Bribing the Devil

Dirty laundry

It was April of 1994. It had been my first story abroad in Kigali, Rwanda. Of course, it being a breakthrough story, me being fresh meat in the world of journalism, and Rwanda being a nation in conflict, bbc wouldn't send me alone. I was with a team. My fellow news reporters were just as eager as I was, twirling their pens and tapping them on their legal pads empathetically to the steady thumping beat of the helicopter blades. The more flamboyant types wore bright lipstick or chewed and popped bubblegum.

We landed adjacent to a staggered group of UN trucks, clean-cut diplomats, various military personnel, and cargo green jeeps, all gathered outside the Hotel des Mille Collines, where my news team would be staying. My peers and I wasted no time in jumping out of the helicopter and heading over to the commotion.

However, as soon as we had dispersed into the crowd, an ear-piercing array of gunshots in the distance made us turn our heads. The newscasters and camera crew, like a group of wild schoolchildren, charged in the direction of the violence. I, however, being the young stubbornly idealistic journalist I was, stayed amidst the conversations between various authority figures. I personally despised journalists whose only aim was to dig for dirty laundry. After all, that was the very journalist I aspired to not be. I looked around the busy scenery.

Suddenly, a man at the entrance of the hotel started yelling.

"You promised us that last week, Rusesabagina!" a tall Hutu military man (I could tell he was Hutu because of his uniform) practically spat at the man in front of him. The military man and his companion looked agitated, and had machetes at their belts. The man being being harassed addressed the military men with a calm composure.

"The hotel is out of that particular spirit at the moment. We gave the rest of it to your general. He is a hardworking and powerful man, is he not? Surely you wouldn't be opposed to it going to him? And you should also know that I have just ordered a very fine wine from Belgium, one that I think you would take a liking to."

"How much?" the Hutu man said, still angry, but slightly intrigued.

"Generous enough to last you over three months" the man, presumably Rusesabagina, responded.

The tall Hutu man grunted. "Fine. But don't forget you are as bad as the rest of em'. Married to a Tutsi cockroach." He snickered, amused. With that statement the man and his companion stalked off to one of the jeeps and drove away. Mr. Rusesabagina stood planted in the dust, looking distressed. Who wouldn't?

Even though it had been a brief observation, my gut told me I had stumbled upon something important. Something very, very wrong and very, very real. This is what the people back home needed to know. This is what I needed to report, not the quantity of gunshots per day in Kigali.

I scrawled the words Bribing the Devil in my spidery handwriting at the top of my legal pad. At with a spontaneous burst of confidence I walked over to Mr. Rusesabagina until I was face to face with him.

"Sir? Mr. Rusesabagina?" I said, attempting to sound assertive but not demanding. He looked up at me from his grounded position. "Could you spare a minute for an interview?"