Thursday. I stay at the office until 7pm and walk from here to an Italian restaurant called Sole Luna. Fernanda told me about a concert two Italian girls are organising there. I know the road to the restaurant, but I am not sure, how far it is. I am getting more and more uncertain when again, a Rwandan guy catches up with me. He doesn’t know where that place is, either. However, as we continue along the street introducing ourselves, we eventually arrive at the restaurant and I enter. It is full, but I find a small empty table in the part of the restaurant, where a band of young Rwandan men is preparing for the concert. I greet the waitress with ‘Muraho’, which seems to please her as her surprised smile indicates, and order something to drink. It feels a bit strange to sit there all alone. On a long table behind me, a group of young white adults is gathered, maybe volunteers. On another small one, two Rwandan girls are eating, curiously glancing at me. I am glad when Fernanda arrives with other guys from the organisation where she stays. I waited for them to order food so that we can eat together, but it takes a while, until we do so.
The band starts playing. They are young, but good. I like their music. The two Italian artists organised this small concert with them. One of them sings, the other one does the percussion for some songs. Three Rwandan guys dance in a corner and I watch them until my food arrives. The restaurant is now crowded with Italians and Rwandans. During a short break for the band, a group of clowns from Italy performs some sketches. I don’t find them particularly funny and am glad, when the band starts playing again. Another guy has joined the dancers and the dancing becomes much wilder. The atmosphere is good. The artists seem to enjoy their performance themselves as do the spectators. The cameras record the dancing men. One of the Italian organisers joins them for a bit and the clowns try to imitate the Rwandan dancing. I stand next to a pillar, when one of the Rwandan guys says I should also dance, not just stand there like that. So I do so, but not much. The band finishes and the organisers give thanks to each other, the guests to the hosts and in reverse. I am wondering how to get home, when a rather old man starts singing, only accompanied by a rasta man on the drums. I am told that he is the brother of the president’s wife, but I am not sure if I should believe that. It is past ten now, so I leave before the event is over, as I don’t want to arrive at the house too late. I take a motorbike to our junction and walk from there. In the dark, I am not so sure where to turn left and where to turn right, so it is easier to go on foot.
