From the book Remember the Nightingale, the below is the culmination of the war section. This book is meaningful to me, and deeply personal. In this chapter, the war is over and the Hutus accused of murder are undergoing trials through the gacaca system. Evariste must decide whether to testify for Gaeton, against him, or not at all.

..

The noise never stops. 

The prison was built to hold three thousand, souls but there are seven or eight thousand Hutu men packed like sardines. There isn’t space in the courtyard to sit. Walking is impossible. There are four toilets for eight thousand, rendering hygiene a cruel joke. The wounds have swollen his right foot until standing is unadulterated misery; he’s wedged himself on the cement between several other inmates who are barely alive. His lip is busted and his right eye swollen after his interrogation. He was lucky; some of the men do not return from their interrogations. Between the insufferable heat, fetid air, and filth, Gaeton feels more beast than man.

The constant noise makes it hard to focus: men who will not be treated for their illnesses cough, fights break out with disheartening regularity, inmates’ voices rise and fall as they talk to one another, the tortured screams of men beaten by the guards swell, and the desperate cries of scared Hutus’ prayers tell of the fear in them all. The fear of death. The fear of death by starvation, by unrelenting illness, by torture.

Except Gaeton.

Gaeton isn’t afraid of death.

He watches dispassionately as a naked prisoner whose bones can be seen through his skin clings to another man, so as not to drop dead. Every one of us have been accused of murder or torture. Gaeton surveys the living carnage silently. He might not make it out of this prison. He might never get to trial. What does it matter if he does? He’ll be found guilty because he is guilty. 

They say confess and your sentence will be lighter. Instead of fifteen years, maybe it’s only six or seven. Truth, they say, this is about the truth. The victims, the Tutsi, deserve to know the truth. Tell the truth, and we’ll be lenient. Tell the truth before your trial and we’ll be even more lenient. We want to reintegrate you into society. 

Reintegrate. 

Accusations come from everywhere. He’s been accused of things he did not do. He killed Pierre, he killed Marc’s murderer, and three others. He’s not innocent. But he didn’t do some of things others say he did. He raped no one. He decapitated no one. He’s not sure it matters. Guilty is guilty. Whether he killed five people or seven, what’s the difference? 

“Gaeton,” Muhira’s voice never cracks. She comes every week, walking among the animals being held here to see him. He looks up, nods. “Ema’ma.” The guard pushes living skeletons out of the way and ushers her in. She looks around and eases herself down onto the ground in front of him. Feet shuffle to either side to allow room. The guard stands nearby to protect her from the animals and to listen to their conversation. Nothing is private. 

She reaches out and touches his face. She does not cry. She does not become emotional, but she always touches his face. It is the only gentle touch he’s known in nearly a year. “You are too thin.”

“The Red Cross is coming. They’re going to give us food.”

She nods. “Good. Good.” She swallows and says, “She’s testifying.”

“Evariste?”

She nods. “I … I will try to convince her not to… I don’t know where she’s staying, no one knows where she’s living, but sometimes she comes to the market. I think she’ll listen -“

“Don’t do that.” 

“But -“

“Evariste is allowed to say whatever she wants.”

Muhira’s shoulders droop. She lifts her head and stares at the crowd, the stark black faces with yellow on the inside of their eyes, and then back at her son. “I don’t want you to die here, my son.”

He says nothing. 

“Ibrahim is one of the council.” She leans forward and whispers, “I gave him what money I had. He’s being generous to those who pay him.”

“Who?”

“Ibrahim, he’s – he was one of your father’s friends.” She adds, “He’s not the only one who will take money. I don’t have enough right now to give someone else, but I am working –”

“Just let it be.”

“What?”

“I did it.”

She sighs. “Some of the Hutus are threatening the Tutsi, saying they’ll kill them if they testify.”

Gaeton’s eyes flash. “No one threatens Evariste with that.”

“No, no,” Muhira frowns, shakes her head. “I would never do that. But… well…” 

“Ema’ma?”

“I told them not to. But she might be getting some pressure from some men in the village to testify on your behalf. She knows you, Gaeton, she knows your heart.”

Gaeton leans forward so the guard can’t hear. “Don’t let anyone pressure her. If she wants to testify against me, she can. There are others who will also testify against me because I did kill them.” 

“But it’s not fair, Gaeton. You should have a defense. You should have council who can defend you. Oliver was because –”

“Ema’ma.”

“No, Gaeton, listen to me. Oliver was because of Marc and your father. Pierre was because of what he did to Evariste. Those were justified.”

“And the other three?”

Her lips purse. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t just give up, you should fight for your right to a fair trial.” She looks behind her at the guard and then leans forward and whispers heatedly. “These are not fair trials. The gacaca are not fair. The council can be bribed. I need you home.”

Gaeton covers the back of her hand with his. A scream rises above the cacophony and Muhira turns her head. The guard leans down and takes her elbow. “Let’s go, time’s up.”

As he starts to pull her away, Muhira resists, leans down and kisses the top of Gaeton’s head. “I love you, my son.”

Evariste closes her eyes, breathes in through her nose, as deeply as she can. Sitting on the grass with hundreds of people, she waits. There are people everywhere, noise everywhere. The trials have been going on for hours. Muhira came to her, took her hands between hers, and begged: Help him, you’ll help him, won’t you? He loves you. She thought so, too. She believed he loved her. Until he gave away her sister’s location to men he knew would kill her. 

Gacaca is restoration. That’s what the men in the village said. When he saw her in the market, Muhira’s husband reasoned, t’s not about revenge, what good will revenge do now?  He’ll tell you everything. Wouldn’t that help you more now than revenge? Except, she didn’t care what happened to her. She didn’t need anything from Gaeton. There were unanswered questions, yes, but knowing the answers to those questions wouldn’t bring her sister or her parents back. 

Seeing him suffer will? Evariste swallows and counts her breathing. No. Punishing Gaeton will not bring them back, either. He killed Pierre for you, Muhira whispered hotly, her eyes burning. He killed Pierre for what he did to you. You owe him for that. You owe him for your life, Evariste. If he hadn’t found you, taken you to that farmer, then you would have died on the road that day. But what if she wanted to die? She wouldn’t forget Muhira’s expression: You blaming him for not letting you die?  Evariste replied, No. I’m blaming him because he didn’t give my sister a chance after he promised he would protect her. Muhira: he promised to protect you first. 

Evariste hasn’t seen or spoken to Gaeton’s family, or anyone else, since. She almost didn’t come today. After a week without sleep, of replaying the day in her head a hundred times, she thought she wouldn’t. In the middle of the night, she thought I won’t testify at all, not for or against.

She dreamed first of Mamree, her impulsive, bald-headed sister who wanted hair. She was the one always racing the boys and pulling mischievous stunts. I saw you and Gaeton k-i-s-s-i-n-g.. When Evariste expressed doubt because she and Gaeton had been far from the hut, Mamree giggled and said, I wasn’t on the ground, silly! I was up there!  Climbing to the very top of the tree, she said, gave her the best vantage point: she could spy on everyone for miles! She wasn’t afraid of handling snakes, even poisonous ones, and she never backed away from a challenge. She never let fear defeat her: instead, she used fear to force her forward. She awoke in tears, a massive grave dug out of her heart. When she fell into another restless sleep, she dreamed of Gaeton. That boy would die for you, Ema’ma’s voice was wistful as she watched Gaeton take Evariste’s hand above their heads for her to twirl. 

What would you name your dance school? 

I’d climb a thousand hills to touch you.

“He won’t get you,” Gaeton’s voice is smooth, deep, and slightly amused. 

“I know,” Evariste smiles bravely. 

“You know? How do you know?”

“You’re here.”

“I’d miss you very much.”

She awoke in tears, the grave in her heart deeper. Muhira wasn’t wrong: he carried her to the potato farmer. Walking the path towards the trials, she did not know what she would say, or if she would say anything at all. Sitting now in the dry grass, a persistent fly buzzing around her, the murmurs of hundreds of people pulsating like a heartbeat, she doesn’t know.

She doesn’t talk to anyone anymore. Friends are non-existent. This is the longest she’s been outside the hut since she found it. Wringing her hands together, Evariste scans the crowd. The Tutsi congregate on the right side of the field with Hutu on the left. Nervous energy fills the air. Both sides look at the other with equal mixtures of shock, anger and fear. Evariste recognizes faces on both sides; they are faces she grew up with. They are faces she would have trusted five months ago, faces she never imagined were capable of violence, faces she thought belonged to friends. 

The accused sit in a semi-circle at the front of the crowd, surrounding the table behind which the nine council members review papers or stare at the crowd. Some of these men participated in the killings; everyone knows it. But their leadership and position in the community prior to the war earned them a spot on the council. Evariste’s heard rumors that some of the Hutus’ families have bribed the council to be lenient. She wonders, has Muhira bribed one of them? She can feel her heart beating rapidly in her chest; her hands feel sweaty as they clench together. With too many heads in front of her, she isn’t able to see Gaeton among the accused. She inches to the left, her eyes training in on the men who look like skeletons. It is hard to distinguish faces because they are all so thin. They look like the Tutsi. 

“Gaeton.” Ibrahim, the fifth councilman, says Gaeton’s name. Murmurs go through the crowd. Evariste swallows and her breath catches as she sees Gaeton stand. He’s so thin. The thought drifts through her mind, the desperation in Muhira’s eyes haunting her. 

“Gaeton, you’ve been accused of murder. The names of your victims are Pierre, a Hutu, and four Tutsi including Oliver, Jean-Marc, Timothy and Nathaniel. It looks like you confessed to these murders upon being detained. Thank you for your honesty; we will take that into consideration. Is there anyone here who would like to offer eyewitness testimony as to Gaeton’s intentions and behaviors?”

Evariste swallows.

“I would.” A Tutsi whose name Evariste doesn’t know stands. “I’s there, I seen what he done to Pierre. He be a cold-blooded killer cause he kilt his friend. They used to run together. Everybody knows Gaeton was part of the militia; Pierre was in the same group as he was. I’s in the woods, hiding, cause the Hutus be in the hut, and I’s scared of leaving the woods. That’s when I seen Pierre. I know it was him, and I’s so scared I couldn’t breathe. But I seen another man waiting. It was Gaeton. He walked up behind Pierre, and he was calm, calm as could be.” The man pauses, the audience holds its breath.

Evariste pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, her heart skipping a beat.

“It was dark so I didn’t see the machete. I’s too far away, I guess. But I saw him lock his arm around Pierre’s neck, and then there was blood everywhere. Pierre went to his knees. ” Evariste closes her eyes. “He tells him he didn’t wanna hear nothing out of him ever again. Then, like it was nothing, he pours some whiskey over Pierre. Pierre’s on the ground, writhing around and stuff, grabbing at his neck, but he’s running out of steam. Gaeton said something else, I couldn’t hear what, and throws a match on him. The man’s body lights up in flames, but he can’t scream, he thrashes around on the ground. Gaeton walks away, just like it was nothing. Just like it was nothin’.” The man pauses and says, “He ain’t just a killer of Tutsi, he killed Hutu too. He should be hated by everybody.”

Murmurs erupt. 

A councilman says, “Gaeton, do you want to tell us why you did this to Pierre, the Hutu?”

“He was the leader of a rape squad that raped someone I knew and left her for dead.”

“Who did he rape? If we can ask that victim to come forward to testify to that, we’ll give leniency for that murder.” 

Evariste’s stomach twists into knots. Her breathing stops. Panic grips her. Without warning, she’s back on that road, pebbles digging into her skin, the sky above her obscured by the heads of three men, the only one of which she recognized was Pierre. Her ears fill with the sound of rushing water and she feels sick. 

“No.” Gaeton says calmly.

“Excuse me?” The councilman asks. “You won’t name the victim you avenged?”

“No. If she wants to testify as to what happened to her, she can. But I will not make her do so.”

Shivers of cold wash through Evariste, followed by a relief so intense she starts to shake. Murmurs in the crowd undulate until Ibrahim lifts his hand and signals for quiet. 

“Is someone from Pierre’s family present?” 

A man and a woman stand in the crowd. They hold hands and stare straight ahead, without looking at Gaeton. Ibrahim asks them, “Is there anything you’d like to know from Gaeton? Anything that could help you find peace?”

“No.”

“Gaeton, are you prepared to apologize to the family for the loss you caused them?”

“I will not apologize for Pierre’s death.”

Murmurs arise again, this time louder. Pierre’s parents sit down stiffly. While Ibrahim makes a note, another councilman asks, “What about Oliver?”

“Oliver killed my brother and my father, so he was the first I killed. I used a machete.”

“Where is his body?”

“It was left in the hut.”

“Is anyone here from Oliver’s family?”

No one stands. 

“Are you prepared to offer an apology to the community for Oliver’s death?”

“I will not apologize for Oliver’s death.” Gaeton’s voice is calm. 

“What about Jean-Marc, Timothy, Nathaniel? Anyone want to give eyewitness testimony about these murders?” 

A woman stands up. She is the mother of Timothy. She was in the hut when they came for them. “They were there for my whole family. They attacked my husband first, and then my son. Someone else told us to get on our knees. Timothy, he… he didn’t comply. Instead, he tried to run to the back of the hut. Gaeton chased him. I heard screaming and then they came back into the same room as the rest of us; Gaeton forced Timothy onto his knees.” Her voice breaks. “He…. he watched as the others ra–raped me.”

“He did not rape you himself?”

‘No, but he held Timothy, my son, back with a machete to his neck. My husband tried to get to me and they cut his head off. After, after the rape, Gaeton slit Timothy’s throat from ear to ear and walked out of the hut while I screamed.”

“Did they try to kill you?”

“No. They said I would die because the one who raped me had AIDS. I don’t know his name.” 

Another councilman asks, “Did you know Pierre? It’s been established that Gaeton was in the same band as Pierre. Would he have been the one to rape you?”

She lifts a shoulder. “I – I don’t know. I don’t know anyone by that name.” 

“Is there anything, ma’am, you’d like to know from Gaeton?”

“Why? Why did you do that? He didn’t hurt you or your family. He was a good boy. Why is he gone?” Tears flow freely as she shouts at him. 

The crowd becomes so quiet a whisper can be heard. It takes Gaeton a long moment to speak but, when he does, his voice is hoarse. “It is not an excuse, but I was given a list with your son’s name on it. I was told to kill him. I was made to believe that, if I didn’t kill him, he would come after those I loved. I believed it was him or me.” 

“Are you willing to apologize for his loss?” the council asks. 

“I am sorry for Timothy’s death.” 

Nathaniel’s sister asks him how he can sleep at night, a question Gaeton doesn’t answer. She asks him when her brother begged for his life, when he asked him why he was doing this, he didn’t speak. “There were no words that were going to make it different. Talking prolonged what had to happen.” When Nathaniel’s brother rushes the crowd, trying to get to him, men hold him back. Muhira screams “no!”, Evariste’s breath catches in her throat, but Gaeton doesn’t move. When he is spat on, he doesn’t flinch, nor does he lift a finger to defend himself. Instead, he stares ahead at the nine councilmen. 

“Are you willing to apologize for the loss of Nathaniel?”

“I am sorry for Nathaniel’s death.” 

A crowd member tells the council that all of Jean-Marc’s family was murdered. The council asks Gaeton, “Are you willing to apologize to the community for the loss of Jean-Marc?”

“I am sorry for the death of Jean-Marc.”

“We have been unable to locate Jean-Marc’s body. Do you know where it is?”

“It was in the ditch by the village well when I left it. Dogs were there.” 

The council make notes. 

Ibrahim asks, “Is there anyone in the community who can attest to Gaeton’s character?” 

Muhira leaps to her feet. “Gaeton isn’t a murderer. He- he has always been a protector. Always. He is a victim, too. A victim of the hatred spewed by the government towards the Tutsi. His… his father and his brother…. he found them, murdered, lying alone. He never forgot it. He blames himself for not being able to protect his brother. He blames himself for not being able to protect a girl he loves. He’s – he’s not a murderer. He’s not.” 

I am in awe of you. 

Mamree! There’s a sister, probably under a bed. Take her, this one is mine. 

Evariste drops her eyes; they land on the bangle with the cattle, like the one Mamree loved, the one that made her feel pretty. What about Mamree’s life? Maybe he wasn’t the one who raped her, who killed her, but she didn’t know who did that. Whoever it was, maybe they wouldn’t have if he had let her stay hidden. What about Mamree’s life? 

“What about Mamree’s life?” She doesn’t know she’s spoken until she senses people turning to look at her. 

“Who are you?” the council asks. 

“That’s Evariste, Gaeton’s girl.” 

“I’m not Gaeton’s girl,” she says softly. Her eyes lift in time to see Gaeton’s eyes find hers. 

“Evariste, please, no,” Muhira begs. 

“Quiet,” Moses, another member of the council holds up a hand. “Go on, Evariste.” 

She closes her eyes, fighting back memories.  Can I hear the nightingale once more?  She’d asked him for that after he carried her to the farmer’s because the nightingale told her he was near. If he was near, she knew she was safe. “But Mamree didn’t,” she whispered. 

“Can you speak up?”

“They – they came into the hut. You were with them. You told them where she was. You knew Papi told her she could hide under the bed and you told Pierre and the others where she was. You – you said I had to pay for deceiving you–” Gaeton’s jaw twitches but he doesn’t look away. Evariste frowns. “I never deceived you,” she whispers. She looks down at the bangle bracelet again, rubs her thumb over it. “I – you – you drug me outside, slapped me, yelled in my face and, most of all, you wouldn’t let me go to her.” Sobs shake her shoulders. “S–so, I stood there, listening to my sister, my little sister, scream for you and for me, for anybody, while they hurt her. You told me you’d get her. You promised me you’d get her,” she whispers. Wiping her face, she says, “What happened to her? Maybe you didn’t kill her with your own hands, but she could have had a chance if you hadn’t told them where she was. You helped them kill her. So, what happened to her?”

Silence. 

“Gaeton? Will you answer her?”

“Do you really want me to answer that, Evariste? Here, in front of everyone?” 

Sobs tear her and she wraps her arms around her stomach to hold herself upright. “Where are they?” 

“I buried them. Ema’ma can show you where.” 

“Was she not important?”

“She haunts me every day of my life.” 

Evariste uses both hands to wipe her face of tears. 

“Did you kill her?” Moses asks.

“No.”

“Did you cause her death?”

Silence. His face twists. “They would have found her.”

“Did you expediate her torture and death?”

Gaeton’s jaw clenches. “Yes.”

Evariste starts shaking, moaning so softly only those standing beside her could hear. 

“Are you willing to apologize for your role in Mamree’s death?” Ibrahim asks. 

Silence.

“Gaeton?”

“I was protecting Evariste.”

“Are you willing to apologize for your role in Mamree’s death?”

Gaeton’s jaw clenches and unclenches; his hands curl into fists. “Evariste couldn’t die.”

“Is that a no?” Ibrahim asks, then, “I’ll ask one more time. Are you willing to apologize for your role in Mamree’s death? Would you do anything different if the same circumstances happened today?”

Gaeton finds Evariste’s eyes and locks. “No.” 

Murmurs rise around them, people touch her. 

“You’ve apologized for Jean-Marc, for Timothy and for Nathaniel. You’ve also confessed your role in all of the aforementioned murders. You’ll serve ten years.” 

As the crowd erupts and Muhira cries, Evariste bows her head, and disappears.

© Tiffini Johnson, 2025