My dad rushed back to our Lugazi home and brought back with him my two-year-old sister. They had all hoped for a morning delivery. He rushed into Mbarara hospital with her tiny hand griping his index finger. They were kindly asked to sit in the lobby. My dad grabbed my sister and put her on his lap feeling grateful for the blessing he already had but anxiously waiting for the other.
The nurses walked back and forth showing no sign of excitement. To them it was a regular day like any other. My sister hang on to my dad unaware of what was about to happen to her world.
My dad with one arm griped around my sister and the other lightly holding a newspaper scrolled through its black and white pages. Things had gotten worse in Rwanda. Habayrimana’s plane had been shot down a few weeks into my mother’s contractions. Uganda was not at ease as they tried to find shelter for hundreds of Rwandans fleeing from the genocide.
Their little bundle of joy arrived in the wee hours of the morning with dislocated feet. The anticipated welcome home party was postponed. My dad and sister made a few more trips to the hospital.
Their little bundle of joy was taken to the operating room and my dad took his usual seat in the lobby with that day’s newspaper. It appears things had gotten worse in Rwanda. The West was getting ready to intervene.