Esmeralda’s Point of View
Meeting with Nyabena had become my first glint of hope. She guided and persuaded me to her house, which even without the persuasion, I would still follow. Because what’s more worse, being in an open place filled with dangerous strangers or a mere house filled with one or two strangers? Well of course the latter would be a suitable choice that I know aligned greatly with my option.
“You know miss Esmeralda, “ the woman started. “not everyone comes to this humble place of us because it is known for being one of the poorest country in Africa but look. The mist would settle over the hills every morning, soft and quiet like the breath of a newborn. It rolled in just before the sun kissed the earth, giving the land an ethereal hue. My grandmother always said that the mist was the spirit of our ancestors, watching over us, speaking to us in their own way. I never questioned it. Here, in our village in Burundi, the ancestors were not a distant memory—they lived with us, and walked among us, in every stone, every tree, and every cloud.”
Silenced filled with awe became my response. Hinting her to continue.
“I’m Nyabenda by the way. I was born in the heart of this land, where the mountains rise high and the lakes shimmer like a secret. It’s a place that has always felt eternal to me, timeless. And though life here is humble, it is full of richness, but not the kind measured by gold or wealth. Our richness is in the stories we tell, the traditions we hold onto, and the quiet strength of our people. I remember waking up to the songs of my mother and aunties as they prepared the morning meal. They would sing as they pounded the cassava, their voices rising in harmonies that seemed to echo through the hills. I would lie on my mat, eyes still heavy with sleep, listening to the rhythm of their work, the steady beat of the pestle against stone.”
She got me a cup of a strange looking coffee, strange because it is yellowish, but the scent is aromatic.
“In our village, food is sacred. Not just because it nourishes us, but because it binds us together. Every meal is a communal act. Even if it’s just a simple plate of beans and plantains, we gather to share it, sitting on the ground, laughing, talking. There’s no hurry. Time moves differently here. We don’t measure our lives by the hands of a clock, but by the cycles of the seasons, by the coming and going of the rains. The rains, oh, how we live by them. When the sky grows dark and heavy, we know it’s time to prepare. The fields, terraced like steps leading to the heavens, need to be ready. Our land is fertile, but it requires care, like anything else in life. The crops must be tended, the soil respected. We grow maize, beans, sweet potatoes, and bananas. And always, there is sorghum, for it is from sorghum that we brew our traditional beer, urwarwa. It’s a drink for celebrations, for welcoming guests, for honoring the spirits. The spirits are ever-present. In Burundi, there’s no sharp line between the living and the dead. We believe that when someone dies, they do not leave us—they become imizimu, ancestors who guide us. When a child is born, we often say they have the spirit of a grandparent, returned to us. We don’t say goodbye when someone passes; we say, “See you in another life.”
‘Well, that’s a very beautiful goodbye word.’
“I’ve seen the abapfumu, our traditional healers, summon the spirits in times of need. They call upon the ancestors to help with illnesses, disputes, or even troubled crops. People from neighboring villages come to seek their wisdom. The abapfumu carry the knowledge of plants, roots, and nature’s hidden powers, passed down through generations. My uncle once told me that even though modern medicine has reached our land, the abapfumu still hold the key to understanding the soul of an illness. Marriage is a significant part of our lives, not just between two people, but between two families, two lineages. When a couple is to be wed, there’s an elaborate process. The groom’s family must visit the bride’s family and offer gifts, often cows—our most cherished possession. The cow is more than just an animal here; it’s a symbol of wealth, prosperity, and life. We hold ceremonies, feasts, and dances that last for days, binding the families together in a way that cannot be undone. And oh, how we dance! The Imana dance, with its graceful, deliberate movements, is more than just a performance; it’s a way of connecting to the earth and the ancestors. I’ve watched the men, with their spears and shields, move in perfect rhythm, their feet striking the ground with purpose, their bodies telling the story of battles fought, victories won, and lives lived with honor. The Karyenda, our royal drum, once held the secrets of the kingdom. It was said that the drum could speak to the king, delivering messages from the gods. Even now, though the monarchy has long passed, the beat of the drum is sacred. We use it in ceremonies to mark the turning of seasons, the birth of children, and the remembrance of those who have passed.”
I smiled, and for the first time since I came here, I felt no worries, no sadness, no anger, and no regret. Perhaps because of the relief that I am with a nice woman, in her care, or I am in a beautiful underestimated place, filled with many beautiful living souls.
“But life in Burundi is not without its hardships. The land has seen conflict, strife, and struggle. Yet, our people endure. We believe in ubuntu—that we are all bound together in a web of humanity. My mother once told me, “Nyabenda, a person is a person because of others.” It means that we cannot exist in isolation; we are each a thread in a greater tapestry, one that is woven by the hands of those who came before us and those who will come after. There’s a quiet resilience in the people of Burundi, a strength born from the land itself. We have weathered storms—both literal and metaphorical—and still, we rise. We laugh, we sing, we dance, and we remember. Always, we remember.As I sit here now, watching the sun set over the mountains, I am filled with a deep sense of gratitude. This land, this life, is a gift. And though the world outside may change, we remain rooted in our traditions, in our beliefs, in our connection to each other and to the ancestors.”
I have never heard and seen of this much love to their own land, as if it really resonates with them. I looked at her smilingly, telling her to continue if she has more, because if her beautiful way of telling their history is her way of alleviating my worries and all, she’s already successful.
”I can hear the faint sound of drums in the distance. Somewhere, another village is celebrating a new life, or perhaps honoring one that has passed. The cycle continues, as it always has, as it always will. And as the mist begins to roll in once more, I close my eyes and offer a prayer to those who came before me. They are here, in the air, in the soil, in the beat of my heart. Always with us. “
‘So, I am very luck I met this woman. No, more like I am grateful that the one I met is her. Nyabenda is truly a woman of culture.’