The afternoons here are unbearably hot; clear glass windows provide no filter for the gruelling hours of equatorial light that precede the sun’s sudden disappearance. I chat casually to my landlord on one of these hot afternoons. She tells me that this is the house her parents built in 1987, the same year in which, across the border in Uganda, the Rwanda Alliance for National Unity held its seventh congress in Kampala and renamed itself the Rwanda Patriotic Front, a telling sign of the war soon to come. She later tells me that they – her parents – were killed in the early days of the genocide against the Tutsi and, for several weeks after, I wander around the whitewashed halls of my house looking for evidence that something cataclysmic happened here, provoking a haunting that even 29 years later in Rwanda, is inevitable. I imagine the noise, the rush; I wonder if my ceiling might be a good place to hide if ever the moment came.