One recent Wednesday, I found myself wandering through Nyandungu Eco-Park. The workday had wrapped up; somewhere in the madness of the week, July had given way to August. The sun hung lower in the sky, its light almost enshrouded by tall grass and trees, while the sounds of chirping birds and crickets blended into the background like a song on endless repeat.
A woman perched precariously on the steps by Pond Kivu, her nose buried in a book. As I made my way toward the southeast corner of the park, a few benches caught my eye —perfect not just for weary rears but for stories they seemed to invite.
I decided there and then to eschew small talk with other park-goers, opting instead to give them the once-over and hypothesize on what made them tick. It wasn’t the most journalistic way of doing things, but it was enough for now, I thought, as I searched for a spot to settle down.
The evening air had a bite to it, making me mentally note to bring a sweater next time. A waitress from a nearby restaurant approached me, her warm smile and even warmer eyes greeting me before she went ahead to take my order.
I couldn’t help but smile ruefully at the man on my right, who kept sneaking glances my way. I guess my own surreptitious glances at him weren’t so surreptitious after all. He was on his third drink, I observed, before shifting my gaze to the couple on my left.
They appeared to be in love, but a closer look revealed an undercurrent of tension and insecurity between them. Every time she drifted a few feet away, he would stand up, extending his hand to her. She would pull him into a hug, holding him until he relaxed and hugged her back. Life flowed around them, indifferent to their private world, and they, too, seemed unconcerned that public displays of affection were still a rarity in Kigali.
If the posts on Twitter and Instagram are anything to go by, social media has documented many instances across Kigali city of park benches appearing as part of a wider trend: the concept of outdoor seating is attracting more and more attention. But the benches at Nyandungu lack the same hurly-burly that the Imbuga City Walk, also known as “Car-Free Zone,” boasted of, though.
On another random weekday, as I sat on one of those benches, the sounds of laughter and amapiano music from a nearby restaurant called Fratelli’s Brussels filled the air. Four men, clearly friends, were huddled together, their eyes glued to a phone.
A kid in a yellow button-up shirt dashed by. A lone man in worn-out jeans and black sneakers strolled through. Two girls with bright highlighters on their noses giggled nearby. A man peddling children’s books passed by. It was the sort of spot that neither locals nor tourists gave much attention to, as it wasn’t distinctive in any way.
With its vinyl marquees that housed exhibition items absent of cultural richness, it was small and lacking in aesthetics. Few locals, however, knew the gem in their neighborhood and enjoyed sitting on the park benches that lined the area.
A few hours earlier, I had been sitting in a bar stool at the cafeteria, playing “furniture” at a table with colleagues. It had been the same week before and the one before that. After several futile attempts to join the conversation, I gave up.
I wasn’t mad at my friends and colleagues for ignoring me the same way you’re not mad at a baby for crying in a public setting. That’s just what they do. It also doesn’t help that the golden rule for making friends in Rwanda is to go with the flow. Complaining will not earn you any friends.
But more to the point, Rwandans can be a bit like ostriches, willing to bury their heads in the sand to avoid what they don’t want to face. When you communicate feelings of hurt, disappointment, or disapproval, you’re often met with ghosting.
Rwandans don’t want to mend fences; they want an agreement to pretend the fences are sound. But alas, that’s a story for another day.
A bench can be ordinary, commonplace, and meaningless, or it can be a priceless, colorful haven, depending on your options. Park benches serve a social purpose in that they introduce us to the lives of others. Its accessories, like used tissues and coffee paper cups, are mementos of someone else’s day.
It’s where Jin Ah from Something in the Rain sat to swap out her black sneakers for the same pair of worn-out heels on her way to supervise coffee shops. It’s where Beth from Good Girls met Rio to exchange counterfeit money and discuss criminal plans with her friends.
Even the discarded gum wrapping offers much to think about: Who was that person? How was their lunch break? Was this their first or a frequent visit to the bench? Were they happy? Who do they love? And who loves them?
And so, being in the Imbuga City Walk highlights the charm of living in a place that allows for park benches in a modern urban setting. It’s a reminder of the variety of options we once had and might have again, as well as how easily we take them for granted. The endless greenery, the bus stations, the flow of traffic on the street, the cars of all kinds bouncing wildly over the uneven surface.
True Kigalians cruise right through it all, their love for the city as comfortable and familiar as a favorite pair of shoes. They trickle onto the sidewalks, talking on their phones or heading toward restaurants, stealing what time they could before the lunch breaks end. Their eyes slide over the green expanse with economical indifference, their movements brisk and rough.
There’s none of the intimate worship I caressed the place with, none of the awe or love, which brings me to my last point. What a park bench offers that I most need myself is a way to slow down.
Unlike television shows or the fast pace of social interactions, a park bench doesn’t push me to keep up with the speed of life or breaking news. Instead, it lets me linger, adjusting my pace as I choose, taking in the scenes around me at my own rhythm.
When I pause to reflect on the snippets of conversation I’ve overheard from others nearby, my hands and eyes fall still, and the world around me seems to pause as well. And then I go, oh, how wonderful it is to be alive, to watch these scenes and think these thoughts and smile (inwardly). Then, the moment slips away, and I might forget again. But that’s alright, because life is an abundance of these moments. They’ll always find their way back.
It was 7:00 pm before I made it back to my apartment in a state of well-relaxed dishevelment. The past months seemed to melt away. The days I’d spent worrying, the sleepless nights, the mounting work.
The park bench had taught me the value of choosing to do nothing, to consume nothing, and to simply be. It provided me with a temporary reprieve from the troubles plaguing my mind. I wish I could say it somehow magically eroded all my worries and feelings of self-pity. That, however, would be one baby step too far.
This story was first published in *The New Times Rwanda* but has been edited for relevance and improvement.
