The brightly-colored procession to the bus
stop snake down the path.
Jean-Patrick and Emmanuel form the last segment
of tail, Jean-Patrick holding tight to his uncle's hand.
A lifetime of hard work had calloused those hands
beyond healing.
With his eyes closed, Jean-Patrick
doubted he could distinguish them from tree bark.
Uncle wore his formal black suit and broad-brimmed black hat
to mark the occasion.
His carved-herders staff accompanied each step
with a toc.
They reached the stop just as the bus for Butare
came into view.
It strained up the hill, coughing out
a thick plume of exhaust.
At the tiny market that formed around the stop,
market-goers kicked up storms of red dust into the air,
already thick with smoke from roasting corn and brochette.
Hawkers readied for the mad sprint to the windows,
primping their baskets of sodas, breads, and candies,
little sacks of fruit.
As Jean-Patrick went to buy his ticket,
his uncle passed a wad of crumpled bills into his palm.
Aye, that could buy half your new motorboat.
It's bad manners to refuse a gift, Uncle said.
A motorboat can't run away.
Jean-Patrick's entourage stood as if
waiting to be photographed when he returned
from buying his ticket.
Jean-Patrick pantomimed snapping photos.
These pictures I can sell to a fancy tourist magazine, eh?
Maman pressed a heavy sack into Jean-Patrick's hand.
So you don't go hungry, she said.
How many pairs of pants had she ironed for a loaf of bread?
How many blouses for his favorite biscuits?
You better go now, she said, while you can still get a seat.
Jean-Patrick pressed his forehead to hers.
God keep you safe, he said.
May God keep us all safe, Uncle said,
glowering at a group of Hutu Power boys in the corner.
There's something from me at the bottom of the sack.
You can open it when you arrive.
Uwimana clasped Jean-Patrick's hands.
Unlike Emmanuel's coarse grip, the palms felt soft and giving.
I meant what I predicted.
You'll be an important man in this country.
My heart is full for you.
After hoisting his heavy suitcase up the step,
Jean-Patrick stopped to wave once more.
It could go on forever, this thinning thread of goodbyes.
The driver sent out a blast from his horn.
The last empty seats in the rear were full,
except in the rear, next to the window.
A large woman, carrying a basket filled with produce,
shoved in beside Jean-Patrick.
He squeezed against the side of the bus,
and his knee vibrated to the engine's hum.
The bus door slammed shut, and Jean-Patrick opened the window
against the heat.
The woman leaned across him, and closed it again.
Leave it so, she said.
We'll get sick from the dust.
With a loud clunk, the bus ground into forward gear.
The driver turned up the radio, and the tinny speakers
buzzed with song and static.
The bus lurched forward.
It snaked through the crowd, and onto the main road,
slowly gaining speed.
Gears ground.
The driver leaned on his horn.
Animals and market-goers scattered.
Through the dust-caked window, Jean-Patrick
watched his family grow smaller and smaller,
as the distance between them increased,
they still called and waved, but he could no longer
make out the words.
A crack in the glass split them precisely in half.