Mwami John

Le 16 fevrier     After a morning full of searching for golden monkeys (which sounds a whole lot like we were contestants on Legends on the Hidden Temple, now that I think about it), Jeremiah suggested that we take advantage of a local cultural village where we could experience Rwandan culture first hand.

Once we showered to get rid of the buffalo dung smell (it’s a long story – I realize that we had gone to see monkeys not buffalo), we piled into Jeremiah’s vehicle (which was yet to be named) and headed along to the Iby’Iwacu Cultural Village, which translates roughly to “Our Cultural Village.”

The way the cultural village works is that whenever a demand is put in for a show, the community organizes themselves and puts on a performance for whatever time the guests want to arrive. Efficient as we are with our time, we managed to arrive at lunch at 12h30 and arrive at the cultural village at 3h00. There was no one else there.

Didier greeted us at the entrance of the village and informed us of the history of this project – once-poachers now worked and performed at the village in order to make more money and also to raise money for the protection of the rare mountain gorillas that live in the Virunga Mountain Chain. Two more joined the group, now we were up to five – Dad being the only male.

The first stop on the tour? The mwami’s hut. Before the 1960’s when Rwanda gained its independence and made major reforms, there was always a king – a mwami. So to give us the full effect of what Rwanda’s traditions were, a king was chosen. As I’ve said, there was only one male – the choice would not be difficult.

One of the Rwandan women brought my father into his new hut. And they didn’t come, so we called. And they didn’t come, so Didier called in, “King John?”

A few others joined the group, making about fifteen in total. After a couple more minutes, out came the mwami, dressed from head-to-toe in what any other mwami would wear – including a feathered headdress and cane.

We all burst out laughing (out of complete respect, of course). My father was then asked to choose a queen. Without hesitation, he chose the most beautiful and wise – my mother. “Would you like more than one wife, mwami?” “No, just this one.”

Sure enough, out came mwamikazi Barbara in an elegant robe.

A couple of us were chosen to be the princesses, and we were then given the procedure for which to enter the mwami’s hut:

1. The mwami must first point to who he wants to welcome into his hut.

2. The chosen person must remove his shoes and put on a given pair of sandals

3. He must then kneel down at the edge of the circle at the entrance of the hut

4. Clap three times and bow, saying “murakoze, mwami.” (thank you, my king)

A little more about the circle – if someone is not given permission to cross the circle, he will be beaten with 200 lashes.

We were all given a tour of the mwami’s hut and Mwami John was very compliant throughout. He lives for moments like these. And as luck would have it, the name stuck. “Mwami John,” or “Mwami Johnny” is much catchier than “Dad” anyway.

And we’ve decided to finally name Jeremiah’s truck – the Mwami Mobile.