In an expatriate enclave of Bujumbura, on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, ten-year-old Gabriel spends his days stealing mangoes and riding bikes with friends — paradise, for now. Narrated by Gabriel himself, later as an adult exile near Paris looking back, this debut novel traces a childhood about to be overtaken by history.
When ethnic violence is traced back to its stated reasons, those reasons can be as flimsy as having a different nose. Asked why a war is happening, a father gives that answer, and it is a joke and a true account at once. The logic that treats neighbours as vermin is weak, yet its cost is horrific.
In a dispute, whoever can point to suffering wins, because pain shuts down every other line of reasoning. That gives suffering the power of a wildcard: it settles debates without answering them.
Genocide is like an oil slick: those who don't drown in it are polluted for life. Surviving does not mean escaping. Old alliances, loyalties and even passports stop protecting people, and few come out unmarked.
Violence takes hold of a nation gradually. It moves from children's games to ethnic hatred, then to latent threats and creeping danger, and finally to open chaos. As it spreads, a family's private unravelling can mirror the country's political collapse, and the lines between good and evil, or pure and corrupted, blur.