I was named Gasigwa at birth. Gasigwa translates to “he who was left” in Kinyarwanda. I was named Gasigwa, for my mother lost her life giving birth to me. I don’t use the name because I don’t find much comfort in a name that triggers the memory of my 33-year-old mother bleeding to death bringing forth her 7th child. My parents were part of a great deal of Rwandans who streamed into Uganda, fleeing the violence that defined the 1994 Genocide in Rwanda. My family had been resettled in Hoima, where they were offered a patch of land to sit the difficult days out. My father took work where he could find it, labouring hard as a herdsman. Herding came naturally to him, and it was the only dignified job he found satisfaction doing. Mother’s death hit Father hard. Her death left him mentally disoriented, causing him to abandon his newborn baby, job, and family. Father wandered off to Lango. Father had lost his mind. Five days after my mother’s demise, my father’s employer decided the best place for me was at a Babies Home run by a woman we all fondly called Sister Evace. Sister Evace was an amazing woman. She had about 45 children under her protective wing. Sister Evace saw to it that our tummies were full, our beds warm, and we, not at any one time, felt inadequate. We were happy as any other child could be. The orphanage was my home, and every time I sat with other children in that vast dining hall to feed, there was no other place I desired to be. I attended a nearby school like the rest of the kids. My least favourite recollection of school was being asked to fill out registration forms. On those white sheets of paper, a segment required us to jot down our parents’ names. A pretty straightforward instruction, and yet it gave me the most trouble. It struck me each time that I didn’t know my mother’s name, and I could not even describe my father. I could not speak any other languages save English and Runyoro. I always scribbled down my caretaker’s name and would spend the rest of such days feeling empty and broken. This always happened. Sister Evace was hesitant about resettling any of her kids when they came of age. She was keen on keeping her brood together. But I knew the day would come when I would leave the place and people I’d known all my life to create space for another child. And it did surely come. Every year that passed while I lived at the orphanage, the deep desire to know my ancestry grew stronger. I desired to meet my people. I desired to see my father’s eyes. I wanted to meet him and ask why he hadn’t come back to reclaim me. I wanted to hear his reason for returning to Rwanda without me. I wanted to know if he still loved me. If I ever crossed his mind. If he thought it was my fault mother had lost her life giving birth to me. I wanted to know my kinsmen. My siblings. I wanted to know my people.

In 2015, I recall being told I would spend part of my senior four vacation with my people. I was excited and anxious in equal measure. I could not sleep a wink the night before the day I was scheduled to venture out. I was assured my days out of the orphanage were only a temporary arrangement. I was guaranteed a return to the orphanage. I knew my caretaker was mentally preparing me for life beyond the orphanage. I loved the orphanage. I loved the people within it—the kids who I considered siblings. The workers we called auntie. The community I was taken to the place where my family had first settled when they arrived from Rwanda during the Genocide. I was led to the spot my mother lay. There was nothing to point to the existence of a grave. Nothing, save a tree with shiny green leaves. I was at a loss on how to grieve for someone I’d not known. I stood by my mother’s resting place and apologised under my breath for having taken too long to come. I wanted to tell her I had found a mother in Linda Stuart, an American woman I spoke to every day. I wanted to tell her about Sister Evace, who had nursed me after my mother passed on. I wanted to tell her I was sorry she had died so young. I paid my respects and lingered by her mother’s grave. There was a sense of relief in coming home. I was, however, disappointed to learn that the family I had been led to wasn’t mine. The family head had lived with my family and knew my father. The family was hospitable, and they answered questions I posed to them. They revealed to me that my father had indeed paid me a visit at the orphanage when I was aged four. I, through this family, established contacts that led me to my brother. My brother could not believe his ears when I reached out and introduced myself to him over a tense phone call. I told him I was his long lost brother. He was happy I’d established contact. He conveyed the news to Aunt Kayesu, my father’s sister, who arranged to travel from the Northern Province to Kampala to see me. Aunt Kayesu would later lead me home. She accused my father rather severely of his shortcomings. She accosted him for not caring enough to find me.

I got to meet Father in 2016. My father was shellshocked when he saw me in the flesh. He wrapped his hands around me and welcomed me home. I felt the reluctance in his embrace. My father said he’d fallen upon difficult times. He said his sisters had sidelined him over family land and other property. He said he’d been forced to live in a resettlement camp in Rwanda. My father apologised for his inadequacies. My more prominent family was remorseful too. They were unmistakably happy I’d returned home. I asked Father if they knew of my existence. He, in response, said he’d been told an American family had adopted me and relocated with me to the USA. And that, this was precisely why he’d decided against reaching out. I also saw he lacked the means. I’ve been to Rwanda four times since I first met my father. I feel the reluctance, or is it a sense of guilt each time I speak to my siblings. I hope my family will someday feel free around me and less distant. Perhaps they haven’t forgiven themselves. I hold no anger in my heart. I hope they bury the past behind them. Then maybe I’ll not struggle to remind them that I am family. I’m grateful still. The Lord has been kind. I have been uplifted by amazing people who owed me no obligation. Sister Evace, Mama Linda and Tom, the Lalondes, Duncan and Hellen and the larger family at Mustard Seed Babies Home. You accepted me as your own, and I cannot take that for granted. Mama Linda paid my tuition through the University and flew in to attend my graduation in October last year. Sometimes, family isn’t defined by blood ties. 

Andrew Aliguma, 24.