David, Meet Kigali
It’s almost 11 PM and the city is shrouded by the blackness of night, littered with tiny flecks of white, yellow, and red lights, like speckles of diamond and gold dust glittering in the dark with the occasional shining of rubies.
The roads are constricted and tight, like crevices on a rock. None of them is straightforward enough for you to see far ahead. And if it is not the bend of the roads that catches your attention, it’s the undulation of the city’s topography. When Jesus talked about the city set on a hill that cannot be hidden, he had Kigali in mind. Only that Kigali sits atop several hills.
Our shuttle glides across the road, swerving left and right like a skateboarder, dodging commercial motorcycle riders and their passengers wearing helmets coloured red, blue, or black — but mostly red. The road is lined to the left and right with lush, short palm trees attracting the attention of the traffic lights towering above them, tenderly bouncing the glow onto the street.
It’s chilly outside. I shuddered a few times while waiting for my transport from Kigali International Airport. The thought of lighting a cigarette crossed my mind, but I don’t smoke and I’m not sure that cigarettes keep people warm.
I’m here for an agriculture forum and will be spending the week in a hotel within a stone’s throw of the famous Kigali Convention Centre, a dome-shaped building that hosts some of the country’s most high-profile gatherings, including this one. It is beautiful enough during the day with the ocean blue sky in the background accentuating its sharp grey tone. But at night, it is a different, magnificent beast lit up by the blue, yellow, and green hues of the Rwandan flag and the vertical lines of yellow fluorescence from Radisson Blu hotel standing at attention beside it.
The journey from the airport to my hotel, including a few stops along the way, takes about 30 minutes. At some point, we are on a road travelling down the hill and it feels like the bus will somersault anytime soon. It seems like we are descending the hill to which Sisyphus was condemned to roll the boulder upward.
We get to my hotel around 11 PM and, after a few hassles checking in, I enter my room, have my bath, and tuck myself into bed. Tomorrow, I conquer Kigali.
My first night out in Kigali takes me on a 25-minute walk to Rider’s Lounge, a 24-hour restaurant and bar in Kigali Heights, a complex that houses a host of offices, bars, restaurants, and a supermarket on the ground floor. It was either Rider’s Lounge or Bamboo Rooftop Restaurant, I asked around and learned the food is better at the former.
It is almost impossible to walk into any commercial building in Kigali without passing through metal detectors.
Why is the city so paranoid? I ask myself. Is it because of Rwanda’s troubled past? Is it because coming into the country is easy — all you need is a plane ticket and you get a visa on arrival, regardless of who you are? Why? Later, I find out that it is because Rwanda finds itself in a not-so-friendly neighbourhood with neighbours that were in one way or another affected by the Rwandan Genocide of 1994 and its aftermath. This is well explained in a book titled ‘Africa’s World War: Congo, the Rwandan Genocide, and the Making of a Continental Catastrophe’ by Gérard Prunier.
I get to Rider’s Lounge and pick a seat that allows me to see almost everybody around. I like to watch people. There’s a table of beautiful ladies in front of me. I think about walking over and saying hi to the one that catches my eye but I resist. The waiter hands me the menu and I opt for a T-bone steak, well done, French fries, and a bottle of Coke with ice. I’ll pick French fries and Coke if that was the only meal I could eat for the rest of my life.
I have been warned earlier in the day that Rwandans, are not sticklers for time, much like Nigerians who treat time more like a suggestion and less like a specificity. If you order something that should take 20 minutes, expect it to arrive in 40 or more. So my mind and stomach are prepared for the delay.
The ladies in front of me chat and giggle while music booms from the speakers. Keri Hilson’s Knock Me Down comes on and a smile spreads across my face as nostalgia flushes through my veins. I catch myself grinning but I don’t rein it in. It is one of the first songs I learned completely and I rap along with Kanye as he delivers his verse. The moment takes me back to a time when I depended on notebooks and lyric booklets smuggled into school by my classmate, Rebecca, to learn the words to my favourite songs; a time in my life when the biggest of my worries was getting good grades and getting classmates who didn’t like me to like me; a time when I was bullied by my peers for being too short and too skinny and too odd for girls to like or pay attention to. Now, I’m just worried that my stomach will rebel and start a riot in Rider’s Lounge.
About 30 minutes after placing my order, the waiter approaches me, not with the food, but with a hot towel for me to warm my hands with. ‘Bitch, what? I need food, not a towel,’ my stomach says. But my mouth just smiles as my hands reach for the towel. Another 10 or so minutes later, my food arrives and I descend on it.
The fries are crispy and I love how they crackle lightly and melt in my mouth. I drown the steak in some sauce, knife through it gently, and lift a cut into my mouth. My taste buds burst to life and I try to ease their excitement with a sip of cold Coke. I smile at the deliciousness of the meal. I made the right choice coming here.
The next night, I head back to Kigali Heights for more me time. Nothing beats being alone with your thoughts, observing and interacting with the world, but only with your mind. No one to interrupt your imaginary journeys and conversations. Just you, yourself, and the universe.
I first arrive at the supermarket on the ground floor in Kigali Heights, walk around pretending to look for something, and then out and up the stairs to an ice cream spot my friend told me about, Delizia Italiana.
I want to try something new, so I order three scoops of Snicker flavour, milk, and banana.
I had matched with someone, E, on Tinder earlier in the day and she agreed to go out with me. After 15 minutes out on the porch by myself, E texts me and asks where I am.
Kigali Heights, I reply.
Okay, she says, I’m coming.
How long will it take you to get here? I ask.
30 minutes.
Okay. It’s cold outside and I can’t be here for long. Meet me at the hotel instead.
I finish my ice cream and head back to the hotel to wait for her. She doesn’t come after 30 minutes. More like an hour. I’m mentally prepared for her lateness, so I don’t get irritated like I normally would.
I’m here, she finally texts me.
I head down to the reception to meet her and usher her to the restaurant. She orders a cup of hot chocolate. We pay. The barman fills her cup to the brim so we can’t walk too far without spilling the beverage. She takes a sip then we move to one of the tables. I ask if she wants to go up but she insists she takes the drink halfway down the cup so it doesn’t spill.
Okay, I reply. I wait. She sips slowly while I try to make conversation. It’s difficult. English is not her first language, as with most Rwandans. Kinyarwanda is. We’re quiet most of the time because I’m tired of repeating myself.
Finally, she’s halfway through her drink and we head upstairs. A security guard stops us and asks in Kinyarwanda if she’s a guest. Yes, I reply. Then he explains that she must obtain permission at the front desk. I agree and wait there while he walks her to the reception, the cup of hot chocolate is getting cold in my hands. They return and he presents me with a form to fill. He tells me I must pay an extra $30 if she will come upstairs. Why? I ask. She is not spending the night. Rwandan policy. I refuse to pay and ask her that we go sit by the poolside instead. She agrees, but it means another round of difficult communication.
Finally, I suggest that we go out and she recommends a place, Cocobean. I go upstairs, change into something else and we head out.
I’ve never been clubbing before. I find it pointless, a footling exercise in vanity. I hate it until I try it. Why I liked it, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m in the mood to let off some steam or maybe because it is a fertile ground for observing human behaviour. People are different when they are intoxicated and lost in clouds of ecstasy. Or maybe because this was in Kigali, thousands of miles away from home, Lagos, less dense, not crowded, new faces, and the excitement of trying something different in an unfamiliar city.
E and I don’t talk much during our time together. She orders a beer and I get a passion fruit cocktail. Passion fruit is all I’ve been drinking at breakfast in the hotel. It takes me back to the 2 years I spent in Uganda, my first time outside Nigeria. Passion fruit juice was all I drank then and I haven’t had it since I left Uganda 12 years ago.
I ask E to dance with me. She agrees and we head to the dance floor. Our foray into gyrating together does not last long. She keeps going back to sit down, dousing my energy. Eventually, I proceed as a lone ranger and conquer the dance floor on my own. The DJ is not very good at his job, but I don’t let him stop me from having a good time. He does play several Nigerian songs though, so he scores some cool points. He seems to like Tekno’s Pana and Rara a lot, he plays both about 3 times each.
E decides to go home, she’s obviously tired from her evening classes, but I stay back.
A few minutes after E leaves, I meet M. I’ve danced so much I forget to look around and observe and take in the scene — people swerving from left to right like cars racing against boredom and bumping and grinding like parts of an engine. Then I spot him. He’s dancing behind M, trying to press his body into hers but she looks uncomfortable. I’ve seen her before, earlier in the day, at the convention centre. I walk up to them. Is this guy bothering you? I ask her. She doesn’t hear me well at first so I repeat myself. Yes, she says. Then I turn to him. Could you please stop dancing behind her? You’re harassing her and making her uncomfortable. Is she your girlfriend, he asks, slurring his words. No, she’s not, but you are making her uncomfortable.
He staggers a little and walks away. She thanks me and we start talking. I tell her I’ve seen her at the convention centre before. She asks me where I’m from, Nigeria or Ghana.
Nigeria, I reply. How did you know?
Your accent.
Oh, alright. Where are you from?
Kenya, she says.
I tell her I’m in Kigali till Saturday. She tells me she’ll be back here at Cocobean tomorrow and I reply that I’ll be back too, for her. She gives me her number and I promise to text her later during the day.
It’s past 1 AM and my body is done for the night. I head outside and call a cab to take me back to the hotel. I text E to find out if she’s home. It doesn’t deliver at first. But she replies later in the day.
My last ride from the convention centre on Friday night takes me deeper into Kigali than I’d planned for. I forget to tell the shuttle driver on time where I’d be alighting so I miss my stop. He tells me he’ll head back in that direction later. I relax.
I stare out the window at pedestrians on the sidewalks, something we don’t have in Lagos but I wish we did. You can tell a lot about a city by the way the roads are designed and connected. The most important sections of the city are often the easiest to get to. They are also often the sections with the most bus routes.
Kigali does not have as many people as Lagos, but even if it did, it won’t have as many cars causing traffic as Lagos does. That’s because there are sidewalks and a functional metro system for people who do not see the need to own cars. I reckon there are more cars in Lagos than in the whole of Rwanda.
Lagos is congested and overpopulated, a 3,577 km² state that is barely bigger than Ibadan, the capital city of nearby Oyo State, but that houses 21 million people, give or take. Ibadan is just over 3,000 km² and it is just one city. If Lagos had more sidewalks and an effective metro system, one that is both comfortable and appeals to the eliteness of the state and its residents, there would be fewer cars and less traffic.
People would spend less time on the road, getting angry and frustrated and pouring out that anger and frustration on their fellow human beings, and more time at work, building their businesses. They would spend more time at home, laughing and having fun with their families and experiencing more joy in the little things of life. But the simple fact that they have to spend almost a third of their day on the road and another third and a half at work means they have less time to enjoy the things that really bring happiness and fulfilment to their lives.
The quiet ride through Kigali takes me up and down hills and around bends. The central part of the city is packed with people almost bumping into each other, this is where the offices and business centres are located. In another four hours, however, the entire area will be as quiet as the beach in the dead of night.
Out in the distance, the grey landscape is dotted with brick red roofs and yellow buildings. We drive past a church hidden among the buildings on the side of the road. After that, I see just two more. Turns out you don’t need that many churches to grow your economy and have sensible leadership. In Lagos, we’d have driven past a hundred by now with billboards promising you heaven on earth.
For many, religion offers the promise of a better life on earth. For some others, the good life is in the great beyond. I think about how telling it is that the poorest countries are often the most religious. Is religion the cause of their poverty or is it just a coping mechanism? As I am in no mood to debate myself, I shelf the thought.
We finally find our way back to my hotel. I get off the bus and head straight to my room for a quick nap. I have a long night ahead of me. And a date with M.
