There are times when survival itself is a journey measured not in miles but in mercies. After the prison door opened and I stepped into a life I had not expected to keep, survival did not suddenly become safe. Each decision carried its risks and each mile felt borrowed.

The passport I had ignored — my Rwandan passport, issued in Kigali on November 14, 1988  would become the document that saved my life. A voice called me back to collect it. I ignored it. The voice came again. And again.

On the third time, I obeyed.

I returned to my house, collected this worn and humble passport, and fled Rwanda, crossing into the Democratic Republic of Congo, not knowing whether my beloved wife Rosemary, my son Jonathan, or my precious daughter Dianne were alive or dead. Every step was taken in fear. Every breath was a prayer.

This passport, battered, aged, and bearing the seal of a Rwanda that would never be the same again, was my ticket to survival. Through borders, checkpoints, and Kenyan customs, it carried me forward until the miracle I had prayed for was finally realized: my family had escaped Rwanda and we were reunited at last.

In the following pages, you will find all the details of that extraordinary journey.

“I carried a passport, but Providence carried me. Prayer was my compass. Providence was my companion”