Ugiye He?

 Ugiyehe?

Ugiye he? Ugiye he? Their cries follow me down the street, becoming more persistent with each emerging ray of light. “Ugiye he Muzungu?” It’s 5am on a dusty road somewhere deep in Africa and I am running. It’s cultural here in Rwanda to ask everyone where they are going when they pass you on the street, especially the Muzungu (white man) because everything they do is inherently interesting based simply on their color. The tricky part about “Ugiye he?” the reason its nips at my nerves like a winter frost, is that you are never supposed to answer truthfully. Everything is a secret in Rwanda and as a result people are always trying to find the truth or lying to cover it up. This rule applies to literally everything in a person’s life. “What are you making for dinner?”

“Food”

“Where are you going?”

“South”

The more evasive the answer ,with out being rude, the better.

            The children are catching up to me now. This ritual the Muzungu has of running quickly down the street alone before the sun has risen baffles them. They try to keep up as long as they can but today I don’t slow down. I don’t answer.  Many of them are my students and I have explained many times that I run for sport, so that my heart works well and my mind is clear and I look good in a bikini but somehow the meaning is always lost. And every morning here they are again, chasing me, “Ugiye he?”