004. Arrested in Rwanda (Pt. I)
Disclaimer: The elements of this story can be triggering to anyone who's ever been a victim of injustice or police brutality. The healing process for these sorts of events are unique to each person, so if you don't feel comfortable indulging in this chapter, I completely understand.
I
should have known I was in for a hell of a journey when I stepped foot in Rwanda. For starters, I technically sneaked in. For background, my boss forgot I was Canadian and that I required a visa before entering the country. She was American, and often they get the privileges of visas on arrival.
We were travelling from Accra to Kigali. After showing a letter of invitation, we barged through the wall of immigration officers standing in our way. This entire moment was like a scene from an action movie. We pushed ourselves to the gates with our carry-ons, sat in our seats and toasted over several wine glasses.
When we landed, I sorted out a visa on arrival like a piece of cake. I strolled out of the airport, hanging on to the last bar of wifi. In the corridor, a tall soldier clutching his rifle pointed towards me and asked me to move. I told him I was waiting for a cab, but he didn't seem to care. This placed a bad taste in my mouth as a welcome into the country, but I brushed it off after sipping some of their native coffee at the nearby café. Little did I know, that greeting was a foreshadow into my Rwanda experience.
In 2017, I worked for an experience-based platform focused on changing how the world perceives travel in Africa. It was my first leadership position throughout my career. Our company was asked to attend ATA
Africa Travel Association
Established in 1975, Africa Travel Association is a non-profit international travel industry trade association. ATA mission is to promote travel, tourism and transport to and within Africa, and to strengthen intra-Africa partnerships.
's World Tourism conference and host the official reception dinner. I was crossing another African country off my travel list, and for the first time ever, I would be hosted on a familiarization tour.
On the second day of my visit, I realized the environment reeked of paranoia. One afternoon in a meeting with our restaurant venue, we heard a child screaming for help from the outside. I'm not sure how else to describe it, but all the women at the table got a gutting feeling of discomfort. We tried to continue with our meeting, but the crying crescendo. The child sounded caged as if it were behind a wall screaming from a cracked window. At least that's the image that came to my mind.
The two restaurant owners decided to explore the situation. As I stood in the driveway, I paced anxiously. When they arrived back from investigating, they didn't have much information. The crying died down, and one of the ladies said, "That's Africa for you. In fact, that's Rwanda. Everything is suspicious and on a hush-hush."
I didn't understand what she meant. We were all perturbed, so we wrapped up the meeting.
As I entered into my hotel that evening, I placed my belongings in a bin and walked through the metal detector for the umpteenth time. I was tempted to ask the security guard factiously if he remembers me. I just didn't understand why I had to go through such an extended airport-like screening each time I entered my hotel. Most times, I was holding in my pee, so you can imagine my frustration.
Slowly, I began piecing together what the aunty meant by hush-hush and suspiciousness. When we first landed in Kigali, my boss and I searched for a party. Our cab driver acted like a tour guide, taking us from place to place, showing us nightlife. To be honest, nothing seemed enticing at all. Finally, we uncovered a club nestled deep into a forest-like neighbourhood with a large parking lot. This was weird because, in many other African countries we visited, music rattling the speakers could be heard from blocks away. The powerful sounds of music created pathways to nearby parties, but in Kigali, it was silent.
Ikaze Muri Kigali Convention Centre, venue for ATA’s 2017 World Tourism Conference
A few days later, at the Radisson, a server passed a message from other guests who mentioned a group of us from a networking event laughed too loud.
There was a continuous search for a potential threat in every building and venue — metal detectors and K9 dogs at random checkpoints. This became a bit taxing, and although I was meant to feel safer, I felt endangered, as if something may happen, or something will happen.
On August 29th, 2017, after a great morning at the ATA conference. My boss exited the conference doors, anxiously. She was a stickler for offline marketing material, and all that she ordered on moo.com for the reception hadn't arrived.
Tracking packages on the continent tend to be a hit or miss, like your luggage at Kotoka Airport
Kotoka Airport & Luggages
Ghana's Kotoka airport is notoriously known for misplacing luggages. Many Ghanaians that live abroad share their frustration when visiting.
. There's a lot of gaps in the process and most of the time, you and the courier service are relying on faith.
Standing outside the conference doors, I called the DHL office in Kigali, swaying my feet on the carpeted ground. After a long hold, I was told the obvious -- it's on the way.
The best way to figure things out is in person. After 20 minutes of waiting for a cab, I left my boss and walked to the main roundabout 10 mins from the convention centre. Every motorcycle rider kept declining my rides as they heard my accent. My Kirwanda and Swahili weren't sharp enough. Finally, I asked a police officer to help me, then I enjoyed a scenic ride half-way across the city to the DHL office. When I arrived, I sat impatiently in a sweltering hot room, waiting for my number to be called.
Eventually, I snuck in a back door and sat in an empty office. I didn't care who walked in. I was determined to get help. A man walked in, shocked to see me. I apologized for intruding and explained my predicament. After he looked up the package on his computer, he made a few phone calls and provided me with this WhatsApp number for a man named Gilbert. He told me, once I arrived at the airport, he would be the man to help retrieve my package.
I hopped back on a local motorcycle and rode along the smooth roads, hypnotized by the black and white checkered sidewalks. I let the breeze blow through my entire body, observing the busyness of Kigali. Pulling up to the airport, I went through several security screenings. I must have shown my ID three times and had K9's sniff me thoroughly. I paid my driver and proceeded to the entrance, texting Gilbert on my arrival. I received an MTN message that my data was running low, so I connected back to the airport WIFI.
Gilbert led me to a man in a messy office. There were stacks of paper on the desk, metal cabinets and loads of boxes everywhere. The man stared at me from behind his mahogany desk with his glasses reaching his nose tip. I emphasized the urgency of the package for the conference. He looked back and forth between Gilbert and me and then signed off on a document. I remember thinking, "oh, that was easy," and mentally preparing myself for my trip to the hotel. Gilbert interrupted that thought and walked me over to the shipping and handling area of the airport.
I stayed outside the vicinity. Gilbert had special access and told me he would do all the back and forth. While waiting out front, two officers approached me, asking why I was standing around. I found this odd, considering I wasn't the only one waiting around. Other civilians were sitting on the bench and pacing back and forth too. But I brushed this off, thinking this must be the same hush-hush, suspiciousness that the aunty warned me about, or, airport staff don't like people standing around.
Gilbert and I walked back to the warehouse. This time, while waiting outside, I was more anxious than before. I stared intently at the gates waiting for him to come out on the other side. Several workers and police officers asked me, "how are you," and "why are you here?" I answered all with — "I'm good, I'm waiting for a package."
Then there was a shift. A woman officer approached me and told me I couldn't stand where I was. I asked her why, and she said I needed a badge. I looked around my surroundings and noticed the others waiting around with me didn't have a badge either. I asked her, "why me?" and she walked away.
As I moved back to the benches where others were sitting, I watched her speak to other officers. Then, one by one, they kept coming up to me, asking the same questions. Eventually, out of frustration, I stopped responding. This was a bad idea.
A man about 5 foot 8 walked up to me. He was wearing a dark blue short-sleeved dress shirt with a white stripe down the middle. On his wrist was a fake bezel watch; he wore brown boots with light brown khakis. I don't think I will ever forget this description because of what happened next.
He began asking me the same questions. Although, unlike the other officers, he was more badgering. He noticed my conference name badge above my right breast and reached to grab it. I deflected his hand and yelled at him to not touch me. In fact, I swore. Despite language barriers, we can agree that English curse words are universal. He stepped back, shocked that I would decline his violation. He grabbed my wrist, insisting through body language that I stay in one place.
As he yelled in his native language, his grip became tighter. I yelled back, ripping my hand away. The more I explained that I was waiting for a package, his pride and anger increased. He tried to mask his discomfort in not understanding what I was saying.
I started doubting that maybe I didn't have a right to stand there. But, then why would Gilbert tell me otherwise? Even if I moved further back with the other civilians, why was I still a problem? Was I exercising my North American privilege? All these thoughts, plus more were running through my head.
I couldn't tell, and nothing made sense as to why I was a target. Believe it or not, this man continued to harass me, he kept trying to grab my name tag several times, and I kept telling him, crossing my hands across my chest - "stop touching me."
Gilbert walked out and intervened. I watched as the Blue Shirt Man spoke to him in their language. The Blue Shirt Man's mannerism emulated much of a demagogue. It was clear that he had some sort of authority because Gilbert's energy shifted. What I gathered is the Blue Shirt Man communicated to Gilbert to stop helping me. When I asked what's going on, he made sure Gilbert did not answer me, and he listened.
The last bit of the citrus sky collapsed into ultraviolets, and then into black. Darkness was surrounding me in light and in spirit. Immediately I looked for aunties. In Black Women, I find the safest place. Somehow, even if we never asked for it, we are protectors. When our wings aren't clipped, we hover over our own in times of distress and uncertainty. I believe that's why we have the best ancestors to turn to.
I ran back to the office where the women workers were. I was frantic and panicking. Gilbert and the Blue Shirt Man followed behind me like a shadow. Everyone I spoke to the Blue Shirt Man yelled at them, intimidating them, making sure they didn't help me.
The women staffers told me to be humble and listen to the men speaking to me, but their eyes said otherwise. Their energy wanted to help me, but his evil spirit interrupted. One lady stood beside me just because, and another tried to assist me with Gilbert's papers. The Blue Shirt Man grabbed it from her hands and yelled at her.
My eyes connected with everyone in the room when I asked if I was cooperating. They all agreed that I was compliant, including Gilbert. But one by one, they all bowed their heads as the Blue Shirt Man grilled them. One woman whispered in my ear that I should be "nice." Reflecting back, I think she meant – be careful.
I called my boss on the phone while the Blue Shirt Man teamed up with a police officer. I showed them my ID as they requested and held up my conference name tag. I explained why I was in Rwanda, what I do for a living and what the package was for. I felt like I was amidst the Tower of Babel
The Tower of Babel
The Tower of Babel is a Biblical narrative in Genesis 11:1–9 explaining why the world's peoples speak different languages
According to the story, a united human race speaking a single language in the land of Shinar agree to build a city and a tower tall enough to reach heaven. God, observing their city and tower, confounds their speech so that they can no longer understand each other, and scatters them around the world.
as they stared at me in sorrow and confusion.
Gilbert shifted to the side, in silence.
The police officer mentioned that I shouldn't embarrass or insult an authority. They accused me of calling an officer stupid and that I disgraced Rwanda. I denied back and forth for a bit until my ID was returned. Their accusations were outrageous and filled with patriarchy.
Around 9 PM, the officers and the Blue Shirt Man huddled. It was hard to tell if they were arguing or merely discussing. I turned to Gilbert and told him how dishonest he was and how I trusted him. He scoffed at me with hands folded and walked away.
Finally, the officer gave the go-ahead for Gilbert to get my package and receipts. I thanked them all and began walking away. I called my boss to tell her I was on my way, but a few steps later, The Blue Shirt Man ran up to me, grabbed my hand, commanding me to stay. Resisting, another officer started to pull me from behind.
Two military cars drove up to where we were. The cars were filled with men pointing their guns. Other male officers and bystanders made a circle around me. My heart was racing, and rage was overcoming my mind. I could feel my eyes turning bloodshot red as I screamed.
The Blue Shirt Man shoved me to the ground. My belonging fell on the floor, and he snatched my phone from my ear. One officer reluctantly handcuffed me. Others continued yelling and pushing me. I screamed, "why are you arresting me!?"
