Since leaving Rwanda, over the past few months, I haven’t really known how to be. Actually, this isn’t entirely correct. Anyone looking at me might think that my re-entry has been smooth, that I have made the transition seamlessly. This is true, and somehow not true.
I have successfully distracted myself from day 1. With a variety of… pleasures, for lack of a better word.
But every so often I find myself hit with something, something I have yet to place, some sort of terrible lament. For a feeling lost, a time passed, a self misplaced. A yearning. A disappointment. A shock. A realization. Shame. Anxiety. Appalling relief. A sense that something is being pulled out of me and I have no control in stopping. An excuse. Love. The need for something more than I ever thought I could need. Salvation. Faith.
How the fuck did I get here?
