Chapter One: Wanda and the Bird

Land of a Thousand Hills Chapter One: Wanda and the Bird

“Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right. Honor thy father and mother; which is the first commandment with promise; that it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth.” ~Ephesians 6:1-3.          

When I was young, a giant bird of fire fell from the sky like an exploding star from some far off land. I ran as fast as my bare feet could carry me, but my eyes stayed fixed on the ball of fire. It was a strange bird, not earthly at all. A large, featherless bird with a skeleton of metal. Then it just burst into flame, and I was running.          

I wanted so desperately to save the bird and learn its secrets. I was curious; I wanted to see how beautiful it was up close and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t hurt. The sun cast his bright smile on my face. Sweat dripped from my brow and watered all of God’s plants. I sprinted out of the clearing, leaving behind the trimmed verdure, hard-pan clay, and the rough thicket, climbed over some boulders, and made my way into the thick jungle.          

The bird vanished over the tall mountain trees to the east. The kind of trees Papa Jo says brought white skins to our home many years ago, some kind of rubber tree.          

I had on my favorite exploring outfit: a pair of tattered jeans and a red tank top. It was one of two outfits I had. The other was a dress I wore only to special occasions and church. I loved Tanta Jesus and loved church, but my dress was too girly. This outfit made me look like a vagabond, my shirt hung low and tattered, faded from the hot sun. It was still red, but after years of wear the color was no longer as bright. My pants were cut in several places both above and below the knees. My flip-flops were three sizes too small and I carried them in one hand, for I loved to walk barefoot.          

Mama Rhodesia and Papa Jo were both at the parish and I did not want to miss the opportunity of seeing this gift from God. I had no time to ask for permission and so I had just followed, positive they would understand. I knew the mountains the wonderful bird had vanished over were not far away, and I could see smoke rising over the horizon.          

I was sure the bird wanted some company and must be tired after his long trip to Earth, and so I picked some flowers for her to eat. I wasn’t sure where she had landed, but my hopes were on the meadow, because it was the softest place in the entire forest.          

I made my way through the short thicket of woods and glanced out to get a better look, staying semi-hidden in case the bird was dangerous. I took only a couple of steps forward but quickly retreated to the safety of the trees.          

There were men surrounding the bird, and I could hear it moan in misery. The men looked mean, determined to find out the bird’s secrets, setting up road blocks so the bird couldn’t escape. I felt sorry for it, but I didn’t dare approach her with those mean men around.          

I looked at the leader of the men; at least, he looked like the leader because he was the biggest and the meanest. He had a large bump in his breast pocket and I thought it was neat because I could hear words coming out of it. Papa Jo had something like that once, but I spilled juice on it, and it never worked again. He forgave me. He always forgave me. I listened closely to the bump in the man’s pocket:

"This is Interhamawe Patriotic Radio. President Habyarimana’s plane was shot down in cold blood by Tutsi scum on its way back from a peace conference in Burundi. Long has these cockroaches fought to keep our proud Hutu families down. They have denied us fair wages, have starved our children, and raped our women. Now is the time, my Hutu brothers, to rid our beautiful country of these terrible pests. Grab your weapons and don’t stop killing those cockroaches until we have won our country back.”          

I didn’t know what that message meant. It said something about Hutus and Tutsis and the president’s plane being shot down. The president helped baptize me in my parents’ parish, so I knew he was a hero to Papa Jo and Mama Rhodesia. The rest of the message didn’t make sense. It seemed to be talking about killing cockroaches, and that seemed okay.          

I listened carefully. “God damn Tutsi cockroaches. Kill one Hutu, you better kill them all.” Large wooden barriers approximately three feet high by four feet long were lining all the roads coming in and out of the clearing, keeping out anyone without proper identification.          

These men wanted to hurt people. I did not know how I knew this, I just knew I had to get back to Papa Jo and tell him what I saw.          

I continued to overhear men working in the road up ahead and tiptoed away from the crash site. My mind was filled with horror as my heart raced. My tiptoe turned to a gallop and the gallop faded into a sprint. I had to get back to Papa Jo. I had to tell him about the president’s plane.          

My heart raced, afraid I would be seen, but the bad men never saw or looked in my direction. I did not know what to expect.          

My pace quickened as thoughts of what Papa Jo would say filled my head. He was ambitious and had a habit of running off on great adventures for no reason. Once he claimed to have found Mogooboo, a large mythical city filled with gold and other treasures. When I asked him where all the money was, he just laughed and said he fed it to his pet crocodile. I always laughed at his wild stories and could not wait to tell him about the bird. We would probably pack up all of our maps and go looking for it together. “Somewhere out there in the land of a thousand hills lays our fortune,” was something I imagined him saying. Would we leave for the bird right away, or would we wait until morning?
         
My excitement carried me past a neighbor’s house. The smell of burning sweet grass filled my nose with rich aromas. I loved sweet grass, and could count on this neighbor to be constantly burning some in memory of her four dead children she lost to mosquito sickness.
         
I missed playing Quoin with her children. I was not the best hurler and I rarely got the bright red Quoin ring around the pole, which would earn me two points, one point if it hit the pole but failed to go around it, but I always had fun playing, especially with her youngest daughter. She was my best friend and the most skilled hurler I had ever seen. When she passed away from mosquito sickness, I vowed never to play Quoin ever again. Passing my neighbor’s house was particularly painful, as all the sweet grass made her hallucinate, envisioning me as her own daughter. I hated her calling me the name of her daughter, I was not as pretty as her and not as smart or as good at Quoin. I felt it dishonored her when her own mother called a lesser child by her name. My neighbor had not been to church in some time and her skin had started to smell funny. She had fresh, open sores on her face. I thought she had the mosquito sickness herself. So I kept a good distance.          

I arrived at my church to discover my mom working over a large pot of porridge. It was a large, two-room building made of a thatch roof and packed mud bricks that were held together with clay from the earth. Straw from the thicket was hand selected, piece by piece, and fashioned together with homemade rope made from the bark of the black palm tree. It had taken my dad and a handful of villagers three weeks to shape and mold the mud and clay so it was suitable for praying conditions, and able to withstand the rain season. It had no proper door separating living quarters from the open parish, but it kept my family warm and dry. Occasionally a snake, skunk, fox, or some other critter wandered into our church and raided my mom’s pantry, eating all of our food. These invasions caused the stomach demons to visit much more frequently, but having a door to the open world fed my curiosity. The two rooms were divided up into a dining room/kitchen and the room I shared with my parents. There was no privy in our house, so we walked one hundred feet into the woods and dug a hole.          

“Where’s Dad?”
         
“You know him; he’s probably out flipping over a rock in search of his fortune. Tanta Jesus knows there are better things to do around here then look for buried treasure.”          

“What’s more important than treasure, Mom? I have to find Dad and tell him about the bird I just saw. A bird like this must know where the city of Mogooboo really is. I have to find him so we can go looking for it together.”          

“You’re a silly a girl putting your hope in treasure, just like your father. I tell you it won’t get you anything except an empty stomach and a battle with the hunger demons.”          

I cried to my unsympathetic mom about the unknown benefits of treasure while she tossed me an apron and uttered under her breath.
         
“Life for your crop,” she said. ”There will be water if God wills it. Hard work keeps the hunger demons away.”          

Mom was always right about days when no water was willed and no crops were sewn are the days when the hunger demons come to haunt my dreams. Today, despite my story about this bird that burst into flame, and my quest for long-forgotten treasure, food was plenty and hard work was not necessary.
         
Papa Jo was sitting at his desk writing out his evening sermon like he always did.
         
“Papa, I just saw a wonderful bird explode into flame just a few minutes ago. I went to go see if it was okay but there were these bad men making the poor thing cry by putting out its magical flame.”          

“Wanda, you know there is no such thing as a bird that can burst into fire.”          

“I’m telling you the truth. One of the man’s pockets had a bump in it and it said something about killing cockroaches and the president’s plane getting shot. The bad men started to set up large wooden blocks so the bird couldn’t escape.”          

“The president’s plane has been shot down! Why didn’t you say that? Wanda, that bird you saw must have been the president’s plane. Tell me, did you see anything hit the plane before it turned to flame?”          

“This is important Wanda, you must remember,” Mama Rhodesia said.          

“I think there was a small black thing that hit the side of it just before it caught on fire, but I thought that was part of the bird’s beak. Are you going to help me rescue it?”          

“Jo, that must be the sign the Interhamawe was talking about. What do you want to do?”          

“We follow through with God’s plan.”          

They both got up off their seats and ran outside to see the smoke that I had told them about.
         
“We have to begin making plans for the mass exodus to the parish,” said Papa Jo. “People are going to need a place to sleep.”          

I remember my parents moving the parish pews out of the sanctuary to make room for what they thought would be refugees wanting to stay there. Over the next ten days people came to the parish by the thousands.          

They carried lawn chairs and luggage, hats and steel-toed boots, dogs and other pets; a disheveled group of people on the run and away from their homes. We welcomed them in and turned none away. The parish was crowded and it began to take on an odor for we did not have the resources for everyone to shower.          

I was glad there were children my age, and we ran around the parish, circling the sleeping bags playing tag and come find me. Papa Jo was preaching from the pulpit about the prodigal son and forgiveness, and Mama Rhodesia was feeding the masses with her specialty, chicken soup.          

The oversized crowd magnified the praise to God when we sang. I remember singing in rounds. We sang “Love, love, love, love, Christians this is your calling. Love your neighbor as yourself for God loves all.” I sang the four loves and when I came to Christians, the rest of the congregation began to sing the four loves and we sang in tandem for multiple rounds. The angelic sound pleased God and he smiled down on this makeshift camp.          

Mama Rhodesia kept asking me if I was alright. She kept telling me, “Wanda, you are part of God’s chosen people. Soon we will have a mighty sacrifice to offer up to Jehovah. He will look down upon this sacrifice and he will bless us for our actions.” She always seemed to glance around the room, keeping track of my location. I saw her whispering to Papa Jo on a regular basis and even heard her say, “Jo, this is God’s plan. We don’t have a choice.” I think catering to all those people was taking a physical and emotional toll on her.          

Papa Jo kept glancing out the window as though he were always anticipating more brand new arrivals. He was constantly aware of the dwindling room available and he seemed too loath sleeping amongst our guests. In the beginning he segregated himself, along with my mother, on the stage, but as the parish began to fill, he surrendered more and more space, until he was forced to share a sleeping bag with her. He was unable to perform his duties as principal and had to suspend all school functions until the crisis was over, all of our nuns and teachers staying behind to assist with the aid of the crowd.          

I continued to play with my friends and the congregation continued to sing and the mood was jubilant. I ran into Papa Jo’s office to see if my friend had hid in there and the office furniture was missing. In its place were boxes of what looked like his gardening equipment stacked three high.          

“Why is your gardening stuff in your office Papa?” I asked him.
         
“Well, it has been raining outside, young one, and I didn’t want any of my equipment to rust. Do me a favor will you? Don’t tell anyone what you have seen in that room. I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt,” he said.          

“Ok Papa,” I said, and ran off to find my friend.          

I look back now and wonder what exactly was in those boxes and how he had managed to stockpile so many blades under the noses of the would-be victims. How did nobody see him? Why was I the only one who entered his office? Why did these people so trust this parish as a source of strength?          

I remember seeing dim balls of fire glowing in the distance from the parish window and I thought more friends were coming, running away from whatever it was they were running away from. I admired the beauty of the flame and wondered if it was a part of the wonderful fire bird I had seen. Papa said it was a plane and not a bird, but I didn’t really want to believe him. I thought these nice people had rescued the bird from the bad men and were bringing the magical flame to visit me. Somehow they knew I longed to meet that bird and God was answering all of my prayers.          

“Papa, the magical bird is coming. Come see.”          

Mama Rhodesia and Papa Jo walked to the window and we glanced out as a family. Their eyes lit up as they realized that I was telling them the truth. “You were right, Wanda,” said Mama Rhodesia. “Let’s go outside and see it up close.”          

“It’s as I’ve always dreamed of. I hope the bad men didn’t hurt it.”          

I remember the creek of the door and how it needed to be oiled. It made my skin shiver every time I heard the noise. I opened the door and went outside with Mama Rhodesia, Papa Jo, and a friend who ran outside to see what the bright lights were all about.          

“Isn’t she beautiful?” I asked my friend.          

“Come on, young one, your parents must be looking for you,” Papa Jo said as he grabbed my friend’s arm and led her back inside before rejoining us.          

The fire was being carried upon sticks by one hundred men and I longed to touch it, to be united with my first alien encounter. I wondered if these smaller balls of flame were the bird’s magical babies.
         
“You have done well, Umfundsi,” said one of the carriers of light. “How many are there, would you say?”          

“Oh mighty Gabriel, you are even more angelic in person than your descriptions in the Good Book. My wife and I gathered as many souls as we could in anticipation of your arrival,” said Papa Jo.          

“Then we must move quickly, Father, to carry out Jehovah God’s work. Do you have a safe place for your little one? She has Jehovah’s eyes,” replied the carrier of light.          

“I will mark her head with my own blood so that the angel of death shall pass over her as in the times of old. Can she stay outside with one of your angels for protection?”          

“That would be pleasing to God.”          

“Then let me bind her protection with my blood and we can conduct God’s business.” Papa Jo lightly cut his upper arm so that it spewed out a small trickle of blood. He dipped his finger in it and drew a straight line across my head. He repeated the same process for my mother and then again for himself. “You are to remain outside with the angels, Wanda. Is that clear?”          

I nodded my head yes.          

“We are ready, Gabriel. So it is written, so let it be done.”          

Papa Jo opened the door with one last annoying creak and he filed into the parish along with Mama Rhodesia and all the angels. When the last vessel of God had entered, I heard a loud thud as the door slammed shut.          

I did as I was told and remained outside with one of the angels.
         
“My name is Michael,” he said. “Would you like to hold the light of Jehovah?”          

“The light of Jehovah? I thought this came from a magical fire bird,” I replied.          

“Innocent is the mind of a child. Do you not remember the story of Moses and the burning bush? How the bush burned but was not consumed? Do you not remember how the bush spoke to Moses, telling him to return to pharaoh and free his people? The Hutus are those people and this flame is from that bush,” Michael said.          

“I can hold the light of Jehovah?”          

“As long as you hold it high and don’t drop it.”          

“What are Papa Jo and the angels doing in there? Can I go inside and show him the light?”          

“You have the heart of a cheerful giver, young one, and truly Jehovah will bless you. But for the moment, why don’t you wait outside as your father bid? I would hate for you to disappoint him.”          

“But Jehovah commands us to share his light with all who would see it.”          

“Your father was right, you are a powerful beacon of Christ. Do not worry about sharing the truth, Wanda, this light will be shared with all who are currently inside, and it is your father who will share it with them. For now, we must have patience for all these things will only happen in God’s time.”          

He handed me the mighty light of Jehovah and my entire existence seemed to be that much brighter. I saw with a sense of clarity that I had never experienced before. I could smell the asters surrounding the church. I could taste the sweet dew on the air. The nectar-filled pollen was suspended in the air as though Jehovah had stopped time itself to allow me to marvel at this perfect moment. The light captivated me as Michael guided me down the path, away from the church, and toward a wonderful night filled with many dreams.          

I could fly. I was flying high in the bright blue sky with the firebird and swarms of butterflies, whispering the secrets of Mogooboo into my ears. They were soaring through the clouds and through the trees. We flew through my village over the clearing and saw Mom and Papa Jo. I shouted for them to join me, and Papa cast down his branches and flew to the sky. Mama Rhodesia spat at the ground and used the moisture to irrigate the plants. “No work will be done flying through the air, get back down here and get your work done.” We ignored her and left my unsympathetic Mama behind. Mama Rhodesia shouted at the top of her lungs that foolishness and treasure hunting only brought on the hunger demons. The bird, Dad, the butterflies, and I just laughed at her and flew loop the loops around her head.          

Tanta Jesus, his angels, and the twelve disciples from Mogooboo joined us in the bright blue sky and we flew together just over the mountain trees. We waved to all the rubber workers that King Leopold enslaved, and I flew low and set them all free so that they too could join our adventure. It started to rain wooden nickels, only ones that I did not have yet for my collection. I held open my arms catching as many as I could. Papa Jo, Tanta Jesus, all of his angels, the Mogooboo disciples, the butterflies, and the rubber workers all held open their arms and collected wooden nickels and presented them to me once they were safely on the ground. Tanta Jesus waved his hand and the wooden nickels were magically transported back to my house.          

The Kigali River was always so dirty and never a good place to swim because of all the nasty creatures. Tanta Jesus waved his hand again and the Kigali water turned to the sweetest gumdrops in the land of a thousand hills.          

The fish, turtles, crocs, and all the normally nasty river creatures were swimming in the gumdrops and all of a sudden did not seem so nasty. I jumped off the bank, did a triple summersault back-flip, and landed gently into the gumdrops.
         
Papa Jo and the bird and all our other companions raced up and down the river fast as they could and I judged who won. I shoved gumdrops by the handful into my mouth and pockets, Papa Jo shoved them underneath his shirt. “Gumdrops to keep the stomach demons away,” Tanta Jesus said, and all the rubber workers and disciples rejoiced.          

Two crocs swimming side by side swam close to me. A throne of intricate design sat on their backs. Lions were carved from gold on its side and bright red felt lined the seat and back. “A throne meant for a queen my lady,” one of the crocs said. I sat on my throne and was queen, ruler of the Kigali. Tanta Jesus, his angels, the bird, Papa Jo, the butterflies, rubber workers, disciples, and the other river creatures smiled and clapped. The crocs, along with the firebird, guided me down the Kigali River into an unknown part of the world. The trees had golden leaves. The grass shone in the sunlight. The mountains of gold rose into the horizon farther than even Tanta Jesus’ eyes could see. The firebird screeched and the precession followed, leading to a cliff with a giant door made of solid gold.
The door was etched in intricate detail in a language I did not understand. The firebird screeched and the butterflies flew up ahead and whispered their secrets to the door. They motioned for the rest of the party to move forward. As they approached, the entrance to the city of Mogooboo swung inward, revealing wonders and a multitude of people that could not be explained by Papa Jo’s stories or by the book of folk tales. My neighbor and her four children were reunited, there was no more mosquito sickness, and all the hunger demons were gone. Tanta Jesus revealed himself as the golden king of kings and the disciples fell at his feet. I saw the husband and wife transform them into the tree of life. The rubber workers encountered the ghost of King Leopold; they all embraced in their forgiveness. The river creatures multiplied exponentially and joined the rest of the animals by a great wooden ark. The firebird revealed himself as the Holy Ghost and sacred messenger of God. All of Tanta Jesus’ children were full from the wonderful gumdrops and everyone was happy.          

“Mogooboo,” I whispered.
         
“Moses called it paradise, Adam called it Eden, some call it heaven, but you may call it Mogooboo if you wish,” said Tanta Jesus.          

I did not hear the screams. I did not see the blood, but the killings had only just begun.