Moses Twizeyimana | Dust That Doesn’t Wash Off

Twenty plastic bags. Forty-seven strips of banana fiber. Two weeks of patience. That’s what it took to make the football Jennifer snatched from my hands that Wednesday afternoon. I counted everything then; big beans Mama sorted, steps to school, the cracks in our compound wall. Innocent said I was strange, but numbers made sense when nothing else did.

I was thirteen. Jennifer was fifteen, already in secondary school, with that untouchable swagger older girls had. She lived three compounds down, in the grey brick house with the corrugated iron roof. Her mother had remarried a few years back, though I’d heard the women at the market say she “entertained” other men too.

Mama would hush me when I asked what that meant.

In our community, it wasn’t the custom that girls could approach boys. It wasn’t done. So when Jennifer slowed on the path home from school, waiting for me while Innocent peeled off with shouts of “Ejo!”—see you tomorrow—something felt wrong. Like the air before rain.

“Ukuna neza football,” she said, matching her pace to mine. You’re good at street plays. She’d barely spoken ten words to me all term. Maybe twelve total. “Innocent’s pass was good too,” she added in English, her voice too casual, too bright.

“Murakoze,” I thanked her, confused.

“Can I see that?” She pointed at my ball. Before I could answer, she snatched it. Red dust puffed up from where her feet had been. She turned, already running. “Come catch me if you want it back!”

The afternoon sun threw long shadows as she pulled into the narrow alley where people dumped their household waste. I hesitated at the entrance, staring into that gap between retail shops. Two walls. Maybe three meters apart. No, closer. Two and a half. Mama would kill me if I lost another ball. This one was perfect, the best I’d ever made.

I stepped into the shadows. Red dust on my shoes turned to mud where someone had thrown dirty water.

The passage swallowed the afternoon noise. Grey brick walls pressed close on both sides. I counted the steps as I walked. One, two, three. Coarse brick caught at my white school shirt. Four, five, six. The air was thick—rotting banana peels going brown-black, old sorghum stalks fermenting in the heat. Seven, eight. Something sour and sweet at once like cassava left too long in water. My shirt stuck to my back. Nine, ten—I stopped counting. The numbers weren’t helping anymore.

A chicken scattered, squawking. Its feet left small prints in the dust mixed with rotting mango pulp.

“Jennifer?” I called. “This doesn’t lead anywhere.”

Her laugh bounced off the walls, hollow and strange.

I turned a corner and found her standing in front of the old Uwera’s shuttered shop, my ball at her feet. The light was different here, filtered and grey. I tried to count the bricks in the wall behind her. Started at the top: one, two, three, four—lost track. Started over. One, two—

“There you are,” I said, breathing hard.

“Finally.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Come on, Jennifer. Just give it back.” My voice came out higher than I wanted.

“Not yet. Let’s stay here a minute.” She paused. The silence felt thick. “Your mama thinks you’re playing football. Don’t you want to do something different?”

I reached for my ball. She blocked me with her foot, then suddenly grabbed my right arm, pulling me close. Her hands trembled but her grip was iron. I counted her fingers on my wrist pressing in. For half a second, I saw something in her face—fear, maybe, or shame—before it hardened into something else.

“What are you doing?”

“Let’s just play around a bit.” Her voice dropped to Kinyarwanda. “You know you’re handsome.”

“Oya!” I tried to pull away. No. The brick wall was right behind me. I counted backwards. Ten, nine, eight—trying to calm myself like Mama taught me when I was small.

“You want to. I know you do.” Her fingers dug into my wrist, her nails leaving crescents. Five of them. I could feel each one. “It’ll be good. No one has to know.”

My palms went cold and slick. Seven, six, five—the counting wasn’t working anymore. “Let go.”

“Come on.” Her voice had an edge now, sharp and desperate. “Just touch me. Please.”

“Oya!” I yanked hard but couldn’t break free. Four, three, two—I couldn’t reach one. Couldn’t reach calm. The walls were close enough to touch on both sides. I started counting cracks in the brick behind her head. One, two, three branching lines—

Her face changed then, something ugly crossing it. “Don’t be such a baby. Just do it.”

Cold sweat broke across my forehead despite the trapped heat. Four, five, six cracks—I kept counting, kept trying to hold on to something. “Jennifer, please.” My voice cracked. “This isn’t right.”

“You walk around acting so smart, like you’re better than everyone.” She pulled me closer. Seven, eight, nine cracks spreading like roots. “So shut up and kiss me. Stop pretending.”

The words hit like stones. My thoughts tangled, knotted, useless. The counting stopped. No more numbers. Just panic. The alley was shrinking. Like the walls touching my shoulders. I couldn’t get enough air. My legs felt like cassava roots—heavy, stuck in earth, impossible to move.

She moved closer until I could feel her breath. A stray dog barked somewhere—once, twice, three times. I counted without meaning to. Four barks. Then silence.

I couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe right. The dust in my throat tasted like metal.

“Stop it,” I managed. “I just wanted my ball back.”

“Whatever.” Her voice turned bitter. Her eyes were wet. “Why are you being such a baby? This is normal. This is what people do.”

She sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

My mind spun, searching. Then: “Okay,” I said slowly, the lie sour on my tongue. “Okay. But let me do it my way.”

“Yes.” Her voice changed, became eager. “Use your hands on me.”

I bent down like I was reaching for the ball—counted to three in my head, one-two-three—then wrapped one arm over her hips, barely touching her back. My hand was shaking. I couldn’t control it. “Reka tubikore,” I whispered. Let’s do this.

She turned my face toward hers. I stiffened, keeping my lips away. She pressed her face into my neck instead, making a sound in her throat. My other hand was creeping toward the ball. The seconds stretched. One. Two. Three. Four. The plastic was slick under my fingers. Five. Six.

“Maybe you’re right,” I lied. “Maybe I needed this.”

Seven. My hand closed around the ball.

I ran.

Behind me, she yelled my name. I didn’t look back. Just ran, counting my footfalls. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. The rhythm kept me moving. Red dust exploded up with each step.

The path twisted. I’d forgotten which way led home. Tried to count the turns but lost track. My foot caught on loose rocks and pain shot through my toe—sharp and bright. I stumbled but kept going. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.

The alleyways all looked the same. I wanted to drop the ball—it was heavy as stone now—but it was the only familiar thing left. Forty-seven strips of banana fiber. Twenty plastic bags. Numbers that were hard to find. Numbers that made sense.

My stomach lurched. I stumbled again, felt the nail on my big toe crack against a rock. Barely noticed. Just ran. One-two-three-four. Red dust was everywhere—on my hands, my face. I could taste it. Gritty and metallic.

In my head, Jennifer’s face kept appearing. I tried to count something else. Anything else. Trees I passed. One, two—gave up. Compounds. One, two, three—lost count. Nothing worked. Just her face. Her words. Her five fingers pressing in.

Keep running, I thought. One-two-three-four. Get away. Get home. Be safe.

Then suddenly—Mama Agnes at her sweet potato stand. I burst out from between two compounds, gasping. She looked up, saw something in my face.

“Ko wiyanduje bite?” Are you okay, my child?

I nodded, looking over my shoulder. She cleaned the blood from my toe, gentle and efficient. “Humura,” she murmured. It will be okay. “Let me take you home.”

My mother was outside our compound, sorting beans on a woven mat. I used to be with her, counting them instead. Not today.

“Amakuru y’ishuri?” How was school?

“Byiza, Mama.” Good. I went straight inside before she could see my face properly.

I washed quickly, watching the water turn brown. Changed from my uniform. The broken toenail I hid under my sock, but blood seeped through anyway.

The next days blurred. I made excuses about my toe. Avoided the usual games. The weekend came. I helped Mama in the field, pulling weeds, my hands in the dirt. Did homework I couldn’t focus on. My mind kept circling back. Playing it over. Wondering if I could tell someone.

On Monday, I saw Jennifer across the schoolyard. When our eyes met, she looked away fast. Whispered something to her friends. Her face showed something I hadn’t expected. Not anger. Something closer to shame.

Tuesday, Mama finally noticed.

We sat at our small table for the evening meal—matoke, my favorite. I couldn’t eat. Just stared at my plate while my spoon stayed idle.

“Kuki uri kwitwara gutya?” Mama’s voice was careful. I haven’t seen you like this. “You’re not even eating. Are you sick?”

“Just tired, Mama.”

“Tired.” Her voice sharpened. “You’ve been tired all week. And you’re not playing football. What happened to your toe? Let me see.”

“Nothing. I stubbed it.”

“Stubbed it.” She reached across the table, took my foot in her hands.

Mama worked harder than any two people I knew. “Study and money,” she’d say, grinding cassava until her hands ached. “Those are the only things you can depend on.” I never asked what—or who—had taught her that lesson. Now those hands examined my wound like it could tell her secrets.

“It’s swollen. There’s still blood. Why didn’t you tell me?”

I flinched away. “I cleaned it. I’m fine. Just leave it.”

“Watch your tone!” Her voice rose. “I’m worried about you. I can’t sleep when you’re not eating and you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oya! Nothing happened!” Panic made my voice loud. “I just want to be alone.”

I pushed back from the table. Went to my mat in the corner, turned my face to the grey-painted wall. Counted in my head. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—stopped at twenty-three. Started over.

That night the nightmares came. Hands holding me down. The smell of rot and brick and dust. A voice in my ear. Grey walls closing in. I woke up gasping, counted my breaths to calm down. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. It took thirty-seven breaths before my heart stopped racing.

Wednesday was a public holiday. Mama sat me down on the woven mat outside.

“Sinigeze nkubona utyo.” Her voice was quiet. I’ve never seen you like this. “Something has happened. It’s time you tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong.” She switched to English. “But you need to tell me what really happened.”

Silence. I counted in seconds. One, two, three, four—

“I came to check on you this morning. I found you talking in your sleep.”

My stomach dropped. Five, six, seven— “What did I say?”

“Umva, mwana wanjye.” Now, my child. “Tell me about the girl. It seems like she attacked you. You have to trust me.”

I looked away. A chicken scratched nearby. My throat closed up. Eight, nine, ten—

“She took my ball.” The words came out, barely a whisper. “She took it and ran.”

Tears came then. I stopped counting.

“She took your ball?” Mama’s voice stayed gentle.

I nodded, my whole body shaking now.

“What happened next?”

I couldn’t speak. Just cried, gasping for air. Tasting dust. “She…she tried to…”

Mama moved close, took my hands in hers. “Baby, you’re safe now. I’m not angry. You don’t have to be afraid.”

I clenched my fists. Squeezed my eyes shut. Finally: “She tried to make me touch her. She tried to kiss me.”

Mama said nothing.

The silence stretched. Birds kept singing in the garden. Someone laughed in a nearby compound. Life continued while we sat frozen. I counted the seconds of silence. One, two, three, four, five—

Finally, at thirty-two: “You mean—”

“I told her no.” The words spilled out now. “I kept saying no but she wouldn’t let go. I had to trick her. I had to pretend like I wanted—” My voice broke. “Then I ran. That’s how I got my toe wound.”

Mama wrapped her arms around me. I sobbed into her shoulder—she smelled like firewood smoke and earth and home. For the first time in days, I stopped counting. Just felt.

“What kind of parent am I?” Her voice broke. “I didn’t even realize my son was suffering.”

Silence. Her arms tight around me.

Then, steadier: “Everything is going to be fine, baby.”

We sat like that a long time. I didn’t count the minutes.

“Ibi byabaye rimwe?” Has this happened before?

I shook my head.

“Ubu umerewe?” Do you feel safe now?

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay” She went inside, came back with warm water and a cloth. Cleaned my toe again, massaged my foot. The water turned pink, then brown.

“I should have seen it.”

“It’s not your fault. I hid it.”

Silence.

Then: “There are people who can help us. I know a woman from Saint Joseph’s.”

My chest tightened. “I don’t want people to know.”

“No one will know unless you want them to, baby.” Her voice was firm. “But I can’t let this sit inside you.”

I said nothing.

“You’ll stay home until you feel better. We’ll work in the field together. Take time.”

I nodded. That afternoon, she made sweet potatoes roasted in the coals. We didn’t talk much. Just sat together while the day faded.

Three days later, I said yes to meeting the counsellor.

The room was small—a corner of Saint Joseph’s meeting space, separated by a cloth curtain. Two plastic chairs and a table. The smell of incense lingering.

Madame Mukandori was younger than I expected. Simple dress, headscarf, kind eyes behind glasses. A gap between her front teeth when she smiled.

“Mwaramutse.” Good morning. “Thank you for coming today.”

I chose to have Mama stay.

“How are you feeling right now?”

“Scared. Embarrassed.”

“What specifically scares you?”

I swallowed hard. “That I’ll see her again. That people will find out. That I did something wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong.” Mama’s voice was sharp, but her hands trembled as she held mine. She didn’t ask what I’d done to make Jennifer think I wanted it. She didn’t ask why I’d followed her. She just said: nothing wrong.

“Your mother is right,” Madame Mukandori said. “Our minds try to make sense of scary things by finding ways we could have prevented them. But Jennifer’s actions were her responsibility. Not yours.”

“But I followed her.” I wiped tears over my cheeks with bare hands. “I could have just let her keep the ball.”

“You followed her because you trusted her. Trust isn’t a mistake.” She paused. “And the ball—you worked hard to make it, yes? Of course it was important.”

She handed me a bundle of dried grass twisted into a ball. “For your hands.”

I squeezed it tight. Counted the breaths I took. One, two, three— Outside, children played, calling “Tujye gukina!” Life continuing.

“Can you tell me what happened that day? Just the parts you’re ready to share.”

I started slow. Words in fragments. Sometimes English, sometimes Kinyarwanda. When I got stuck, my breaths came in fours. Madame Mukandori didn’t rush. Just asked gentle questions. Let the silences be.

“How did you get away?”

“I pretended.” Shame colored my voice. “I acted like I was going to…touch her. I counted to seven in my head. Then I grabbed the ball and ran.”

Silence. Mama’s hand tightened on mine.

“That was brave. Quick thinking,” Madame Mukandori finally said. “You did what you needed to survive. There’s no shame in that.”

More tears. “But it felt wrong. Dirty. I still feel dirty.”

“It’s very common to feel that way when someone violates your boundaries.” She spoke carefully. “Jennifer invaded your personal space and your sense of safety. That can make you feel like your body isn’t your own anymore. But those feelings don’t define you. What defines you is that you survived. She’s the only one to blame.”

I felt emptied out after. Exhausted but somehow lighter.

Outside, Mama took my hands. “Was it hard in there?”

I nodded.

“I’m blessed to be with you through this. I’m always here. You know what I always say: I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I’ve got what it takes to survive.” She squeezed my hands. “You have that too, baby.”

Over the following months, I walked to Saint Joseph’s every week. Forty-seven steps from the church gate to the counseling room. Some sessions I barely spoke. Others, words poured out.

Madame Mukandori gave me a notebook. I filled it with numbers at first. Then slowly, pictures appeared between them.

It wasn’t straight. Some days I was back in that alley, counting cracks to survive. But gradually, space opened for other things. Helping Mama in the field. The taste of sweet potatoes. Gospel songs on Sunday afternoons. The thud of a football against my foot.

One afternoon coming back from the market, I saw Innocent and other boys near the path. My heart raced. I counted my breaths. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. Seven breaths before I felt steady.

“Eh, tujye gukina!” Innocent called. Let’s go play! My hands shook. I hesitated.

“Yego,” I finally said. Yes. “But not by the retail shops. In the open field.”

The field stretched wide—no walls, no corners. Just open sky and room to run.

Mama nodded. I went.

It wasn’t easy. But as I ran, passed the ball, and laughed, something shifted. For the first time since the alley, I felt something like joy. I didn’t count my steps. Just ran.

After some months, I could walk to school without feeling like someone was waiting to trap me. The fear was still there but quieter. The counting too—still there, but I needed it less.

Jennifer didn’t bother me anymore. Sometimes I saw her walking alone by the fence—smaller somehow, hunched. I looked away.

One Saturday, Innocent came early. “Tujye gukina karere?” Want to play nearby?

I was helping Mama sort beans. Counting them without thinking. Three hundred and forty-seven so far.

“Go,” she said. “I’m almost finished.”

We walked toward the open field. But Innocent stopped at the path that led past the alley. “Shorter this way.”

My breath caught. I could see the entrance—grey walls, shadows. I started counting. One, two, three, four—

“No,” I said. “Let’s go the long way.”

Innocent looked at me, then at the alley, then back. He didn’t ask. Just shrugged and walked the long way with me.

At the field, I played harder than I had in months. When I scored, I threw my arms up and spun around, taking in the whole wide space. Didn’t count anything. Just felt the sun and the dust and the joy of running.

On the way home, we passed the alley entrance again. This time I looked at it directly. The walls were still grey. The shadows still dark.

But I was out here, in the light, in the wide open.

I counted the steps away from it. One, two, three, four, five—at thirty-seven, I stopped counting. Let myself just walk.

I still jumped sometimes when someone came up behind me too fast. I still took the long way. I still counted when I got anxious—couldn’t help it, didn’t know if I ever would stop completely. But most days now, I could be a thirteen-year-old boy with a handmade football again. Helping my mother in the field. Doing well enough in school to make her proud. Laughing when Innocent told his ridiculous stories.

Mama was right about one thing: I didn’t know what tomorrow held. But I was learning what I could depend on. Not just study and money. Also her rough hands cleaning my wounds. Madame Mukandori’s patient questions. My own two feet carrying me away when I needed to run. Innocent calling “Tujye gukina!” on an ordinary afternoon. The sound of the ball thudding against the packed earth.

The same red dust that coated my shoes that Wednesday afternoon.

The same red dust under my broken toenail.

The same red dust I tracked into our house, trying to wash away.

The red dust that didn’t wash off.

I looked down at my hands. Still there, in every crease. I was learning what else to carry alongside it.

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Image: ChatGPT remixed