The Day Birds Flew over the Village
Compared to many of his peers in Idundi village, Nelson is a pretty noticeable kid. With a lankiness accentuated by a 180cm height, he has an unusual presence for a 20-year-old in the Waha tribe. With the unusual height, he is often relied upon to see beyond the tall maize stalks that ring the periphery of the Idundi village during the harvest times of early August.
The ability to see beyond is, and has always been, important for the village. As maize crops dry under the blazing sun of Tanzania’s western savannah, desiccated cobs fall to the ground, making them perfect picking for swarms of birds coming in from the west. Nelson’s job is to vocally warn his fellow villagers of the incoming swarms before they reach the village’s outer maize fields. As he loudly screams to alert others, he is also tasked with killing as many of the incoming birds before reinforcements arrive to help chase away the remaining.
Nelson is widely acknowledged by his peers as the village’s bird-killing expert. Whenever he shouts for help to shoo away birds, villagers arrive to find the birds already flying away from the maize fields. Half a dozen birds lay mortally injured on the ground as Nelson puts his trusty slingshot down casually.
Just as Nelson steps into the fields this hot, dusty morning, he is greeted with a usual sight. A couple of black birds are flying toward Idundi, nearing its outer maize fields. As usual, Nelson picks up a couple of pebbles from the ground, sets one in the slingshot, and hoists the slingshot to his eye level for a better aim.
But he does not shoot. Something is amiss about these birds. As they approach the maize fields, they show no intention of swooping down in hunger. Instead, they simply, and without a sound, continue to drift eastward, with no change in speed or direction.
Upon closer look, he is surprised to find that the black birds have no wings. Instead, two pairs of what seem to be rotating plastic blades keep them in flight. More perplexingly, what looks like a medium-sized brown box is tucked neatly under each of the birds’ belly.
Nelson feels he must examine the thing more closely. He already knows the thing is not a bird, or maybe it is not even a living creature. So what is it? And what is in the brown box? He has to know.
Despite the thing’s distance from the ground, the cloudless August sky offers little in the way of obstacles for Nelson’s accuracy.
But as one black thing comes down, the other one quickly speeds up and evacuates Idundi airspace.
He immediately knows he is in trouble.
On the side of brown box is marked: PROPERTY OF REPUBLIC OF RWANDA.
~
“Sir, we lost another one!” The young officer, large doses of sweat bleeding through his white shirt, shouts anxiously to Francois as he suddenly opens the glass door to his corner office.
Before Francois can take his eyes off his laptop and respond, the officer is running down the corridor, slamming Francois’ office door shut with a massive, careless thud.
With a usual sigh, Francois looks out the window toward the busy streets below.
It has been five years since he was transferred to this little corner office in downtown Kigali. Even now, he cannot help but reminisce about his old job at the Ministry of Transport.
To be fully honest, Francois still, full five years after the transfer, cannot figure why he was transferred to the Transport Section of the Ministry of Innovation in the first place. Yes, he was working with logistics providers in the past, but that’s where any similarity with his old job ends.
Why? Well, for one thing, he is no longer just working with any logistics provider, but a rather volatile group of drone transport providers.
Before he started this job, he didn’t think of drones as anything more than toys for kids. Two decades after being brought to Rwanda for the first time, they have become so common that their presence is practically considered a public menace. Not a day goes by without another story of plane interference, complaint of voyeurism, or someone getting hurt by one that strayed off-course.
Perhaps considering the public nuisance that drones are becoming, what his team is doing may actually be brilliant. To rid the country of the drone menace, the government decided to buy all drones from the public as transport vehicles. The drones, at least as the idea goes, would ferrying goods all the way to oceangoing ships docked on the Swahili coast. Of course drone owners were compensated, but there was little room for negotiation on the pricing or the timing.
Either way, on paper, the project makes financial sense. Citizens get money for their drones, and government get cheap transport vehicles. With auto-pilot and GPS becoming standard drone features these days, only a couple of supervisors based in Kigali are needed to pilot hundreds of the machines to destinations thousands of kilometers away.
At least that is how the idea is supposed to go in the ideal scenario. But the harsh reality of arranging children’s flying toys into the country’s aerial transport fleets provides Francois with many more real-world headaches.
For one thing, the young officer sweating in his white shirt has already burst into his office five times today, all bearing the same exact message. And it is not even 9am yet. The thought of losing five drones in two hours of work made Francois shake his head in disbelief. “…how are we going to explain what are in those boxes?” A fleeting thought crosses his mind as he remembers what the drones are carrying this week.
He knew that “priority government packages” are sensitive stuff.
Francois can feel chills racing down his spine.
~
The village elders are just as perplexed as Nelson was when seeing the content of the brown box for the very first time.
Inside the box are neatly stacked steel tubes, hollow in the middle and short enough to fit side-by-side in a box small enough to be carried by one person. Each of the tubes is colored pitch black, with the now familiar PROPERTY OF REPUBLIC OF RWANDA sign spray-painted in yellow.
“What shall we do with these?” Nelson respectfully inquires the elders, the timidity in his eyes all too apparent. Nelson is unsurprisingly anxious. He was simply doing his job, destroying flying intruders coming for the village’s maize. But at that moment, in ways that Nelson cannot quite fathom, the villagers are displaying obvious anger toward him.
“You have made us an enemy of Rwanda!” some villagers are shouting at him.
Nelson feels wronged. The village’s reaction is just so exaggerated. None of the poles are damaged in anyway. It is just a matter of returning them to the rightful owners.
Idundi, after all, is no stranger to Rwanda. Just fifteen minutes of slow walk beyond the outer maize fields, a rusted chain fence marks Tanzania’s boundary with its smaller neighbor. Nelson, like many others in Idundi, frequently jumps over the low fence to visit Rwandan friends.
“Surely our Rwandan brothers and sisters will forgive us,” he nonchalantly remarks to the boisterous crowds that now surround the council of elders.
The elders remain silent. One of the elders picks up the drone that still lay where it crushed. The crowd watches as the elder turns it over, revealing a massive cracking dent on its underside. Some colored electrical wires are clearly visible through the cracks in the plastic casing.
“This thing probably won’t fly again.” The elder makes an obvious remark, with an emotionlessness contrasting the vocal crowds. The villagers quickly fall silent, waiting for the elder to speak on. The elder is in no hurry, pouring over the details of the immobile drone’s every corner.
“Sir, do you know what it is?” Nelson is the first to break the silence.
“I am rather surprised you don’t know what it is, Nelson. You seem to spend so much time on the other side of the fence,” says the elder as he smiles at Nelson. “Over there, there are a lot of these things. It’s like a flying toy I suppose.”
“But if it is a toy, it is even not a worry for us, right?” Nelson interjects eagerly. “We can apologize for breaking this flying…thing.” He is adamant about extricating himself from the supposed crime.
“You know, I’ve only seen this thing at a relative’s house in Rwanda. It’s rare to have one of these on this side of the border.” Ignoring Nelson, the elder goes on, still playing with the broken drone. “I wonder why there aren’t more of these things here.”
Nelson’s curiosity is piqued. The elder is right. How come something common in Rwanda is almost unknown in Idundi? How come no one ever sells them here?
Perhaps he should go find out, he thought.
~
“I told you many times before, Francois, I cannot be responsible for what happens to your drones outside our facilities!” Joseph fumes impatiently less than a minute after he picked up the phone call.
By now, Joseph is getting sick and tired of receiving multiple phone calls from Rwanda on a daily basis. His job at the Receivable Office of Dar es Salaam’s Port Authority requires him to process incoming cargo for export. But there is little he can do if the cargo does not show up at the Port. It seems that his friend Francois just cannot understand this no matter how many times they argue over the topic.
“But you work for the government! Can’t you get someone to communicate with the officials in villages?” Francois is not about to back down.
“I work for the Port, not the president. I can’t just get someone to send a decree to tell people to stop throwing rocks at things that fly by.” Joseph fires back, “It is plainly ridiculous!”
After twenty years in his job, Joseph is quite callous to cargo being lost. Every day another heavily laden truck is steered off the twisty mountain “highways” linking Dar with inland Tanzania. They fall into the abyss, goods and men alike buried deep in the ravine. With many trucking companies too cash-strapped to pay for rescue operations, the goods (and sometimes the dead men) stay down there forever.
But now some pesky Rwandan is insolent enough to request 100% accountability on all of his goods. Goods delivered by drone to boot. There is not even a dying driver and expensive truck to worry about, why should he be concerned with their lost drones?
He cannot hide the feeling of disdain welling up inside him. He is not going to let Rwanda boss him around. To him, the littlest country in the East Africa has now become the regional bully.
Rwanda’s emergence as the regional power is, for all the Tanzanian displeasure, no longer surprising. In the decades since the Rwandan Genocide, the country’s leadership crafted a beautiful narrative to keep the genocide in the collective memories of the developed world. In return, it became the darling of global donors. With genocidal horrors of the past not forgotten and a government keen to feed the outside world with news of the latest investments in modernity, the West is all too willing to make the country the highest per capita aid recipient in the world.
But ultimately, it is how Rwanda used that endless stream of aid money that made all the difference.
It is not news that Rwanda has involved itself in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) in the aftermath of the Genocide. An eastward exodus of genocidaires prompted the Rwandan government to fund any local militias willing to contain them. But with much of the original genocidaires in DRC having capitulated, the purpose of Rwandan involvement gradually shifted. Gone is the funding for various fickle militias, and what came in their place were Rwandan investments in DRC.
As the new master of the land, the Rwandan leadership wasted no time turning the region into a cash cow. Government-owned mines popped up everywhere, systematically moving coveted underground resources back to Rwanda proper for processing and export.
It does not take a genius to figure out how Rwanda finances these massive ventures in DRC. Foreign aid money provides start-up capital that reaped dividends of resource exploitation. To keep donors happy, the Rwandan government consistently broadcasts news of a stabilized and booming DRC. Pictures of smiling Congolese villagers standing next to newly built hospitals and schools complement stories of state-of-art facilities built to turn ores into easily transported metal tube form. The message is clear: Rwanda is weaning off foreign aid and is helping the Congolese do the same. Donors should be excited to see themselves funding a sustained economic miracle.
The drone transport idea is an integral part of this ongoing economic miracle. Joseph grimaces every time he imagines a beaming Francois showing foreign donors his fleet of box-carrying drones flying off to Dar. The drone transport program is that “wow” factor putting a modern spin on an age-old method of resource exploitation, getting the international press all excited about Rwanda’s façade as a technology pioneer and forgetting about the aggressive opportunist that is behind that façade.
~
If there is one thing that always amazes Nelson about Nihemu, it is the roads. Cleanly swept, paved, and lined with bright streetlights at night, the streets of Idundi’s immediate neighboring village on this side of the border made Idundi’s crisscrossing dirt paths all the more uninviting.
But today he is in no mood to leisurely admire the roads. Carrying the broken drone and a few of the metal tubs from its box, Nelson is in a hurry to get to the village office.
Nelson is rather convinced that all will go without a hitch. He is, after all, no stranger to Nihemu. Just as the case back home, his abnormal height makes him a minor celebrity. Local interest in the tall kid from Tanzania has given him many local acquaintances. Village officials had warmly welcomed him in past visits. Today, Nelson hopes they will repeat the warmness.
As Nelson walked through the village’s main street, locals are busy coming in and out of shops. Witnessing the tall kid, many enthusiastically greet, motioning him to join in the conversations. Nelson does not think twice before waving back, walking toward the quickly enlarging group.
But the almost festive attitude quickly changes when Nelson gets closer to the group. He notices smiles disappearing from his long-time acquaintances’ faces as he approaches.
“Looks like you got something today,” says one of the older men who just joined the group, as others remains silent, their faces no longer displaying the initial joy when spotting Nelson on the street.
“Ahh, I accidentally damaged this thing in Idundi this morning,” Nelson cheerfully responds, oblivious to the darkening mood of the Rwandans, “I was hoping to get some help from officials here.”
The gathered crowd is not impressed. “My friend, that is a drone you are holding there,” the same man quietly utters, pausing to carefully choose his words, “It might get you into a lot of trouble.”
“Wait, why?” Nelson cannot hide the incomprehension from his facial expressions, “I am just here to apologize and return this. I just need to explain what happened.”
“My brother,” another man pipes in. “Things are not as simple as you think.” The man clears throat, before beginning the background story.
“You see, back in the day…maybe like ten years ago? Drones were very common around here in Nihemu. They used to be favorite toys of the kids around here.” He states, “Then one day, government people from Kigali came to buy drones off of everyone.” The man pauses, stretching out his arm to point toward the government office at the end of the street. “They first went to see our village leaders, and then soon the villager leaders accompanied them to visit every house around here.”
“Then what happened?” Nelson was engrossed in the story.
The man clears his throat before continuing. “So when the people got to our houses, they just mentioned the country need to buy all the drones. They offered a fairly good price and told us all villagers in Nihemu need to do it. I was surprised about how sudden it was. So I asked them to give a reason.” The man looks up at the sky, as if to recall the details. “I think the guy from Kigali said something about how the drones are tools for national development…”
“Anyways,” the man puts his arm on Nelson’s shoulder, “I suggest you just keep it to yourself. There is no need to do more investigation,” he says, as points to the drone in Nelson’s hand, “we don’t want to get in trouble.”
With that said, the man turns around, still as expressionless as before, and quickly walks away. The crowd, as if following his cue, also quietly disperses without the usual noisy goodbyes. Nelson is left all alone in the middle of the street, as everyone goes back to their shopping.
~
Paul, the village chairman of Nihemu, leans back on his leather chair. It seems like just another relaxed working day. Nothing of importance has occurred, and he is just waiting for lunch.
And then his phone rings.
“Paul, my friend, how is your day?” It is one voice that Paul does not want to hear. “Francois here from the Ministry of Innovation, it has been a long time!” And indeed it has been. Francois calls in once every few months to make sure that that no one in the village is holding onto drones secretly.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you today?” Paul has to put on the sincerest voice he can muster.
“My brother, we lost a transport drone. And the GPS on it indicates that it was downed in Idundi, which I believe it is the Tanzanian village right across the border from yours?” Oh great, so it is finally my turn. Paul has heard much about Francois’s sudden “drone crash” phone calls. Apparently transport drones are crushing all over the country and beyond, and Francois’s anxiety explodes into anger in many of these conversations.
Paul does feel Francois’s pain of having to manage the drones. They cost money, and are being lost way too fast. At the rate that they are buying replacements, they aren’t even making a profit doing the transport. But what does Francois expect to happen? Kids are kids, and many of them like throwing rocks at flying things.
Knock, knock. The sound comes from the wooden door of Paul’s office. For him, it is just perfect timing.
“Sorry, sir, you must excuse me. An important guest of mine just came to my office. Please call me back later.” Before Francois can respond, Paul already hangs up and rushes over to open the door.
Behind the opened door stands a prominently tall young man sporting an expression of unabated anxiety. Not the kind of guests that Paul is accustomed to in his office, but obviously something is amiss.
“Sorry, sir, my name is Nelson. I have some concerns.” Before Paul can open his mouth to greet, the young man is already making his urgency known.
The young man brings forward the broken drone. “Sorry, sir, I got this in Idundi.”
Paul puts on his best smile. Great, problem solved.
~
It really hasn’t been a great morning for Francois. No, not the part about losing five drones in two hours. That part is not so unusual these days. The problematic thing is how he is being treated by the people he has to work with.
Call up the Port Authority in Dar and they hang up after angrily denying any responsibility. Call up villages and village leaders find excuses to avoid conversations. How is he supposed to report back to his superiors and give a legitimate-sounding reason for all the lost drones?
He puts down the phone, and looks out of the window once more.
Perhaps it was a mistake for his predecessors to take all drones out of the villages. The cost of kids throwing rocks at transport drones is definitely not worth whatever benefits of what is essentially a financially compensated confiscation.
So why did the government decide that villages cannot have their drones? It is all about international perceptions, really. With Kigali trumpeting the concept of drone transport as some cutting edge technology that revolutionizes the logistics industry in Rwanda and Africa as a whole, it would definitely raise a few eyebrows if every village has drones. It takes away the feel of the “cutting edge” and “cool” to market the idea abroad.
The reality is that perceptions matter much more than substance. If foreigners are shown with visual and physical evidence that drones are privileged items accessible to only a few rich families in Kigali, it will get their “I need to help the poor people” feeling tingling. Money flows in, and a win-win situation is achieved: foreign donors get their “humanitarian satisfaction” and the Rwandan government gets more money to invest.
But the headache is that the transport drone project is bleeding money so fast that the aid money Rwanda gets because of it is not even enough to compensate for replacement drones and lost cargo. Financially speaking, the project is no longer worthwhile. But if Kigali stops now, how can it explain to foreigners who already donated millions for the project? Not that much money is needed to make the project happen? We lied and spent your money on something else?
Who knows, maybe one day the foreigners will have their “buyer’s remorse,” but Francois has no plans to let that happen while he is still in office.
As he is lost in thought, his phone rings again.
“Sir, we found the drone that you were looking for.” Paul from Nihemu is heard on the other end.
~
Joseph can’t believe his ears.
“Wait, what did you say the President did?” He has to confirm if he heard what he just heard.
“The President apologized to Rwanda for the lost drones found on our side of the border, and asked me to tell you to not charge the usual tariffs on the replacement cargo coming in from Rwanda.” The bureaucrat from the President’s office repeats himself blandly.
“Wait, why do we have to apologize? Why do we have to cover their export duties? It’s not like we shot down their drones intentionally.” Joseph is practically shouting over the phone. He cannot believe that Francois somehow managed to get to the Tanzanian president.
“Mr. Joseph, the Rwandans have in possession a broken drone of theirs. And they also have a Tanzanian kid who voluntarily admitted he shot down the drone.” The bureaucrat sounds as calm as ever, “please just process accordingly.” With that, the call is cut.
Joseph fiercely pounds the office table with his fist. As if the Rwandans don’t have enough money already. He just can’t get over the fact that his government would so swiftly have its arm twisted into paying compensations for something that it does not have any real control over.
His phone vibrates. “What now?” Joseph impatiently murmurs as he picks up to read the new message.
Thank you for your help in getting back our drone. And we also thank you in advance for allowing the passage of our cargo through your port for free. We at Kigali can never be thankful enough of having a great partner like you. Francois
He can almost visualize Francois’s sneers as he composed the short message dripping with sarcasm. And worse yet, he did not forget to attach some pictures. One is particularly striking: a young kid smiling nervously at the camera. In one hand, he is holding one of the Rwandan transport drones, the kind that he sees too often flying brazenly into the Port Authority. In the other hand, he is holding a piece of paper with a carelessly scribbled line of text. He squints hard to make out what it says:
Nelson, from Idundi
~
It is 2pm, and lunch is served at an eatery in Idundi. The elders are sitting around a plastic table, but nobody is in a hurry to eat. Nor are they in a hurry to speak.
In laid-back Idundi, it is already unusual to call for two meetings of elders in a single day, and have the meeting over lunch time? That is practically unheard of.
Yet here they are, gathered in the eatery, mere hours after finishing the morning meeting, having another meeting about the same topic.
What led to the calling of the second meeting was the news on the radio that their Nelson was captured in Nihemu. He is being held on criminal charges of destroying Rwandan government property after voluntarily admitting to shooting down a transport drone.
“This kid just doesn’t let things go, does he?” One of the elders finally opens his mouth.
“No, he certainly doesn’t.” Another one chimes in, a bit glad that somebody else started the conversation.
Whatever determination Nelson is thought to have now, he certainly did not display it at the morning meeting. After one of the elders told him about the drone, he didn’t question further. Everyone assumed that he acquiesced to the suggestion of keeping quiet about the whole incident. No one thought he would do something completely opposite.
Now he is probably stuck in a Rwandan jail somewhere. The elders shake their heads at that thought. There really is very little they can do outside the boundaries of their jurisdiction.
The elders are about to dig into their lunch plates when a villager runs into the eatery.
“Sirs, there are some people from outside the village looking for the leaders here. They say they are from…eh…Nihemu. And they have Nelson with them!” The villager shouts, motioning the elders to follow him as he runs back out of the eatery.
The elders immediately follow the villager. At the end of the street, they can see a group of a half dozen men in crisp dress shirts and suit pants. In their midst is a tall young man standing a head above everyone else.
The young man is dejectedly looking down at his feet.
His hands are bound in handcuffs.
~
Nelson still cannot figure out if he is just having a particularly unlucky day.
It seems as if his luck ran out the moment he stepped into the village chairman’s office. Paul was amicable enough at first sight. Despite Nelson showing up suddenly, Paul politely received him in his office.
“So, tell me your name again?” Paul inquired with a smile, as he took out a notepad and a pen from the drawer of his table to take notes.
“Nelson, sir, I am from Idundi.” Nelson did not hesitate to make the purpose of his visit known, “and the drone I just gave you I shot down, thinking it was a bird.”
“Good, thank you for your honesty!” Paul’s face was almost a display of pure joy. Nelson smiled his best smile in response.
“Now, please excuse me for a second while I make a phone call. I will be back in just a few minutes.” Paul took his notepad and quickly walked out of the office.
Paul’s absence gave Nelson ample time to admire the office. A large window shows the same main commercial street that he walked through to get here. The Rwandan flag on the pole looks even bigger on the second floor. In one corner of the office was a wooden bookshelf, full of hardcover copies of English and French classics. Nelson had never seen so many different books in one place.
Just as he was browsing through the book titles, Paul was back in the office, as quickly and quietly as he had left it.
“Mr. Nelson, my superiors in Kigali would like a picture of you with the drone, to prove your presence here in Nihemu.” He remarked, as he walked over to hand the drone back to Nelson. “Please stand here, and hold the drone with your right hand. Also please hold this piece of paper in your left hand.” Paul tore a page from his notepad, and jotted something down very quickly, as he motioned Nelson to stand against the office wall.
Great, I will do anything to help resolve this thing. Nelson had no reason not to be compliant, even when he saw his own name on that piece of paper handed to him.
Paul was busy on his phone after snapping the photograph, so Nelson just sat back down on his chair and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Less than five minutes later, a uniformed officer emerged in Paul’s office after a knock. Without any greeting, the officer took out a pair of handcuffs, and fixed them to Nelson’s hand.
“Sir, you are under arrest for illegal possession of Rwandan government property.” The officer stated rather robotically.
Nelson had no time to react to the sudden turn in events. As his hands are cuffed, his eyes opened wide, and he stared in surprise to Paul. Paul was done with his phone now, and just leaned back in chair, his face retaining the polite smile from the beginning of their conversation.
“Don’t worry, my friend. The officer here is just going through some formalities. We just need to walk you back to Idundi.” Paul then raised his phone to show Nelson the photograph taken, “and this picture, we will need to use for something. I hope you won’t mind.”
Seeing that Nelson is still not convinced, Paul casually stated, “This matter is out of our hands now. But rest assured that you will not face any punishment here.” And to the police officer, he ordered, “ok, time for us to go to Idundi.”
Next thing he knew, Nelson was stuffed into a van, sitting next to Paul and the police officer.
He looked outside. The van was driving through the familiar bumpy dirt paths of Idundi.
~
Finally this day is looking up a little. Francois smiles to himself.
By 2:30pm, all his morning worries seem to have happened weeks in the past. One of the drones is secured in Nihemu, the angry folks at the Dar Port Authority are put in their place, and he even got invited to stand with the president for a press conference happening later. No doubt it is about the transport drone project, and no doubt he will be perceived in a positive light.
One thing does continue to perplex him though. The level of attention the Rwandan leadership pours over some Tanzanian kid who shot down the drone is off the charts. After getting the kid’s picture, the leaders immediately ordered it sent to the state’s official news agencies for online publication, along with extensive write-ups emphasizing the need to minimize “brigands that are proving to be grassroots-level bottlenecks for the drone transport program.”
It all sounds just way too serious to reflect the reality on the ground. Kids are always going to be kids. In villages, kids throw rocks at birds, dogs, and just about any creature that moves. To call such behavior “criminally intended” cannot be further from the truth.
That, however, is exactly how the Rwandan leadership is framing the Tanzanian kid. What is the intention behind the overstated treatment? Francois cannot help but speculate.
On one hand, it may just be a not-so-concealed swipe at the Tanzanian government. The message is that the Tanzanian populace is not “civilized” enough to be deserving of cutting edge assets like drones. In essence, by implying just how Rwandans are unlikely to do the same – a dubious claim – the Rwandan government is pushing existing and potential donors to shift more development aid from Tanzania to Rwanda for the sake of higher “impact.” Of course, Tanzanian authorities are likely to be irate, but when did Rwanda ever care about the conditions of its neighbors during its rapid development in the past couple of decades?
On the other hand, it may just be a nuanced call for more foreign aid targeting the drone transport program. Now that there is a whole new obstacle that was not considered before (in the form of Tanzanian kids shooting down drones), more money is needed to resolve the problems it brings (whether it be a program to thwart trigger-happy kids or pay for replacement drones). Obviously, the Rwandan government would want the foreigners to understand how grave the obstacle is to the success of the program. Hence, exaggerating the role (and the prevalence) of Tanzanians damaging drones becomes a direct call for more donations, without the need to specifically ask for aid.
Francois does feel sorry for the Tanzanian kid though. The kid would have had no way of knowing the consequences of his action (heck, he would not even have known what a drone is, for all he knows). And he certainly would never understand the significance, to the financial capacity of the Rwandan state, of his bold little visit to Nihemu. As a pawn in the game of acquiring aid money, he is unlikely to be punished much for his actions, but he will remain forever oblivious to the real implications of what he started and was involved in.
Ultimately, he is rather saddened by the fact that this kid, like millions of others in villages on both sides of the border, will never realize how much the government is profiting off things like drones (or lack thereof). And because they do not know, they will never be in a position to demand their fair share of the profits, for so submissively subjecting themselves to the government’s sometimes incomprehensible demands.
“Sir, the President’s office called. Your presence is requested for preparing tonight’s press conference.” The same young officer that notified him of the lost drones this morning is smiling as he emerges in Francois’s office. Francois smiles back. The officer looks quite calm now, no longer sweating through his white shirt. It is not hard to imagine the sense of relief he is feeling after the pressure of finding downed drones is lifted, at least for a little while before the next wave of lost drones are reported.
“Sure, let me grab a few things. I will meet you down at the car park.” Francois cheerfully replies as the young officer gingerly leaves his office.
It is going to a good end of the day. And it is all thanks to some innocent Tanzanian kid.
~
It is getting to be a long day for Joseph. Those duty exemption papers for Rwanda are still piling up at his desk at 7pm, an hour past his usual dinner time at home. The bare light bulbs of his office flickers as he continues to scribe away on the papers. The condition of the diesel generators at the Port Authority tonight is less stable than usual, it seems.
He has to take a break. His eyes are in pain under the unreliable lights, and what little night winds from the still-open windows does not provide enough respite from the humidity of the night. He decides to take a walk down to the office canteen for dinner, even though his still-lingering anger from the turn of events with Rwanda does not give him much of an appetite.
The downstairs canteen is much quieter at these hours than during lunch time. A couple of the tables are occupied by people eating by themselves, their tiredness clearly shown in the sluggishness with which they shove food into their mouths.
Joseph slogs over to one of the tables, and slouches over the chair. In the corner of the room, the TV is on, showing the nightly news.
“…Now we would like to insert live pictures from Kigali, where the Rwandan president is scheduled to hold a press conference in a few moments…” The news broadcaster’s mentioning of Rwanda suddenly jolts Joseph into attention. As he directs his eyes to the TV, he sees the Rwandan president in a suit, standing behind the podium set up in front of the presidential office. Next to him, to his surprise, is a smiling Francois, who never tires of calling into his office to complain. Of course, Francois is also the reason that he is still not at home today.
“Today, we stopped a major cross-border assault against our transport drone program…” the president is quick to get to the main point, “…a Tanzanian citizen was involved in the destruction of one of our transport drones carrying valuable cargo destined for export at Dar es Salaam Port.” With that said, the president holds up a blown-up printed picture of a young man holding what seems to be a drone in one hand, and a piece of paper in the other. “This young man from Idundi village in western Tanzania fired at the drone with his slingshot, and then proceeded to take the content of the cargo…” The president is raising his voice at this point. “Only because of the hard work by the project team, led by my friend Francois…” the president pats the shoulder of a positively radiant Francois standing next to him, “…were we able to save at least one of the drones.”
Joseph doesn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. He just shakes his head at the sight of Francois getting his five minutes of fame.
It is always the Tanzanians that get the short end of the stick. Joseph knows exactly the implications of the sudden and rather random-looking press conference in Kigali. Rwandans just managed to get even more positive attention, this time by portraying themselves as victims of Tanzania. Worse yet, they are now sophisticated victims, having their expensive high-tech gear destroyed by ignorant citizens of a backward neighbor averse to development. It means more positive reputation and more aid money for Rwanda, at the expense of less for Tanzania.
Sometimes Joseph wonders whether the Tanzanian leadership understands this. It is not the first time Rwanda pulled similar tricks on its neighbors. More aptly, such tricks are the very basis by which the small country attracts so much attention and money from foreign donors. It is what gives Rwanda the financial resources to invest in infrastructure, military ventures in the DRC, as well as exploitation and processing of natural resources. Rwanda’s neighbors, meanwhile, goes on business as usual, with political infighting and confusing policy changes scaring away every right-minded international investor. No one bothers to learn from the Rwanda model, and most citizens’ impression of the small neighbor is more or less stuck in its genocidal days.
He is genuinely worried about his country. Not so much about Rwanda’s obvious mudslinging to portray his fellow Tanzanians as backward, but the fact that his country and people are generally complacent in the face of such attacks. They neither react in anger nor feel the need to fight back. Perhaps Tanzanians are just so self-confident that they feel that Rwanda is not a worthy opponent to be having a screaming match over. Maybe Tanzanians are living in some sort of illusion where their country is the most important player in the region. Contradictorily, it could even be Tanzanians’ complete loss of self-confidence that desensitizes them to any amount of scorn or shame pour upon them by others.
Either way, this day is turning out to be Francois’s day, not his. It is Rwanda’s day, not Tanzania’s.
He sighs. He really hopes that, somehow, this day does not reflect the normal interaction between the two countries in the foreseeable future.
~
Idundi’s village elders do not display anger after hearing Nelson’s story. As a Waha tribal tradition, they are supposed to be the source of wisdom, and wise people, they say, should not easily display displeasure on their faces.
But Nelson is not at all calmed by the fact that the elders have not berated him. Instead, their collective silence, even after he provided his story in great detail, scares him. It is not easy living in a tight-knit small community where everyone knows everyone. And it is that much harder when you are not on the best terms with the leaders of the community.
They are all back in the small eatery where the elders were gathering before Nelson and the accompanying Rwandans showed up. Tables are put together, and everyone is invited for post-dinner tea.
The mood at the enlarged table, however, is rather awkward. The Idundi elders remain silent, not willing to make any comments on the ongoing incident that may give any excuse for these smug Rwandans to provide an egotistical response. The Rwandans, for their part, simply wait for the Tanzanians to say something, so they can end their visit on a victorious note.
By this hour of the day, everyone has become knowledgeable about the Rwandan president’s press conference. Nelson has his head perpetually lowered in shame, and is still in disbelief that casual photograph taken by the Nihemu chairman has become the international face of a Tanzanian petty criminal. He knows he has brought embarrassment to his people, and especially to the Idundi elders, who inadvertently had their prestige and sense of authority dented for being so powerless in resolving the matter with more dignity. He, as a resident of Idundi, will never again be treated as an equal by residents of Nihemu or any other Rwandan.
“We thank you for your cooperation during this whole process,” Paul, the Nihemu chairman, finally opens his mouth. He is getting impatient with the quiet Idundi leadership, and a sense of subtle condescension betrays the politeness of his words, “we would not like this particular event to damage the friendly relations between our two villages. We simply wish the leaders of Idundi to take their time in diligently educating their citizens. The drones, and the goods they carry, are vital to Rwanda’s, and Africa’s, future development, and we would like to see your villagers refraining from damaging them.” With a sly smile, he knows he is going to end his little speech forcefully, “let this be a lesson that no one shall interfere with Rwanda’s, and Africa’s, technological development!”
Idundi’s elders wince at the final statement. It is the final nail in the coffin that confirms Idundi’s status as the supposed “impediment to technological development.” The Tanzanian government may not care about what is implied, and probably, most Tanzanians out there would not care either. They can simply blame “a few bad eggs in the countryside” for these kinds of problems and continue to have their own little self-pride. But the Waha is a proud people, with a strong belief that each and every member of the tribe has the potential to be as capable as anyone in any other tribe or country, irrespective of any external factors. They feel that if Rwandans are able to professionally use a bunch of drones, the Waha can as well. They simply are not given the opportunity to do so. They have never felt so helpless, unable to provide the people with something their neighbors have had for decades.
Now their neighbors are accusing them of being against that something to begin with. The Rwandans imply that it is not only that they cannot provide technology to their people, but they are also intentionally refusing to provide the technology so to keep their people, and themselves, ignorant. The Rwandans are basically saying that Idundi’s relative poverty compared to Nihemu is due to Idundi’s leaders being “anti-technology.” For the Rwandans, Nelson shooting down the drone is a perfect illustration of the “backward mentality.”
But despite the anger, the elders find it difficult to refute the Rwandans’ argument. It is a fact that Rwanda has surged ahead of Tanzania with things like drones. Even when looking at the neighboring villages, Idundi’s elders know that in terms of economic development, their village is not in the same class as Nihemu. And worst of all, the gap is widening as Rwanda brings in more and more projects online that entail real physical investments in its border villages. No similar initiatives are, and for the foreseeable future, will be, forthcoming from the Tanzanian leadership.
One of the elders, after much deliberation inside his own head, speaks in response to Paul’s mini-speech. “We thank you for visiting us at Idundi, and we hope this particular incident does not detract from the traditional friendship between the two villages.”
At this point, this is really all that could be said.
~
10pm. Nelson is lying on his bed. It is pitch dark outside, and an eerie silence envelops the village. The village has gone to rest after an eventful day, but he, the central protagonist of the event, still has his eyes wide open, without the slightest whiff of sleep.
It seems that within the course of one day, his entire world has been turned upside down.
His job as the watcher of the maize field is now in jeopardy, as the elders fear a repeat of his trigger-happy behavior damaging more Rwandan property. His naïve belief in the kindness of the Rwandans found him ignored by Nihemu residents and handcuffed by police authorities. And somehow, an innocent-looking picture led to public shaming across both countries by none other than the Rwandan president.
Worst of all, however, is the fact that he, vaguely and rather ambiguously, realized just how helpless he and his fellow Idundi villagers felt during the whole incident. Despite being the instigators, they have no influence whatsoever in how the situation is dealt with. Rwandan aggressiveness and Tanzanian complacency mean that Nelson’s – and Idundi’s – fate was sealed even before all parties involved got on the same page about what is happening.
For Nelson, his tall stature combined with accuracy with a rock-hauling slingshot is the only thing really going for him. In a community where practically everyone is a hereditary subsistence farmer, his skill means that people pay him not to work the fields all the time. It, he thought, is the skill that allows him to change his fate, to something better than just a mere farmer tending maize for an entire life.
It seems like he was overly optimistic, to an unrealistic degree. His skill, he is taught in one day, is not nearly as important as the health of a cheap flying machine. Even a broken drone, no longer capable of carrying goods, is more valuable than his skill with a slingshot, in the ability to make international news after being talked about by a national president.
Nelson, of course, does not understand the significance of the drone as a magnet for Rwanda’s international aid, or its significance in portraying the country as a high-tech destination. All he understands is that, all things considered, his humanly powers are no match for the machines in the eyes of the important people. It is a sentiment that he felt for the very first time earlier this day. And with that feeling, a part of not just his self-confidence, but himself, died.
For a moment, he saw a young man, guarding Idundi’s maize fields, pointing his sling toward the sky as a bird approached the fields. But the field was no longer that of maize, and the boy was no longer of Waha stock.
And that bird in the sky? It was him.
