Let me first say that all these stories are based on repeating what local residents have told me. I do not speak Kinyarwandan or French and they barely speak English. The added problem is that Rwandans are the most gracious and agreeable people, and would do nothing to upset or contradict me. Think of these stories as the most wonderful fantasies of an old man, documented by photographs.

We have a neighbor who lives at the end of our street in what looks, for all the world, like a deserted, ramshackle building… perhaps a former school or office. It is, in fact, home to her and her extended family. It sits next to what I have called in the past the cow field. It is located behind the municipal building where the drummers for Jesus drum, the dancers rehearse their dances, the preachers preach, and the politicians draw crowds for the elections. What sets this home apart, in the middle of our little downtown, is the fact that they have a cow—a beautiful, healthy brown cow—that seems to be given free rein to wander through the field and the yards outside of our neighbors’ walls (We all live behind six-foot high walls with either embedded broken glass or barbed wire running across the top.  Although most likely constructed to prevent petty thefts, the barriers evoke in us unsettling images of the genocide where 220,000 people died here in Butare 20 years ago).

Two years ago, our neighbor was walking by the hospital in the early morning. She saw a cardboard box alongside the road, and curious, she went over and opened it. Inside was a very healthy newborn baby. Rwandans have great respect for governmental wisdom and authority, so of course she took the baby to the District Office.

The District Office contacted the Sisters of the Mother of Good Council who, besides running one of the best hotels and restaurants in Butare (Centre d’Accueil Mater Boni Consilii), also care for orphans. This is the part of the story that I’m not a hundred percent sure of, but I was told that the nuns said to the woman “if you will raise the child, we will supply the money for her clothes and food”. Then the district stepped in and agreed to give the lady a cow to provide milk for the child. Yesterday, I was introduced to the child by her older brother and sister and was allowed to take pictures of her. I had taken pictures of cow at an earlier time, and I will add to this blog pictures of the District Office and the sisters’ hotel (where my friends from Matar Supermarket sent me for a really wonderful dinner).

When my daughter Elizabeth reads this blog, I hope she imagines the wonderful set of drawings that can be added to the story, to make it a perfect children’s book. Who knows?—At 72, I could become an author and book publisher (one of my earliest dreams).