wander the town. I learned to rely on my friend who could get money—sometimes by begging or taking from his mother. We hunted birds, played football, and lived freely but recklessly at times. I remember the goats at home, caring for them and feeling upset when one was sold or slaughtered. Looking back, my disability brought both painful moments and moments where I found resilience. Even without much hope or encouragement from my family, I held a dream to grow, learn, and become someone skilled and respected.

Whenever life at my uncle’s became unbearable, I ran to my teacher Desire. He often welcomed students into his home, offering food, conversation, and even letting us watch him exercise. I sometimes slept there secretly for days.

One day, at school, visitors named Zachary and Frederick came to meet Desire. They later invited us to their center for people with disabilities. We were given a special room for the deaf, while others practiced tailoring and crafts. Soon, we met a large group of guests from the USA. We welcomed them in sign language, and they promised to return with more support.

Later, Zachary invited us again to meet American guests who gave us beautiful clothes. But suddenly, Desire ordered us to return them, leaving us confused and upset and didn’t get an explanation the reason of rejecting the gifts. Another more guests followed, promising to help build an inclusive school. We were filled with joy and waited to know if school is begin constructing but the relationship was stopped due to the unknown reason. So Zachary and Frederick continued their way of working on their project that’s why they founded land then built the center named Ubumwe Community Center (UCC). 

Despite the sponsorships, I felt our deaf community was often used. Guests visited, took pictures, made promises, and left. Instead of real education, we were paraded like tools for donations.

At times, we carried food from Desire’s home, cooked by his wife and sister. Once, a student carrying soup slipped and spilled it. We were angry and hungry, but later laughed at the memory.

Later, VJN and a Catholic priest from Italy surprised us with a gift: a house to serve as our permanent school. We were overjoyed and moved in, so boss Desire started drew a logo, he drawn a dove as a sign logo of deaf community. But conflicts soon arose between VJN and Desire. Within months, we were expelled again.

We moved to a place called “Scout,” where young people practiced sports like basketball and karate. Our new sponsor was a kind Rwandan man who wasn’t wealthy but helped however he could. He even invited guests from Kigali to visit us, and I often stood out by showing my talent through prayers.

But VJN tried to lure us back with promises and money. They used a strong, bullying student to influence others. Many left, including my close childhood friend—and eventually, I too gave in and joined VJN.

At VJN, I discovered that my uncle’s wife who lived with us at home had become a teacher for the deaf, even though she didn’t know sign language. We taught her ourselves. It felt as if VJN was mocking Desire.

They promised us shoes and daily meals. We were excited, but the shoes turned out to be cheap imitations. I began to feel trapped again, bullied by others, and filled with regret. Eventually, I returned secretly to Desire with a few others. He welcomed us warmly.

But when my uncle’s wife found out, she scolded me and threatened to throw me out if I didn’t go back. I refused, choosing instead to stay with Desire so I took a decisive to move to Desire’s house, though his home felt strict and closed-off but I stayed there next moved to his sister Nadine’s home because the house of Desire was small to fulfill 5 people, he decided to divide two persons to his sister Nadine.

Over time, more students left VJN and returned to Desire even the bully himself. Desire began teaching us sign language using an American Sign Language (ASL) book. It was hard for many, but I learned quickly. I became the top student in class, excelling in exams.

Sadly, this education was not part of Rwanda’s official curriculum, so I received no recognized certificate. Later, classes shifted to art and drawing instead of academics.

I proved talented in art, learning quickly and often chosen to assist. I was sometimes paid a little for my work. But this caused jealousy and threats, especially from the same bully. To avoid conflict, I often hid in the office.

I spent two years living with Desire’s sister Nadine and her husband. They were kind, loving, and treated me as their own child. I lived with three other deaf students, and those two years were among the most peaceful and loving times of my youth.

This old picture took while living with Nadine with her baby. One who folded hands and smile is me other two males are the people welcomed just like me.

In this picture, she is Nadine, the woman who cared for me and treated me like her own child since I left my village home. We finally met again in 2025 in the capital, Kigali, Rwanda, where I am pursuing my Bachelor’s degree in Public Administration and Local Governance, while she works as a seamstress in town.
We had been separated since 2009 almost 16 years without seeing each other.

Back in 2009, while I was living with Nadine, she and her husband had plans to move to another district. They feared telling me the truth because of the deep affection we shared; I never wanted to be separated from them. Instead, they lied and told me they were going to visit the husband’s grandmother, who had passed away.
I believed them and agreed, thinking I would join them again soon. But instead, I was sent back to my uncle’s home in the village, where I was left behind.

Life in my uncle’s house was painful. His wife, Viviane, treated me harshly and even threatened to kick me out because I had quit VJN. After two years, however, Viviane came to visit me and apologized for how she had treated me. I forgave her, and one day, I moved my belongings into her home in the village.
To my surprise, she was now living with her children alone; my uncle, Alfrodis, was gone, and I didn’t know where he had gone.

I still believed Nadine and her husband had only gone to attend the funeral and would soon return. But when I went to town looking for them, a neighbor revealed the truth: they had secretly moved far away to another province.
The truth broke my heart I had loved them deeply and wished to stay with them.

Back in the village, my neighbors began to treat me better, and I chose to remain respectful, hardworking, and humorous despite everything. Around this time, I reconnected with my dear friend Nshuti, who shared my love for movies. Even after my two-year absence, our friendship and behaviors were unchanged.

We soon started discussing ways to earn money. Together, we came up with an idea: selling 10 snacks so we could save enough to buy clothes and shoes. We had only a small note of 1,000 Rwandan Francs. I worked the whole day, selling from morning until evening. After covering costs, I earned a small profit of 200 RWF. Encouraged, I bought more snacks and sold them in the streets and at movie places.

Although I didn’t continue for long, the small business gave me hope. My goal was simple to save for clothes and shoes as my earnings increased. This was around 2010.

A few months later, in 2010, we were told we needed to move to another place and start renting a house to survive, instead of staying where we were without working. We packed everything and shifted to the new rental house.
But disappointment grew in me I was working hard with them yet not attending school. At 14 years old, I felt strongly that I had the right to get an education, and this longing never left my heart.

In February 2011, something unexpected happened. I met two Deaf Jehovah’s Witnesses. Though they couldn’t hear, they were very skilled in reading and speaking. Their routine was much like mine—we finished work around the same time and often walked home together. Some Deaf people bullied them for being Jehovah’s Witnesses, but they endured with patience.

They often invited me to walk with them after work. I enjoyed listening to their conversations, full of positive thoughts, and I grew to love their company. Around the same time, I met a Jehovah’s Witness woman I had once known as my neighbor in town. She was warm, kind, and an excellent signer. She invited me to attend a meeting at the Kingdom Hall, where interpreters and Deaf people created an atmosphere of inclusiveness.

After the meeting, she welcomed us to her home for a delicious meal. We discussed what we had learned and encouraged each other spiritually. That day, before we left, she gave me advice that would change my life. She said:

“Fabrice, at your age, you should get into education or vocational training to improve your future. I see you as a capable boy who can learn many things.”

I told her I wanted to, but I had no idea where to find free education since no one supported me except for my small work with the Deaf community under Desire.

She then told me about Ubumwe Community Center (UCC), a place near the border with Goma, DRC, that supported children with disabilities. She explained how UCC provided inclusive education, tailoring, handcrafts, and other skills. She warned me, however, that to succeed, I would need to cut ties with the unmotivated Deaf community I was working with, because they lacked dreams and could hold me back.

I understood. I promised her I was ready to face challenges and pursue education.

My mother came back from Kigali, and I decided to move in with her. We lived together in my grandparents’ house in the village, close to my uncle’s new home.

It was not an easy reunion. My mother had spent many years in Kigali without seeing me. When I saw her return, I was not happy—I felt anger inside because of the abandonment. Still, I tried to control my feelings. Despite everything, she was my mother, and I was not ready to fight against her for leaving me.

I brought her to the house where I was staying with my uncle’s wife, Viviane. I had cooked food, and I shared it with both my mother and my aunt. That was when I learned she had officially moved back from Kigali. My aunt then asked me if I wanted to go live with my mother. I said yes, and she told me it was my choice.

So, I helped my mother move her belongings. Some people, including the Jehovah’s Witness woman, advised me against it. They told me it was unwise to leave my aunt’s home, because life there was much better. At my aunt’s, I had nice meals, support for my studies, and the basic needs that helped me focus on education. With my mother, they warned, life would be harder, especially since she had abandoned me before.

But I was persistent. The Jehovah’s Witness woman finally said, “It’s your choice, but life will be very tough for you.” Deep inside, I knew leaving my aunt was a mistake, but I could not let my mother live alone in that house. She had moved back by herself and even left her children with her husband in Kigali.

Living with her soon became very difficult. Just a few days later, I experienced hunger, lack of soap, and no money even to cut my hair. It became hard to keep myself clean, wash my clothes for school, or maintain my dignity. Life with my mother was full of struggles, but I endured it.