Hereditas Magazine

              Mafu Mbebene had been traveling under the scalding heat of Kigali sun, searching for food and shelter for almost two months now, stopping every now and then to wipe the sweat from his brow and, gawking at every street corner, looking left and right, up and down alleys and bends, trying to make sure he never missed the person everybody called the Ragpicker of Rwanda.
            To tell the sorry truth, Mbebene had never actually seen this person his whole life. He never knew how he looked, how old he was, what clothes he wore, what his real name was, where he lived and the places he frequented. He never even knew whether this person was still alive or dead. Just the same, Mbebene set out from the town of Nikabuye in the district of Synagogue in search of the famed Ragpicker, hoping that one day, he too could say, “I have met the Ragpicker of Rwanda and he was kind and gentle and he gave me all of these gifts.”

            Then Mbebene would need not be ashamed that he ran away and left his family and kin when famine was spreading throughout his village and every able-bodied men such as he were tasked to raid other villages for food. Mbebene never believed in violence. He never believed that taking food from the mouth of other people was a justifiable act even during times of intolerable hardships. But his menfolk thought otherwise. Four years with no rain, frequent raids by other tribes, pestilence and diseases were enough proof that God had long abandoned them. Left to their own devices, it was better to put things into one’s hand than foolishly wait that rain would once again visit their ravaged land and restore the equilibrium they once enjoyed.

            Two months ago, guided only by the moon and his dogged determination to find the Ragpicker of Rwanda, like a thief, Mbebene stealthily left his village before cocks cackled at the crack of dawn. He never looked back fearing that someone might spot him and tell him off to the chief. But he was pretty sure that as soon as news of his desertion reached the chief’s ear, the simultaneous beatings of ngomas and bamboo drums would have been ordered and would have drowned all other noises in his village, inveigling the remaining spirits of the land to bring shame and destruction to Mbebene and his family for generations on end.

            Mbebene needed not worry. His widowed father consented to his leaving, exhorting him that as soon as he saw the Ragpicker, he should remind the latter that they had not forgotten him. Mbebene’s father, Ozase was the tribe story-teller. For several decades before this dire catastrophe fell upon the village, Ozase had enchanted the chief, the chiefs that came before him, the children, women and youth with many a night of songs about the famed man of Rwanda. The Ragpicker, according to him, could only be known and recognized by those who would willingly look for him. And among those who tried to seek him, only a handful had succeeded.
            The Hutus, the Tutsis, the Batwas, the Lilombes, the Kumbezis, the Urulus and other tribes share the same belief that there was such a man called the Ragpicker of Rwanda. The Ragpicker did not discriminate on the basis of one’s ethnicity, or religion or race, according to Ozase. He cared equally for all, especially those who were miserable. And you shall know him, added Ozase, not by his words but by his deeds. With these parting words, Mbebene set out for Kigali in search of the Ragpicker.
            The one o’clock sun was the most merciless in the mid-summer months of Kigali. Already buckets of sweat had bathed Mbebene from his forehead down to his ankles. The sore on his feet kept pestering him, slowing him down, aching like burnt skin. He had eaten the last scrap of bread which he had scrounged from a stranger in the outskirts of the city. Water from public taps was the only thing keeping him from collapsing with hunger and thirst. A gentle throbbing in his temples which had turned into a nasty intermittent pounding produced an unpleasant drowsiness in him.

            From the day he suffered hunger because stray dogs feasted on the food he was keeping for his journey while he was fast asleep under a banyan tree, Mbebene had foreboding thoughts that perhaps it was not his fortune to find the Ragpicker. Perhaps it was a mistake to leave the village. Perhaps it was plain cowardice on his part to turn his back on his people. Perhaps his father had been wrong all along. But as soon as memories of his childhood days, when his father, the story-teller Ozase enthralled him and the chief’s sons about the wonderful deeds of the Ragpicker, Mbebene found new strength, new reason to hope that he could find the Ragpicker.

            Aeons of years ago, before the White Men came, all Rwanda was one, Ozase recalled. There were warring tribes but each one recognized each other’s territory. Each one respected each other’s domain. Members of the various tribes were counseled not to stray into another’s enclave to get out of harm’s way. And if there were transgressions and conflicts, they were settled between the chiefs because they all believed that they were somehow connected by a bond of brotherhood. And when the Great Wars between tribes erupted, a mystical figure that came to be known as the Ragpicker started appearing, tending the wounded, feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless. A relative time of peace and quiet was achieved all throughout Rwanda, because the tribes recognized the holiness and impartiality of the mysterious Ragpicker.

            Each tribe had his own version of him. The Hutus believed that he was tall and muscular. The Tutsis narrated that he was emaciated and frail. The Batwas spoke of him as a very old man. While the Lilombes argued that he was young and handsome. Still others like the Kumbezis and the Urulus shared the belief that he was, in reality, a woman. They might have different versions of the Ragpicker, but they were one in saying that he was kind, and gentle and generous. And he wouldn’t say no to someone who was gravely ill or in great need. This kept Mbebene’s hope of finding the Ragpicker alive. He knew that the Ragpicker had some wisdom that he could bring back to his dying village. He knew that if the fading memory of the Ragpicker was not enough to sustain the faith of his villagers, then at least his message could perhaps spark some hope in their calloused hearts. Mbebene had to find him or all was lost.

            But the sun was ruthlessly beating against his skin and the thick humid air made his breathing more difficult. He had to stop under the shade of trees or the awning of stores to conserve what little strength remained in him. Passers-by would look at him–with pity and sometimes with disdain, One or two would toss a coin to where he was seated. From these he would buy the much needed provision to sustain him in his search. And when the sun finally set, he would look for a place to spend the night. But nights in Kigali were no better than the day as rodents and other vermin plagued the gutters were street urchins slept. And as he laid down for a much needed rest on a cold pavement of a dimly-lit backstreet corner, he thought he felt the earth shake until he realized that it was his own body’s steady quaking, his muscles and sinews revolting with fatigue and pain. This made him sob and he sobbed like he never had before.

            "Hush," said a little voice to Mbebene. He looked around to see the owner of that voice. It was from a girl of about eight. She was greasy and her legs and arms were covered with sores. "He’s here, pick yourself up and meet him," commanded the little raggedy girl. Mbebene was too weak to protest and too dazed to ask questions. But obey he did and found himself among the outcasts and lepers and drunk men and beggars of the streets of Kigali, arms outstretched in front of a bearded, sixty year-old man doling out some goodies and cheers. When almost everybody was given food, the old man reached for Mbebene who extended his arm to take the bread wrapped in brown paper. Mbebene’s eyes were welling with tears. He wanted to thank the kindly old gentleman by saying a few words but before he could do that, because of hunger, he passed out.

            "He’s alive, Mama!" It was the raggedy girl again, poking his shoulder with a stick, trying to make him move. "Then leave him be," commanded the girl’s mother. The sun was already way up high and blinding when Mbebene woke up from last night’s ordeal. He found himself covered with a grimy blanket which he hastily removed from his body. "You were burning with fever last night, the girl’s mother told him." She was in her late twenties but she looked sick and fortyish. "Shaking like hell, you were, the woman continued. Had to cover you up and put wet rags on your forehead."

            "Thank you," was all Mbebene able to say. "Better gobble down that piece of bread, Old Man, before these scaly brats take that away from you," the woman said referring to the street urchins playing under the sun. Mbebene was startled by the woman’s remark. He touched his hollow cheeks, his long dusty hair and the beard on his chin and he realized how much he aged in just two months. He felt that he was traveling for twenty long years. He silently ate while the little girl who woke him up handed him a tin cup of warm water. "Here," she said, "but don’t ask for ice ‘coz we’re not exactly rich, you know." She was smiling and she had beautiful dark eyes. Mbebene nodded in agreement.

            "Where is he?" asked Mbebene. "Where is who?" replied the woman. "The Ragpicker" Mbebene answered. "He was here last night giving away food." "No mister," the little girl replied, "it was my Mama who gave you that." The mother intruded, "You were delirious and half-unconscious, Old Man. Kept shouting, 'Ragpicker, Ragpicker!' You kept the whole squad awake and you wailed like a girl." Mbebene then understood that he was hallucinating the other night. "But he was so real that I could touch his face," he muttered to himself.

            Mbebene stayed with the street urchins for about a week, sharing their food, sleeping beside them, sometimes playing with the children but he was too embarrassed to beg with them. Unlike them, he was full grown and strong enough to do manual labor. So he said goodbye to the mother and daughter who had sheltered him and fed him and hired himself to a local merchant who raised cattle and grew vegetables.

            When he had earned enough he would go back to the city and continued searching for the Ragpicker. Since his lord was a kind and honest man, he would give Mbebene some produce from the farm that the latter in turn gave away as presents to his street friends in Kigali. Mbebene did not lose hope in finding the Ragpicker. But days turned into weeks and weeks into months and months to two years and he did not find him. However, because Mbebene was a skilled and dedicated worker, his lord took notice of him and regarded him well and he was made the overseer of the cattle farm and the vegetable farm as well. This gladdened Mbebene as he earned more money to buy his friends in Kigali not only food but also blankets and nice shirts and medicines, and toys for the raggedy girl whose name was Kiara.

            "Where are you from, Mr. Mbebene? Why do you come to visit us? Have you no family of your own?" asked the precocious Kiara. "I’m from Nikabuye, the district of Cyangugu. I come seeking for the man they call the Ragpicker of Rwanda," Mbebene replied. There was a bitter grin on his lips. He had been searching for the Ragpicker for two years now but Lady Luck wouldn’t smile on him. "Then perhaps you shouldn’t look for him here. Perhaps he is somewhere else. Perhaps you should return to your village," Kiara’s mother suggested. But Mbebene knew, as his dream showed him two years ago, that he would find the Ragpicker here in the middle of the city among the outcasts and lepers and drunkmen and beggars of Kigali. He knew. He just knew.

            More years came in and went out and Mbebene had almost quite forgotten about his quest and his village and his father and kin. He had been burdened with so many responsibilities in his lord’s farm and of his weekly visits to his street friends. He also frequented hospices and sanatoriums because he found out that many of the patients there were ill-cared for. He was drawn to persons with AIDS, prostitutes and prisoners. Meanwhile, his lord became a very rich man and expanded his business out of Rwanda. And since Mbebene was also good in the management of the household and with people, he was made the manager of the cattle farm, the vegetable farm, the winepress and distillery. Mbebene had become a wealthy person, too.

            Yet in all of these, he was sad because he couldn’t go back to his village, he couldn’t face his father because he had not seen the Ragpicker. He spent many nights alone in the verandah of the house provided by his lord for him, overlooking the Lake Muhazi, reflecting the moon that once had guided him, and his heart was filled with intense sorrow.

            Then one evening while he was distributing goods to his street friends, he saw an old man across the street who resembled a lot the man in his dream of several years ago, the man that he had thought was the Ragpicker. He was dressed in shabby clothes, had long white hair and beard and had dark skin. "It is him!" His heart leapt with joy. He would approach the man and kneel before him and ask for his blessings because he had long been waiting for him.
   "Mr. Mbebene, here! This man could not stand." It was Kiara’s now adolescent voice pointing to a man holding on to a streetlamp for support, that distracted Mbebene. Mbebene rushed to the man and seated him on the edge of a gutter. He cleaned the wound on man’s knee and fed him with bread and let him drink some wine. He then returned to the place where he had seen the Ragpicker, but the Ragpicker was gone!
            Mbebene ran towards the other end of the street taking his chance to see the man of his dream. He went up the alley leading to the butcher shops but no old man was in sight. He sharply turned right to where greengrocers and bakeries were located but he did not find any one there. He proceeded along the avenue of apothecaries and pawnbrokers booths but the Ragpicker was nowhere to be found.   At last he grew tired and seated himself on a lonely bench under the light of a flickering fluorescent bulb. He heaved and sighed and tears rolled down his now furrowed cheeks.

            "You are looking for him?" A voice, soft and gravelly, punctured the silence of the night. "Aren’t you?" Mbebene strained his neck looking for that voice. When at last he saw where it was coming from, he was mildly surprised that it was the old man’s. The old man’s face was veiled by a shadow coming from the lamppost. "You have spent practically your lifetime—leaving your village, your family and friends—to search for someone you’re not even sure existed or if he were just a figment of the imagination," said the old man. Two taps on the ground with the stick he was holding and a slow forward gait unveiling his face, revealed that the old man was blind.

            "I was once like you, said the old man," who was now groping the backrest of Mbebene’s bench and was trying to sit beside him. "Left my family, my village, my friends, lured by tales of the Ragpicker of Rwanda. Everybody kept calling him that, though no one for sure could say where he really was. Or what he is. Look at my sightless eyes and they will tell you of the travails I went through looking for that shadowy figure. If there is one thing that I can tell you to ease your heart’s burden, it is this: the Ragpicker cannot be found in the streets of Kigali. "

            "Where then can I find him?" Mbebene’s voice cracked but he tried to hide away his disappointment. "My friend," -- the old man was holding Mbebene’s shoulder -- "the Ragpicker is in every man, he is in every one who is pure of heart and of noble intentions. The Ragpicker, my friend," -- the old man pressed Mbebene’s shoulder -- "hardly knows who he is. In my forty years' search, I relied heavily on my two eyes. But alas! They tricked me into believing that I could see truth with them. I was looking for him among faces and I failed. It was only this night, when I have given up my life-long search for the elusive man that I learned the intangible truth," he said. The old man raised up and with the aid of his walking stick walked towards the darkened alley of the city saying, "You, my friend, are the man you’ve been looking for. "

Noel Yngente Bava, SJ, is a scholastic of the Society of Jesus. He is twenty-seven years old, and a long way from becoming a priest. He is earning his MA in Comparative Literature at the University of the Philippines. He is very fond of books and movies, and is particularly interested in Catholic fiction (in fact he is writing a thesis on Catholic Imagination in Contemporary Filipino Fictionists), and in the propagation of the Catholic faith in the Philippines. Some of his favorite authors are Flannery O'Connor, Graham Greene and Dostoyevski. He also maintains a weblog, In My Father's House and invites comments and suggestions from his readers.

Updated 11-27-2005

	Contents	The Ragpicker of Rwanda By Noel Bava
Mafu Mbebene had been traveling under the scalding heat of Kigali sun, searching for food and shelter for almost two months now, stopping every now and then to wipe the sweat from his brow and, gawking at every street corner, looking left and right, up and down alleys and bends, trying to make sure he never missed the person everybody called the Ragpicker of Rwanda. To tell the sorry truth, Mbebene had never actually seen this person his whole life. He never knew how he looked, how old he was, what clothes he wore, what his real name was, where he lived and the places he frequented. He never even knew whether this person was still alive or dead. Just the same, Mbebene set out from the town of Nikabuye in the district of Synagogue in search of the famed Ragpicker, hoping that one day, he too could say, “I have met the Ragpicker of Rwanda and he was kind and gentle and he gave me all of these gifts.” Then Mbebene would need not be ashamed that he ran away and left his family and kin when famine was spreading throughout his village and every able-bodied men such as he were tasked to raid other villages for food. Mbebene never believed in violence. He never believed that taking food from the mouth of other people was a justifiable act even during times of intolerable hardships. But his menfolk thought otherwise. Four years with no rain, frequent raids by other tribes, pestilence and diseases were enough proof that God had long abandoned them. Left to their own devices, it was better to put things into one’s hand than foolishly wait that rain would once again visit their ravaged land and restore the equilibrium they once enjoyed. Two months ago, guided only by the moon and his dogged determination to find the Ragpicker of Rwanda, like a thief, Mbebene stealthily left his village before cocks cackled at the crack of dawn. He never looked back fearing that someone might spot him and tell him off to the chief. But he was pretty sure that as soon as news of his desertion reached the chief’s ear, the simultaneous beatings of ngomas and bamboo drums would have been ordered and would have drowned all other noises in his village, inveigling the remaining spirits of the land to bring shame and destruction to Mbebene and his family for generations on end. Mbebene needed not worry. His widowed father consented to his leaving, exhorting him that as soon as he saw the Ragpicker, he should remind the latter that they had not forgotten him. Mbebene’s father, Ozase was the tribe story-teller. For several decades before this dire catastrophe fell upon the village, Ozase had enchanted the chief, the chiefs that came before him, the children, women and youth with many a night of songs about the famed man of Rwanda. The Ragpicker, according to him, could only be known and recognized by those who would willingly look for him. And among those who tried to seek him, only a handful had succeeded. The Hutus, the Tutsis, the Batwas, the Lilombes, the Kumbezis, the Urulus and other tribes share the same belief that there was such a man called the Ragpicker of Rwanda. The Ragpicker did not discriminate on the basis of one’s ethnicity, or religion or race, according to Ozase. He cared equally for all, especially those who were miserable. And you shall know him, added Ozase, not by his words but by his deeds. With these parting words, Mbebene set out for Kigali in search of the Ragpicker. The one o’clock sun was the most merciless in the mid-summer months of Kigali. Already buckets of sweat had bathed Mbebene from his forehead down to his ankles. The sore on his feet kept pestering him, slowing him down, aching like burnt skin. He had eaten the last scrap of bread which he had scrounged from a stranger in the outskirts of the city. Water from public taps was the only thing keeping him from collapsing with hunger and thirst. A gentle throbbing in his temples which had turned into a nasty intermittent pounding produced an unpleasant drowsiness in him. From the day he suffered hunger because stray dogs feasted on the food he was keeping for his journey while he was fast asleep under a banyan tree, Mbebene had foreboding thoughts that perhaps it was not his fortune to find the Ragpicker. Perhaps it was a mistake to leave the village. Perhaps it was plain cowardice on his part to turn his back on his people. Perhaps his father had been wrong all along. But as soon as memories of his childhood days, when his father, the story-teller Ozase enthralled him and the chief’s sons about the wonderful deeds of the Ragpicker, Mbebene found new strength, new reason to hope that he could find the Ragpicker. Aeons of years ago, before the White Men came, all Rwanda was one, Ozase recalled. There were warring tribes but each one recognized each other’s territory. Each one respected each other’s domain. Members of the various tribes were counseled not to stray into another’s enclave to get out of harm’s way. And if there were transgressions and conflicts, they were settled between the chiefs because they all believed that they were somehow connected by a bond of brotherhood. And when the Great Wars between tribes erupted, a mystical figure that came to be known as the Ragpicker started appearing, tending the wounded, feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless. A relative time of peace and quiet was achieved all throughout Rwanda, because the tribes recognized the holiness and impartiality of the mysterious Ragpicker. Each tribe had his own version of him. The Hutus believed that he was tall and muscular. The Tutsis narrated that he was emaciated and frail. The Batwas spoke of him as a very old man. While the Lilombes argued that he was young and handsome. Still others like the Kumbezis and the Urulus shared the belief that he was, in reality, a woman. They might have different versions of the Ragpicker, but they were one in saying that he was kind, and gentle and generous. And he wouldn’t say no to someone who was gravely ill or in great need. This kept Mbebene’s hope of finding the Ragpicker alive. He knew that the Ragpicker had some wisdom that he could bring back to his dying village. He knew that if the fading memory of the Ragpicker was not enough to sustain the faith of his villagers, then at least his message could perhaps spark some hope in their calloused hearts. Mbebene had to find him or all was lost. But the sun was ruthlessly beating against his skin and the thick humid air made his breathing more difficult. He had to stop under the shade of trees or the awning of stores to conserve what little strength remained in him. Passers-by would look at him–with pity and sometimes with disdain, One or two would toss a coin to where he was seated. From these he would buy the much needed provision to sustain him in his search. And when the sun finally set, he would look for a place to spend the night. But nights in Kigali were no better than the day as rodents and other vermin plagued the gutters were street urchins slept. And as he laid down for a much needed rest on a cold pavement of a dimly-lit backstreet corner, he thought he felt the earth shake until he realized that it was his own body’s steady quaking, his muscles and sinews revolting with fatigue and pain. This made him sob and he sobbed like he never had before. "Hush," said a little voice to Mbebene. He looked around to see the owner of that voice. It was from a girl of about eight. She was greasy and her legs and arms were covered with sores. "He’s here, pick yourself up and meet him," commanded the little raggedy girl. Mbebene was too weak to protest and too dazed to ask questions. But obey he did and found himself among the outcasts and lepers and drunk men and beggars of the streets of Kigali, arms outstretched in front of a bearded, sixty year-old man doling out some goodies and cheers. When almost everybody was given food, the old man reached for Mbebene who extended his arm to take the bread wrapped in brown paper. Mbebene’s eyes were welling with tears. He wanted to thank the kindly old gentleman by saying a few words but before he could do that, because of hunger, he passed out. "He’s alive, Mama!" It was the raggedy girl again, poking his shoulder with a stick, trying to make him move. "Then leave him be," commanded the girl’s mother. The sun was already way up high and blinding when Mbebene woke up from last night’s ordeal. He found himself covered with a grimy blanket which he hastily removed from his body. "You were burning with fever last night, the girl’s mother told him." She was in her late twenties but she looked sick and fortyish. "Shaking like hell, you were, the woman continued. Had to cover you up and put wet rags on your forehead." "Thank you," was all Mbebene able to say. "Better gobble down that piece of bread, Old Man, before these scaly brats take that away from you," the woman said referring to the street urchins playing under the sun. Mbebene was startled by the woman’s remark. He touched his hollow cheeks, his long dusty hair and the beard on his chin and he realized how much he aged in just two months. He felt that he was traveling for twenty long years. He silently ate while the little girl who woke him up handed him a tin cup of warm water. "Here," she said, "but don’t ask for ice ‘coz we’re not exactly rich, you know." She was smiling and she had beautiful dark eyes. Mbebene nodded in agreement. "Where is he?" asked Mbebene. "Where is who?" replied the woman. "The Ragpicker" Mbebene answered. "He was here last night giving away food." "No mister," the little girl replied, "it was my Mama who gave you that." The mother intruded, "You were delirious and half-unconscious, Old Man. Kept shouting, 'Ragpicker, Ragpicker!' You kept the whole squad awake and you wailed like a girl." Mbebene then understood that he was hallucinating the other night. "But he was so real that I could touch his face," he muttered to himself. Mbebene stayed with the street urchins for about a week, sharing their food, sleeping beside them, sometimes playing with the children but he was too embarrassed to beg with them. Unlike them, he was full grown and strong enough to do manual labor. So he said goodbye to the mother and daughter who had sheltered him and fed him and hired himself to a local merchant who raised cattle and grew vegetables. When he had earned enough he would go back to the city and continued searching for the Ragpicker. Since his lord was a kind and honest man, he would give Mbebene some produce from the farm that the latter in turn gave away as presents to his street friends in Kigali. Mbebene did not lose hope in finding the Ragpicker. But days turned into weeks and weeks into months and months to two years and he did not find him. However, because Mbebene was a skilled and dedicated worker, his lord took notice of him and regarded him well and he was made the overseer of the cattle farm and the vegetable farm as well. This gladdened Mbebene as he earned more money to buy his friends in Kigali not only food but also blankets and nice shirts and medicines, and toys for the raggedy girl whose name was Kiara. "Where are you from, Mr. Mbebene? Why do you come to visit us? Have you no family of your own?" asked the precocious Kiara. "I’m from Nikabuye, the district of Cyangugu. I come seeking for the man they call the Ragpicker of Rwanda," Mbebene replied. There was a bitter grin on his lips. He had been searching for the Ragpicker for two years now but Lady Luck wouldn’t smile on him. "Then perhaps you shouldn’t look for him here. Perhaps he is somewhere else. Perhaps you should return to your village," Kiara’s mother suggested. But Mbebene knew, as his dream showed him two years ago, that he would find the Ragpicker here in the middle of the city among the outcasts and lepers and drunkmen and beggars of Kigali. He knew. He just knew. More years came in and went out and Mbebene had almost quite forgotten about his quest and his village and his father and kin. He had been burdened with so many responsibilities in his lord’s farm and of his weekly visits to his street friends. He also frequented hospices and sanatoriums because he found out that many of the patients there were ill-cared for. He was drawn to persons with AIDS, prostitutes and prisoners. Meanwhile, his lord became a very rich man and expanded his business out of Rwanda. And since Mbebene was also good in the management of the household and with people, he was made the manager of the cattle farm, the vegetable farm, the winepress and distillery. Mbebene had become a wealthy person, too. Yet in all of these, he was sad because he couldn’t go back to his village, he couldn’t face his father because he had not seen the Ragpicker. He spent many nights alone in the verandah of the house provided by his lord for him, overlooking the Lake Muhazi, reflecting the moon that once had guided him, and his heart was filled with intense sorrow. Then one evening while he was distributing goods to his street friends, he saw an old man across the street who resembled a lot the man in his dream of several years ago, the man that he had thought was the Ragpicker. He was dressed in shabby clothes, had long white hair and beard and had dark skin. "It is him!" His heart leapt with joy. He would approach the man and kneel before him and ask for his blessings because he had long been waiting for him. "Mr. Mbebene, here! This man could not stand." It was Kiara’s now adolescent voice pointing to a man holding on to a streetlamp for support, that distracted Mbebene. Mbebene rushed to the man and seated him on the edge of a gutter. He cleaned the wound on man’s knee and fed him with bread and let him drink some wine. He then returned to the place where he had seen the Ragpicker, but the Ragpicker was gone! Mbebene ran towards the other end of the street taking his chance to see the man of his dream. He went up the alley leading to the butcher shops but no old man was in sight. He sharply turned right to where greengrocers and bakeries were located but he did not find any one there. He proceeded along the avenue of apothecaries and pawnbrokers booths but the Ragpicker was nowhere to be found. At last he grew tired and seated himself on a lonely bench under the light of a flickering fluorescent bulb. He heaved and sighed and tears rolled down his now furrowed cheeks. "You are looking for him?" A voice, soft and gravelly, punctured the silence of the night. "Aren’t you?" Mbebene strained his neck looking for that voice. When at last he saw where it was coming from, he was mildly surprised that it was the old man’s. The old man’s face was veiled by a shadow coming from the lamppost. "You have spent practically your lifetime—leaving your village, your family and friends—to search for someone you’re not even sure existed or if he were just a figment of the imagination," said the old man. Two taps on the ground with the stick he was holding and a slow forward gait unveiling his face, revealed that the old man was blind. "I was once like you, said the old man," who was now groping the backrest of Mbebene’s bench and was trying to sit beside him. "Left my family, my village, my friends, lured by tales of the Ragpicker of Rwanda. Everybody kept calling him that, though no one for sure could say where he really was. Or what he is. Look at my sightless eyes and they will tell you of the travails I went through looking for that shadowy figure. If there is one thing that I can tell you to ease your heart’s burden, it is this: the Ragpicker cannot be found in the streets of Kigali. " "Where then can I find him?" Mbebene’s voice cracked but he tried to hide away his disappointment. "My friend," -- the old man was holding Mbebene’s shoulder -- "the Ragpicker is in every man, he is in every one who is pure of heart and of noble intentions. The Ragpicker, my friend," -- the old man pressed Mbebene’s shoulder -- "hardly knows who he is. In my forty years' search, I relied heavily on my two eyes. But alas! They tricked me into believing that I could see truth with them. I was looking for him among faces and I failed. It was only this night, when I have given up my life-long search for the elusive man that I learned the intangible truth," he said. The old man raised up and with the aid of his walking stick walked towards the darkened alley of the city saying, "You, my friend, are the man you’ve been looking for. " Noel Yngente Bava, SJ, is a scholastic of the Society of Jesus. He is twenty-seven years old, and a long way from becoming a priest. He is earning his MA in Comparative Literature at the University of the Philippines. He is very fond of books and movies, and is particularly interested in Catholic fiction (in fact he is writing a thesis on Catholic Imagination in Contemporary Filipino Fictionists), and in the propagation of the Catholic faith in the Philippines. Some of his favorite authors are Flannery O'Connor, Graham Greene and Dostoyevski. He also maintains a weblog, In My Father's House and invites comments and suggestions from his readers. Updated 11-27-2005