I was born in Rwanda.
Then I was born again—
in Belgium.
And again—
on a London stage,
under lights too bright
for forgetting.

I write because the silences are too loud.
I perform because memory moves.
Sometimes it dances.
Sometimes it—
weeps.

I once wrote a play about myself
but gave myself a different name.
That’s how you know it’s true.

It travelled the world.
Came back changed.
So did I.

I wrote a drama where a language speaks
and a soldier listens too late.
I wrote a film
where a murderer knocks
and forgiveness hides
behind the door.

I write the things
we don’t know how to forgive.

I’ve translated ghosts into English.
They came to me in French.
And I said:
"Welcome.
We’ll find room for you too."

Now,
I’m writing a future—
where Africa searches for itself
inside the machine.
It doesn’t always like what it sees.

I work with rhythm,
rupture,
what’s been redacted.
I make story out of
what didn’t make
the archive.

I don’t offer answers.
But I ask carefully.
And I remember.