GRATEFUL FOR THE RIDE

Some years ago, I wanted to write something with my cousins about our childhood.

I surely have the best memories with my people.

But now I want to write about how even a car carries more than passengers it carries memories, stress, dreams, groceries, and laughter.

So yes, I want to talk about my dad’s old car.

It might sound strange to him that I’m writing about that car the very one we all used to complain about.

But now that it’s gone, nibwo numva how deeply it carried our lives.

Sometimes you only understand the importance of something when it becomes a memory, I guess.

From probably Primary 2 all the way to the end of high school, my dad and his car were always there to pick me up. I’m convinced everyone who saw that car knew exactly who had arrived.

The moment it stopped by the gate, someone would yell,

“Leslie, baje kugufata!”

And somehow, that car became part of my identity.

When I sit down and reminisce about my childhood, that car drives through every memory. It reminds me of my amazing childhood the kind you don’t realize was magical until it becomes a story.

The days with my grandma, when she was still alive. Every time my mom had a work trip, we would go pick her up. It was automatic.

“Tate Maman Nanette had to always be there kugera Maman agarutse.”

The one-day visits to my cousins that somehow turned into three-day sleepovers.

New Year’s Eve at Grandpa’s house — ohhh, you had to be there. The dance moves? Legendary. I would proudly say the talents you all see coming out now are family inherited. It runs in the blood.

And then… the school days.

Not the most pleasant chapters, of course. Early mornings and I have never been friends. From a very young age, waking up before the sun felt like a personal attack.

Kuva mu rugo 6h30? That has never been my thing.

My parents would already be in the car, engine on, honking,

“Ese ubu Leslie aracyakora iki?”

Meanwhile, I was inside… taking my time.

But honestly? I think I was just a baddie from a young age. I have always believed in moving with grace, not pressure.

Of course, because of my “taking my time,” we were always a little, little late. And when we were a little late, the car had to become a race car. The speed would increase, and magically… we had an accident. Only once. (Not our fault, of course.)

So to end this, I guess I have to say thank you.

Thank you to a car that was never just a car.

Thank you for carrying us safely through years we didn’t even realize were shaping us.

Thank you for holding our noise, our arguments, our laughter, our music, our rushed mornings and slow Sundays.

And most of all, I’m grateful

Deeply grateful to have had those beautiful memories.

Life is crazy like that.

It keeps moving whether we are ready or not.

We lose people.

We lose moments.

We even lose objects that somehow held entire chapters of our lives.

But maybe that’s what growth is.

Learning to appreciate something after it’s gone.

Learning to smile at memories instead of chasing what can’t come back.

So yes, let’s embrace change , that’s what they say, right?

And the rest…

Tubiharire IMANA.