It was a bright morning. I was lying in bed in a room built of uncooked bricks. Nothing but a plastic sheet for protection.  My mother, my little brother and my sister still heavy with sleep in the rooms beside mine when my dad’s frantic voice pierced through my dream, ‘Pack all your bags!’ he yelled. ‘We must go!’ I couldn’t imagine what could make dad scream like that. 

​

I leapt out of bed and went outside in the compound to see what was taking place. Shocked, I looked upon a sea of bodies. The space was quiet, lifeless. People had already fled. I moved nearer the dead bodies, and saw familiar faces. One was a boy I studied with from nursery school, up to grade four of primary school. I remembered carefree days playing football and sharing lunch with this boy, whose body now lay limp on the ground. 

​

I was terrified to see someone dead from gunshots. I was scared to see children orphaned, women and men widowed, most of the village properties destroyed. 

​

I first became aware of the war between M23 and the government of Democratic Republic of Congo when I was only nine years old, but I never thought it would hit so close to my own home. We were forced to make a decision to flee the country we had invested our lives in, since the war was still taking place and had no sign of stopping. 

​

I went to my bedroom to pack all my necessary things. Tears flowed down my cheeks, soaking the collar of my shirt, my heart sick with sadness as I spotted a toy car given to me as a gift for my first birthday by Peter, another friend who was now dead.

​

We gathered outside once everyone had finished packing their things. Still morning, my family and I took a hidden route. We did not know our destination. We had no choice but to leave for the fear of being killed in the violent attack.

​

Although we didn’t know where we were going, we knew we had to keep moving forward together. We walked all day and night. We shared what little food we had, along with stories of our past and hopes for our future, as we navigated unfamiliar forests. 

​

After walking for hours, we met some people on our way who were bushmen. We tried to communicate with them, hoping they might help us. But they did not understand what we were telling them because they didn’t know the language we were using. Realising there was no time to improve our communication, we humbly continued on our way.

 

We walked all day without stopping. When it was evening, we all decided to have a rest for the night before continuing our journey early the next morning. We slept in a terrible condition. We had no blankets or bedding, and my mind was racing, haunted by the images I’d encountered  mere hours earlier. The next morning, we woke up and thanked God for waking us although we slept in a bad condition. My father told us to remain in one group as he was going to go ahead to scout the way. Surprisingly, he came back running, calling to us in a loud voice that there was a lorry picking up people to take them to Nakivale Refugee Camp. We rushed toward the lorry  and arrived in time to board. I stepped foot in Nakivale among the maize and banana plantations in the inky dark of a cold, still night. I still live there with my family today. I am grateful. Safe passages persisted. An awful day survived, in my now-distant home.