Return to Kigali

Kagame never denied that he ordered my father killed. Cyprien Hagariyama. Any thorn in my flesh, he often says, needs to be blunted. For the good of the country. If God did not want me to be its ruler he would have done something about it. I had been a bit too vociferous on the campus, and had drawn attention to myself. My cousin Juvenal who is one of his personal bodyguards warned me that my name had appeared on the list. I knew that the best thing was to get on that bus to Kampala, but when I got there, he and Yowerre Museveni had decided to bury the hatchet, and the latter had promised to send dissidents back, so there was only one thing to do. It’s a long story and after crossing the continent, I finally arrived at Dover in a frail little boat after paying five thousand pounds to a trafficker. I made sure I had no papers, and invented a new name and identity for myself: Roger Bissumu from Côte d’Ivoire. A very learned jurist friend built a water-tight scenario for me, assuring me that the Brits would have no grounds to refuse me asylum rights. I was pleasantly surprised when the immigration officers treated me with civility and even sympathy. The smile of the men who questioned me was very reassuring. We are overwhelmed by refugees, one told me, but we abide by human rights rules. They would keep me in custody, he said, but it was for my own good. It would take no more than three weeks to arrive at a decision, he said, adding, a good one for you, I expect.

It was not. I mean the decision was not good for me. I am now on the first plane Mr Sunak is sending to Kigali, and I expect Kagame is rubbing his hands.