Tag Archives: Memories of My Mother

Oh How I Forever Wish!

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Red Crosses for our 4 angels who grew wings in April 1994

✦

Somewhere beyond the rainbow,

where time does not fracture memory,

I imagine you four together—

a family whose journey was cut short—

Mama, still keeping watch over each of you,

your bodies made whole—

no trace of the machete wounds that took you.

✦

I speak to you there. Quietly.

Across years that never asked permission to pass,

across a childhood that learned too early

how absence can take shape,

sit at the table,

and never leave.

✦

You did not see what came after.

You did not see us grow—

not the trembling steps.

You did not see the weight we carried—

hardship that did not pause for the orphaned

betrayal that found us anyway,

roads that did not open easily.

✦

You did not live to see the strength that followed.

You were not there—

when our names were called,

when we crossed the stage,

when vows were spoken

into a life you should have stood inside.

✦

When first doors opened,

when the world widened before us,

when successes took shape in our hands,

when little loves began to blossom—

we longed for you.

Treasures who will never know

Grandma and Grandpa,

never feel the way you would have held them,

loved them,

spoiled them as only you could.

✦

Oh how I wish

you had stood there—

just once—

to witness it.

✦

There are pieces that do not gather.

Words that do not form.

Silences we hand over carefully.

When the days turned heavy

and comfort had a voice—

yours was gone.

Oh how I wish

I could still hear you

say my name.

✦

Thirty-two years later—

We remember you every day—

not just April.

♡

Papa—

the kindest soul,

my first love,

my best friend—

who carried my name with pride,

who called me his little princess.


♡

Mama—

I remember the last words you said—

your prayer that we would all leave together,

no heartbroken left behind.

I remember the ground that took you.

I refuse to think of what followed

after I was sent with an armed escort

to reveal where the little ones were hidden—

so we could all be killed.

✦

I refuse it—

the torture

your clothes stripped.

Oh how I wish

time had broken there—

before they reached you.


♡

Nkeke—my older brother, my protector—

beaten with wires, your face bloodied,

above the mass grave

that waited for you and Mama.

Did they let you both

breathe your last

before the pit?


♡

Magnifique—

my little sister,

gentle and bright—

a blade at your throat,

among the first taken in our village.

✦


Mama and Papa—

We did not see you grow old.

Did not watch the years settle into your faces,

did not stand inside the warmth

of the smiles that once filled our home.

The God you taught us,

Has carried us—

until we see you again,

in a life that knows no sorrow!

✦

The four of us carry you.

Every day—

in joy and in the fight,

in success and in trials—

you are here,

a cloud of witnesses.

✦

Years pass by,

grief remains.

We have learned to live with it.

Oh how I wish

it had softened with time.

The questions stay.

No one to answer.

How do I say this

to those who come after us—

Your last born—

her memory of you is a trace.

And one day—

she will be asked.

✦

Today and all our days—

we grieve,

we honor,

our memories of you are intact—

in the lives we have built,

in the strength that goes before us,

in the fiercest love that remains—

with pride,

with remembrance,

with faith unshaken,

with a legacy that continues to rise.


We will see through what you started!


♡♡♡♡

Forever in our hearts

“And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” Reveleation 21.4

“To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power.” — Maya Angelou

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“Behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begin.” — Mitch Albom

It’s hard for me to understand when people say they aren’t close to their parents or siblings. I know every family is different—and sometimes painful distance is necessary. But I also know this: children never ask to be born, and too often they pay the price for a broken foundation they didn’t break.

In Rwanda, family isn’t just important—it’s sacred. You’re expected to stay connected not just to your parents and siblings, but to your entire extended family. That’s the world I was born into, and the world my mother, Colette, exemplified.

She was everything a mother could be: selfless, present, unwavering. As the eldest girl in a family of six, I should’ve seen her worries—but I didn’t. She shielded us from life’s hardest parts. If she and my father argued, we never heard it. If money was tight, we never felt it. She made our world feel like paradise.

She didn’t say “I love you” with words—we didn’t do that in our culture—but we knew. Through her care, her sacrifices, the small rewards when we succeeded. Even as we had house help, she ensured we learned to contribute, to grow.

My dearest Mom, the source of my inspiration!

When the genocide against the Tutsi began on April 7, April 1994, her daily prayer was heartbreaking: that if death was coming, it would come quickly—and take us all together. She didn’t believe any of us could survive alone. Seventeen days later, she was gone

Mama, four of us survived. And we didn’t just make it—we rose. The God you taught us to trust has carried us every step of the way. We miss you more than words can ever say, but we know you’re home with Him now. I promise—we will finish what you started!

One story I will never forget is the dream one aunt had in 1993, a year before the genocide. In that dream, she saw a terrible tragedy coming to Rwanda—people being killed, chaos everywhere. As she faced death in the dream, she cried out in prayer that my mother would survive. She believed and was certain that, if my mother lived, she would raise her children as her own.

That was the kind of woman my mom was—so full of love, even those outside our immediate family entrusted her with their children in their final thoughts. She was selfless in the deepest sense, giving her all for her family and others, never seeking recognition. Even as the genocide began, her final prayer wasn’t for escape—it was for her family to die together, quickly and without pain. She couldn’t bear the thought of her children suffering or surviving alone.

That level of sacrifice, of love, lives in me every day. Her story didn’t end with her death. It continues through the lives of the children she raised, the values she instilled, and the legacy we carry forward.

After the genocide, I made a silent vow: I would never call anyone Mom again. The word felt sacred—untouchable. Hearing others speak of their mothers only deepened the ache inside me. I kept that promise for 14 years.

Then, in 2008, God surprised me with a miracle named Glori. We met at a mutual friend’s dinner in Rochester, New York, and from the beginning, there was something different—something gentle, yet strong. A few months later, she gave me a gift I never thought I’d receive again: the invitation to call her Mom.

For the first time since 1994, someone called me “daughter.” And in that moment, something long-buried within me softened.

Maman et moi. Mars 2014

With my mom in town on my birthday: March 2014 (Raleigh, NC)

Glori loves in the most practical, powerful ways—reminding me to eat, giving advice, printing directions even though I have GPS, flying in every year to celebrate my birthday. When I visit her, she plans my time down to the minute, knowing how much I love my sleep and how long it takes me to get ready. I eat like a child at her table, wrapped in warmth I thought I’d lost forever.

It’s uncanny how much we have in common—our laughter, our passions, even the way we do things. It feels as if God, in His mercy, wove pieces of Colette into Glori, so I would always feel my mother’s love—just in a new form.

I never imagined I’d say “Mom” again. Now I say it with joy, with gratitude, and with a heart full of reverence. Colette gave me life. Glori gave me healing. And through them both, God showed me the fullness of His love.

If your mom is still with you—hold her close. If she’s in heaven, speak her name. Write her story. Keep her legacy alive.

I am the daughter of two extraordinary women. And I am blessed beyond measure.