Last week, I joined Uncle Mike in Rwanda for his wedding to Kayla. Her family, once asylum seekers, now radiated warmth as we landed in Kigali. The air carried coffee and earth, sparking a buzz—something big was brewing. The wedding loomed, but Uncle Mike grinned, “Let’s hit a hidden spot first.” It was a village library, its thatched roof sagging with faded murals. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, shelves packed with journals—leather-bound and hand-scrawled. He grabbed a red, worn book—Kayla’s mom’s 1994 genocide diary. Her words of fear and hope hit me hard, tightening my chest. With guide Jean, we explored—healers’ notes made me laugh, exile poems brought tears. Then he handed me a notebook. “Write your truth,” he said. Shaking, I jotted my loneliness, a secret I’d buried. Relief washed over me. Leaving, a storm erupted. Lightning flashed, our car died in mud, and panic gripped me. We rushed back as the library leaked, joining villagers to save the books. Fear turned to pride. At the wedding, Kayla shone in white, but a guest returned my notebook, his stare icy. Did he read it? Shame burned. That night, a note slid under my door: “You’re not alone. ❤️” Relief mixed with doubt. Jean later explained—villagers leave notes to heal. I found a book with a pressed flower and “For the lonely one—grow,” dated after me. Tears fell, but they felt right. We planned a family journal, but an official threatened closure. Uncle Mike’s plea saved it, relief flooding back. On our last night, a bonfire crackled as confessions were read—mine echoed in others’. Laughter, tears, unity—I was hooked. Flying home, I held the notebook, Uncle Mike saying, “You found more.” True. That place left a mark, pulling me to return for more.

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